california

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What’s in a Name?

Long ago, naming our children took precedence over everything else…

“I’m pregnant,” I said, in a woo-hoo! kind of way. Rudy smiled that I‘m feeling pretty good right now smile of his as he wrapped me in his arms, and laughed that gentle laugh of his. That laugh that said so much. “¡Gracias Dios Mio!” he blurted, raising his arms to the heavens.

As the initial excitement began to calm, we realized a very important decision was now in order. “What will we name the baby?” we both questioned in unison. We also wanted the surprise element of the baby’s gender, so we needed to be considerate of a boy and a girl.

Fortunately, for the two of us, we knew our children would be given family names. One name from my family, one from Rudy’s. A first name. A middle name. That narrowed down our options, therefore making the process a bit easier.

“If the baby is a boy, how about your name? He could be a junior,” I offered. “No. That’s okay. I’m not sure I like my name enough to pass on,” Rudy stated matter-of-factly.

We pondered the names in our families; the choices: maternal and paternal grandfathers, brothers, and uncles were said aloud. We combined them; one as the first name, another as the middle name, and then switched the order. Nothing felt 100% just right. We moved on to girl names. A just as consuming test – which took months, mind you!

“I really want to name her after my mom, using her middle name, Elizabeth,” I said, as I felt my heart soften, thinking about naming my daughter after my sweet, kind-hearted mom. “I like that,” Rudy said. “I was thinking of Victoria, after my grandma. We would visit her a lot when I was a kid. When it was time to leave I would always run out to the tree in the front yard of her house and hug its trunk so hard that my parents had to struggle to pry me away. You see, I didn’t want to leave Grandma Victoria. She made me happy.” I became teary-eyed thinking of little Rudy crying, screaming. This was going to be harder than we thought, we suddenly realized. Rudy also liked his ambitious, intelligent sister Cecilia’s name. I considered my middle name Anne, too. Anne with an e.

This serious do-not-want-to-pick-a-name-that-will-harm-the-future-of-our-child-by-picking-the-wrong-name job produced two candidates. For a girl baby. Elizabeth Cecilia and Victoria Anne.

After I had delivered our child, Rudy by my side, and him being overwhelmed by, and amazed with the process of birth, he kissed my puffy – just had a child – face. He had a tear in his eye and quietly whispered “That was amazing! I want to name her Elizabeth Cecilia, after your mom and my sister.” I smiled, lay my head back, and sighed with relief.

Three years later Rudy was in Honduras, with Elizabeth and my niece, a full week before I was to arrive. His sister was getting married. Little did he know that I had a surprise for him. “I’m pregnant!” I cried as I fell into his arms when he greeted me at the arrival gate. Rudy hugged me, Elizabeth hugged me. My niece hugged me. “¡Gracias Dios Mio!” he shouted, as he raised his arms to the heavens.

Again, family names filled our daily thoughts. The name Victoria Anne sat quietly in our minds, waiting for her turn, if we were to have another girl.

“I really admire my dad,” I simply stated. “Yet, in my family all the first boys were named John so I think it’s best to leave it that way.” Rudy, too, admired my dad, and also agreed with my thoughts on why we shouldn’t name a son after him. “Well, my brother Bill meant a lot to me. Before he died in a car accident when he was 19, he always made time for me. Maybe we can use his name, William?” I questioned. Rudy nodded, knowing how much Bill meant to me, having heard my many stories. “I like the name Roberto, which is my younger brother’s middle name, and my blue-eyed uncle first name,” he said, seemingly deep in thought about those he cares for. The name Roberto seemed so foreign to me, like those Spanish intonations just didn’t know how to roll on my OC tongue. I kept those thoughts to myself.

Months later, as I struggled to get off the couch, to answer the phone, my water broke. “My water broke!” I yelled, hoping Rudy was near enough to hear me.

After securing Elizabeth with a downstairs neighbor, Rudy drove me to the hospital to deliver our second child. But wait! Seriously, did we forget something?! Yep. A camera to capture the moment (when I held my child for the first time). While Rudy returned home to retrieve the video camera, I began to hyperventilate. Unusual for me, which made the experience worse. I was given, what I seem to remember as a paper lunch bag, but was probably actually an oxygen mask, to help soothe me. Rudy returned as quickly as possible, within minutes, it seemed, of the birth. “Its a boy,” the doctor stated. Rudy hugged me. “So, what is our son’s name?” I asked him. Rudy smiled, that smile that makes him even better looking smile of his. “Roberto William.” Perfectly named. “I love it,” I said with exhaustion. I was willing to work the name into my life, to roll it off my tongue, to make it a part of who we had become – an interracial family.

Eight years later, I handed Rudy the home pregnancy (test kit) wand. He looked at the + sign. He looked at me, wide-eyed. “¡Gracias Dios Mio!” he gleefully cheered, once again sending his arms up toward the heavens.

Naming our last, and final, child now included the involvement of Elizabeth and Roberto. When I went in for a check up and the nurse asked if we’d like to know the sex of the child, before we could even consider our options, the kids – didn’t scream, but were pretty darn close to scaring the other patients – said, “Yes! Please Mom and Dad?” Rudy and I looked at each other, smiled and gave the OK nod and a thumbs up. “It’s a boy!” the nurse happily told Elizabeth and Roberto.

“Bradford,” I said. “Let’s name him Bradford in honor of our marriage. Named after the place where we were married. Let’s have his first name be a surname, like Palmer, on All My Children.” Huh? Rudy’s expression wondered. “Bradford? It sounds like Buford. Like an overbearing rich guy,” he sneered. I laughed. I was really keen on the idea, even though it diverted away from our family names. I figured I had some months to get Rudy used to the idea. “I think Ramon would be good. It was my brother Scott’s middle name. Remember how, a month or so before he died, he shook your hand? A gesture that said ‘I like you. I can see you care for my sister. Sorry if I was ever rude….’. I think to honor his memory would be great. It was also my paternal grandfather’s name. Double great.” Rudy listened, really took to heart in what I was saying. “I want to use my middle name, Antonio, too,” he confirmed. “Well, I have, also, always wanted to give a child of mine two middle names, just as my parents did with my older brother Jim,” I added.

We spent months bouncing names around, listened to the input of soon-to-be big sister  Elizabeth and big brother Roberto.

When our third child was born, our son, was named Bradford Ramon Antonio.

All three children’s names warm my soul when I say the names out loud, or if I hear them as they float into one ear and gently, quietly, climb out the other.

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daphne

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Quiet, reflective, attentive, and a person of few words define me. Which, I believe, has impacted my interest in both the social and psychological aspects of human nature.

I like being quiet. You see, I learn quite a bit when I turn off my voice and tune in my ears.

I’m reflective, thriving on what I see around me, applying what is helpful, learning from mistakes (sometimes my own, but mostly made by others) and deflect from what might diminish the powers my soul.

I find if I look someone in the eyes when they are telling me a story, a secret, a worry, or any other type of human emotion, my attention rewards me with a meaningful relationship. Whether it be for a moment, or a life time.

A person of few words doesn’t mean one has nothing to say, rather, for me, it’s that what words, what I’m trying to say, needs to be worthy of revealing because I’m not trying to prove anything to anyone, except to myself.

Me. A quiet, reflective, attentive person. Interested in human nature. Especially my own.

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Attitude is EVERYTHING

Be positive. Find Avant-Garde people, those that possess innovative ideas that make the world an  interesting place. Let a Dilettante hold your attention as they dabble in the arts and fill you with knowledge that will enhance your good vibes towards humanity. Be Ubiquitous, while living a well-rounded life; live as if you are everywhere at once. Sneak in a Tryst with someone you love. Agree to meet, to enjoy an Idyllic location; somewhere that is carefree, tranquil, and picturesque. Think positive. Finding Equanimity will instill a sense of calmness and an even-tempered attitude.

Don’t be negative.

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Confidence

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It’s interesting being a teacher of young kids. I tend to reflect on my own youth quite a bit, watching these 10 year old students interact. I don’t remember being so sure of myself. So confident. Waves of emotions roll through the classroom, sure, but I must say, overall, most kids are just that, kids. They cheer for each other, enjoy simple pleasures, and bounce back from problems just as quickly as they arise.

I love it. The innocence.

Today, a student stood in front of the classroom, presenting her How-To project. She was making a smoothie. She was so calm, so matter-of-fact, so ready. She measured out the milk, then added some more. She plopped in some yogurt, sliced bananas, and ice. She laughed, claiming she put in too much milk. “Oh well,” she stated, as she continued. She made a mess, spilled ingredients. She vigorously shook a canister full of her cold drink. When asked why she didn’t bring a blender, she answered, without much thought, in a casual, whatever tone, “Because.” is all she said. And just as cool everyone nodded in response.

When everything was mixed up, she took a big swig of her drink. No hesitation. No worries. No concern what others might have thought. “Pretty good,” she smiled.

Students clapped. She bowed. Gathered up her items, and headed out the door to wash up her dishes.

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Mr. and Mrs.

f7804-img_1469When I first met Rudy I appreciated his kindness. He didn’t put on a show, a “look-at-me, I’m rough, tough, and I’ll tumble”.  Nah, Rudy was gentleman, without attitude. A good guy. With squared shoulders, narrow hips, and a serious set of brown eyes.

Those were our innocent days. The days we were slowly learning about each other. What made us tick. What made us tock. And what didn’t. Slowly, we began to reveal who we were. How our lives were formed, the reasons we acted the way we did, or didn’t, and who played a part in the formation of who we’d become. Young adults.

Before we even knew the other existed, Rudy and I both learned the importance of being independent as young teens. I grasped rather quickly that I had to create my own life, in my own way, without help. From anyone. Even in the midst of a large family. After his father died, Rudy knew he had to leave his mom to figure out how he fit into the world beyond his family. So, he moved from Central America to the United States. Full of fear, combined with wonderment.

Some might consider that I married Rudy, and he attached himself to me, so that we both could fill a need. To find someone, anyone, to stand with. To be with. To make a family with. But that wasn’t the case. That’s not what was on our mind. Not at all. Simply put, Rudy and I met, we liked each other, and, so, we got married. There was no agenda behind our relationship. At all. We just were. Two young adults. Following our hearts.

And, so, here it is, thirty years later, still both very independent, with lots of ups-downs-and-all-arounds, still learning. Still listening to the ticks, the tocks, and the whatnots. Listening. Listening. Listening. Reaping the rewards of understanding.

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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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boys of summer, too

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Brad, once again, asked if he could go the beach with a different set of friends than those from the boys of summer at Arch Rock in Corona del Mar. And once again I said sure. This time he was heading to Huntington Beach to partake in the festivities planned for the last day of the US Open of Surfing.

The enormous crowd of people was overwhelming. Bare and flip-flopped feet seemed to cover every inch of the paved and sandy ground. Yet, under the heat of the sun, everyone seemed to be anticipating an awesome day. Fist bump greetings and smiling faces filled the area near Main Street, directly across from Huntington’s famous pier.

The bumper-to-bumper traffic, though, was not cool, so as I neared the boys’ destination, I told them to jump out here! In the middle of traffic. They did. Quickly. Yelling, thanks for the ride! as I maintained my stationary position. I waved, unsure if they even noticed my farewell as they were swallowed by the crowd.

As the day at the beach neared its end, as I was driving down Pacific Coast Highway, and noticed a few helicopters circling above, Brad called. Mom! There’s a riot going on here. On Main Street! After his brief explanation of what had happened I found myself, once again, tangled up with all the other vehicles in the area. I had to back track, go behind the main area so that I could find Brad and his pals on the other side of the action. Cruising along, snail-like, my jaw dropped, taking in the sight of the two rows of cops, 15-20 in each row, that I had to drive through. Brad wasn’t kidding! I mumbled to no one.  The officers were brandishing weapons of all sorts, blocking the line of cars from turning left or right onto Main Street, and also keeping an eye on all the pedestrians that were hanging around.

A bit intimidating, I admit.

The further I drove the heavier the crowd. People yelling, screaming, hoot and hollering. People caught up in the energy of the riot, saying that it was the cops fault, that they ruined everything by shooting tear-gas pellets into the crowd. When in fact, it was a fight that broke out. Some guys trying to up one another. Then other drunk and and not so drunk people started jumping in. Fighting. Arguing. Ironically, the cops used the tear-gas as a last ditch effort to dispel the chaos. They were hoping to regain control of an out-of-control situation. But it didn’t work. People became even more heated. People were nowhere near settling down.

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The boys jumped into the car, energized. I’m so hyper right now!, one of them yelled. Oh, my god, dude, that was so crazy! another added. And on it went during the ride home. Boys who got caught up in the energy of the night. The craziness of it all. They even fashioned masks made from their t-shirts wrapped around their faces, so they could breathe without sucking in the chemically induced tear-gas. As usual, I simply listened, occasionally asked a question – which they were more than happy to answer – and embraced the fact they were safe.

Yikes! I sighed under my breath.

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West Hollywood – Boys Town

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There we were, Roberto and I, cruising down the road, having just left the vicinity of Beverly Hills, just around the corner from Rodeo Drive.

He was nom-noming on a Sprinkles Triple Cinnamon Cupcake which was hugging a scoop of Captain Crunch Ice Cream while I was navigating through the congested thoroughfare.

Previous to that, we had gathered information at The Groundlings, an acting school and theater group in Hollywood where Roberto plans to engage himself.

So, as I said, there we were, heading home, driving down Santa Monica Blvd., just chatting, enjoying our conversation and the view, when I over-enthusiastically exclaimed,

“Wow! This area is very impressive! So pretty! I could see myself, living here, walking down these streets, enjoying an LA kind of life.”

“Me too,” Roberto chimed in. “We’re in WeHo,” he stated.

“WeHo?” I questioned.

“West Hollywood,” he answered.

I felt I should have known this, being a native of California, but, alas, that shortcut word bypassed my vocabulary list.

“Yeah,” Roberto continued, “this is a great area. Did you notice it’s a gay community?”

“Really?”

“Yeah, you didn’t notice all the rainbow flags?”

Well, what do you know. The rainbow flags are pretty much everywhere. And then I noticed all the men walking around, going about their daily business, doing whatever it is they needed to do, just like what Roberto and I were doing. Getting done what needed to be done.

I later learned we were in what is referred to as Boys Town, a gay community in West Hollywood.

“Oh. My. Gosh.” I say to him. “This place would be perfect for you.”

“Oh, that’d be great!” Roberto sounded cheery. “I would love this. Living here and working here, while honing my acting skills. Oh look,” he pointed. “See the billboards?”

And I did.

Billboards. Advertisements with model-perfect men advertising products that anyone would want, yet, obviously meant for the boys in this town.

We passed trendy restaurants, healthy health food stores, quaint coffee shops, books-nooks, upscale gay bars, and very appealing residential areas.

“I love this place,” Roberto confirmed.

“Make it a goal,” I told him. “Make it a possibility.

Secretly, I was aligning my thoughts, helping to make this happen for Roberto. A future in the making. Because, well, if it happens for him, then it happens for me.