Author: Lindi Roze

I started this blog with lots on my mind. I love storytelling and putting together pieces of history and current events so that the world makes sense to me. I originally chose the title "Self Censored" because I wanted to be careful not to offend my friends and family, who may be reading this blog and often have opposing views. I wrote many of my post with that in mind. On the other hand, I am a philosopher of sorts and I wanted to write about my reflections of everyday life and moments, "snapshots" that are captured in our memories. I've chosen the pseudonym, Lindi Roze, to try new things with my voice. It's still me, but I have found, as I'm sure many others have too, that freedom of expression is important to my thought process and it shows in the quality of my writing. Hope you will enjoy my work.

Sixty-Three

He would have 63 years old today; instead, he died at 23. It is ironic that a quiet, shy and gentle young man that did not smoke cigarettes or drink alcohol would have his life end this way — an innocent victim of a senseless act of violence by an angry man with a gun, under the influence of street drugs and looking for revenge from the world.

He was the baby in his family, the youngest of four. The apple of his dad’s eyes, he had his mother’s kind and humble spirit. He was well loved and admired by family and friends. He planned to join the Navy when he finished his technical training.  He wanted to be an aviation technician on an aircraft carrier, but a minor medical issue, crushed that dream. He couldn’t get in and was very disappointed.

He was at his parent’s house before work that day. He heard his mother scream and went out to try to talk the intruder down. He was not afraid, he knew him from growing up in the neighborhood. He thought he could reason with him, but he was shot point blank at close range.

The doctors said that for a fraction of an inch, the bullet could have gone straight through to the other side of the body with minimal damage. Instead, it hit his belt buckle and fragmented in his abdomen.

When they heard the news, donors from all over the metropolitan area flooded the hospital’s blood bank. Many were turned away because there was no more room to store the donations, but doctors could not stop the internal hemorrhaging.

He left behind a young wife, a two-year-old daughter, and a baby on the way, another daughter, born five months later.

Just before this tragedy happened, life seemed to be going as expected for this young family. He finished trade school; and landed a great job with a major airline. She worked at a prestigious teaching hospital. They bought a house in a popular development away from the city and the old neighborhood but close enough to the family to help out as needed. From one day to the next everything changed.

Each day brings its own joy and surprises, but also toil, and troubles.  Treasure and make the most of each moment for we do not know what tomorrow brings.

A Spirit of Christmas Past

Alternate title: Ugly Sweater in the eye of the beholder

Lonnie Delopas rummaged through her carry-on looking for the earbuds she threw in there at the last minute. She would listen to music instead of trying to read.  She had been on edge since she woke up this morning.  She felt a difference in the energy around her. The overall volume in the airport terminal wasn’t any louder than usual, but the noise was causing her nerves to frazzle, and it was irritating.  

Usually, a two-hour layover didn’t bother her, but at the moment she felt uneasy as if something big was about to happen. She hoped she would arrive safely and without incident to her destination. She had experienced this feeling before as a warning or déjà vu.  She rechecked the weather status and listened for any cancelations or announcements of change.  She was heading to the North East for an award and book signing.  It was winter, just before Christmas, weather-wise, anything could happen. It felt strange to get back to the city where she grew up.  When she first got the news, she thought: “Not a bad way to end the year;”  but now, with the eeriness, she was feeling, she wasn’t so sure.

Lonnie finally fished her earbuds from the bottom of her bag, and as she sat up in her chair, she noticed a man walking at a fast pace toward Gate 19.  The man was tall with thick salt and pepper hair that fell just over his ears and collar; a neatly groomed beard framed his face. He wore gunmetal square-aviator style Ray-Bans and a classic leather bomber jacket. He carried a large leather bag slung over his shoulder and finally having reached the Gate, he slowed down.  He walked past Lonnie with the confidence of a man comfortable in his skin until he tripped of his own accord and almost fell at her feet. Without missing a beat, he stopped, smiled and asked: “Yeah, Is anyone sitting here?”

There was something very familiar about him.  Lonnie watched him from the corner of her eye as the stranger relaxed in the seat next to her. She decided that the familiarity she found was his likeness to Andrea Bocelli. He was so close, she could smell his cologne mixed with the scent of his well-worn leather jacket. His long legs stretched out almost into her personal space, and she couldn’t help but notice his stylish dress boots.  Lonnie regretted her decision to travel bundled up in comfortable, bulky layers for this trip.  Suddenly, she was acutely conscious that her hair was having one of its unruly moments.  Note to self, next time dress comfortable but trendy to announce that a successful creative soul has arrived.  She silently snickered to herself that she even had these ideas.  What was happening?

The Bocelli-look-alike was on the phone. His voice sounded familiar too, but Lonnie rationalized that she was, after all, headed to LaGuardia Airport and the familiarity she found in histone was nothing more than a strong Brooklyn accent. She had left many years ago; it seemed like another lifetime.  She was a little sad that after all these years, it was no longer “home.”  It was as if she were traveling to any other strange city around the country.  Like herself, most of her close friends had moved away and lost touch over the years.  Sadly some of her dearest friends had passed.  Lonnie finally attributed her energy imbalance to nerves and nostalgia with thoughts of the “good old days.”

Lonnie couldn’t help overhearing that the stranger was back in town to see his parents for the holidays but arrived a few days early to meet colleagues at a new job “in the City.” It sounded like he was pressuring someone to make plans to meet up before he had to leave again.  He’d be back the beginning of the year, but he needed to pack up and close on his house first.  The person on the other line must have said something to make him burst out laughing, and with a mocking voice, he said“Tony, it’s not that easy… I love you, man!” With that, the sophisticated, fine-looking man sitting next to Lonnie couldn’t finish his sentence as he folded over in a fit of laughter. His arms were flailing, and his classy boots stomped the floor repeatedly. 

Lonnie couldn’t help but turn to face him, and with his RayBans off, she noticed the big scar next to his left eye. It still looked as terrible as it did decades ago. “Tony?” she asked.  “Tony Petronelli?”  He stared at her, not recognizing her at first.  “It’s me, Lonnie? Alondra Delopas.” She smiled.  It was then that Anthony Laurence Petronelli recognized her.  He remembered the warm smile that at once upon a time made him feel mushy and gooey inside. A mop of short, wild gray hair had replaced the long brown hair that smelled of lavender and roses when ran his fingers through it; but the lively brown eyes and smile were still the same. “Oh my GAWD!” he said as they hugged long and hard as old friends do.

lavender and roses companion planting

They spent the two-hour layover catching up. Tony told her that stayed in New England after college, but his parents were still in the city. He kept up with friends each time he came to visit his family. He married had children, but once the kids were out of the house and on their own, he and his wife found they didn’t want to stay married.  It was as simple as that.  Since college, he worked for the same a tech-company with contracts all over the world. Tony recently took a position in the corporate office back home to be closer to his aging parents.  Lonnie had also married with children.  Her first husband died tragically at a young age and her second husband was a mistake. She had been teaching and writing for some time and was pleased to have a best seller in her hands finally. 

Tony made plans to attend the book signing.  Lonnie said it would be nice to have an old friend there for support.  Her book was a Christmas story she told him, inspired in part by one of her favorite Christmas stories, O.Henry’s “Gift of the Magi,” and without warning, there in the middle of the busy airport terminal, the unthinkable happened! Tony brought up “The Sweater.” 

One winter Lonnie bought a cranberry colored, 100% wool, alpine sweater at a specialty shop in the small city near her college.  Her new best friend Bertie, Roberta Borkson, had taken her there.  Bertie was an avid skier, and she was going to get a sweater for her boyfriend to wear on their ski trip over Christmas vacation.  Lonnie went along and started having her own ideas about the beautiful sweaters she saw.  

Lonnie and Tony met at a lodge in the Poconos Mountains two years earlier during a winter camp sponsored by a local youth organization.  She noticed him on the first morning when she and her friends came in from a walk just as the snow started to get heavy.  Tony was sitting quietly by the fireplace, with a mug of hot chocolate as he listened to a couple of friends getting agitated about football teams.  The girls went straight to the fire to warm up which caused a distraction for the boys and their sports. 

By dinner time, they were all old friends. They had been laughing, telling stories and playing table tennis as the time slipped away.  Lonnie and Tony somehow always managed to end at the same table for meals, and on the bus ride home, he shyly asked if he could call her.  The group was heading back to the Poconos during the Christmas break. Lonnie pictured Tony in his new alpine sweater by the fireplace and her in a beautiful knitted cream colored hat and scarf she had seen downtown.     

Tony and Lonnie exchanged gifts as soon as she got home from school that year. Lonnie was pleased to find the beautiful soft cream-colored hat and scarf set.  Tony started to open his with a great big smile, but as he parted the thin sheets of tissue paper, his smile appeared frozen.  “Reindeer?” He asked.  He could not hide his shock. There were indeed, gray reindeer parading in between oversized snowflakes across the top of the sweater from one shoulder to the other.   It was apparent that he disliked the sweater. Lonnieoffered to return it, but Tony regained his composure and being the sweet young man that he was, nobly put it on to go out with friends that evening so as not to hurt Lonnie’s feelings. 

The sweater was a hit among their friends, but not it a good way.  One did not see many alpine sweaters with reindeer around the Bay Ridge neighborhood in Brooklyn, NY.   There is a reason there are no scenes with Tony Manero dancing his Saturday Night Fever in a cranberry red alpine sweater with gray reindeer and snowflakes. It didn’t fit the character.

On that cold winter night in the early 1970s and during the trip to the mountains, their friends warned Lonnie that she would never live that one down.  And so it was that fifty years later when fate serendipitously crossed the paths of these two senior citizens with teenage grandchildren of their own; Anthony Laurence Petronelli brought up the cranberry red alpine sweater with the gray reindeer.   All they could do was try to stifle the laughter until their bellies hurt and the years seemed to melt away.   

The photos used here are not my own;  they were found online and “no copyright infringement is intended.”

Work- a New Day, a New Chapter

“And suddenly you just know it’s time to start something new and trust the magic of beginnings.” — Meister Eckhart

I began a new chapter this week.  I started a new job.  I work as a Part-time Library Assistant at a local public library, and I am so excited about it!  This job was one of the first positions I applied to several months ago. The process of getting here was excruciating though. 

The other day I read a post from a young woman just out of graduate school but who had been working in her chosen field in different capacities for a few years.  She wrote about how frustrating and disheartening it is to be a young person looking for work these days. She described feeling that she was jumping through hoops while trying to decide what the interviewer was looking for based on the odd interview questions.  Looking for work does feel like a full-time job without the pay.

I found the article interesting because I felt the same way but from a mature person’s perspective. I was beginning to wonder if I kept getting turned down because of my age or too much experience. Generally, the application process is all done online, and even though you are asked to upload a resume, you still have to fill out a multi-page application in which you manually enter the information already on your resume.  I found out that although some sites ask for a resume, your interviewer may only get the application questionnaire.  Once you receive an invitation for an interview, there may be pre-interview personality testing or online testing of your general knowledge. 

In my own experience, sometimes during the interview, the answers to the questions seemed so obvious that I stopped to second-guess myself wondering if there could be any other answer. For example, one retail giant asked. “If you get a phone call that there is an emergency at home what would you do?”  I answered that I would tell my supervisor and find coverage if needed. As the interviewer stared at me blankly, I wondered if it was a trick question.  Should I have responded, that I wouldn’t get an emergency call at work because my phone would be turned off and in my locker? 

One employer had called a former co-worker as a reference. She asked if he thought I could tolerate not being in charge; and would I be able to adjust to an entry level position?  I had honestly addressed the reasons for applying for this particular position working with families in the community. What was she thinking? After that incident, I thinned out my resume so that I did not appear intimidating on paper, but better qualified for an entry-level position.  

I was so happy to get the phone call with the job offer for Part-time Library Assitant.  Over the past several months, I had applied to several local libraries whenever I saw a vacancy advertised.  As I was growing up, the library was a significant part of my life, as it was for my children and grandchildren.  As an adult, I enjoyed volunteering at a local public library through a previous employer’s community partnership program.  Although I sent applications to various companies with better salaries,  I still prefer to work in a library.  I believe compensation for work can be measured in different ways.  I consider that libraries continue to be an essential part of the community and I wanted to be a part of maintaining that legacy.

I am looking forward to working with creative people who enjoy reading and writing stories as much as I do.  I am anticipating good times in this next chapter in my life.  Wish me luck!

Photo by Clem Onojeghuo on Pexels.com

Gratitude and Thanksgiving

I sat here in front of a blank page for a while wanting to write something but couldn’t get started. The season brings many memories, most with warm and loving feelings.  From our earliest days in Brooklyn to most recent holidays in Florida so much has changed around us. The family has grown and spread out around the country.  Last year we spoke about having one big family holiday like the old days at some midpoint probably on the East Coast.  It’s not as easy as it sounds. It’s still a work in progress. We gather in smaller groups, now. Some of us have become part of other families while others create new traditions with friends. 

As I reflect back through the years, I think of the faces at the table that have come and gone; friends who’ve moved away,  partners that didn’t work out, loved ones who have passed.   I am amused thinking how the contents of our table have changed through the years as well.  Often persons who join us being a part of their traditions.  Through the years we’ve added things like homemade stuffing, collard greens, sweet potato casserole with pecan toppings from the South; kremsnita, a phyllo cheese pie from Croatia, or yucca marinated with onions, olive oil, and vinegar, common in the Carribean.  

Thanksgiving was not a tradition in Puerto Rico for my parents growing up in the 1930s and 40s, but I remember in Brooklyn in the 1960s we celebrated it every year with my cousins, aunts, and uncles. Our parents blended their traditional foods and flavors with what was usual holiday food in the NorthEast. Growing up we would have a roasted turkey prepared with a rub of garlic, salt, and oregano; it was the same type of seasoning Puerto Ricans traditionally used for roast pork during the holidays and special occasions.  We had baked sweet potatoes or yams and guineitos en escabeche; pickled green bananas that were marinated days before. These were served alongside a dish called arroz con gandules; it’s like a paella, prepared in one pot with pigeon peas, peppers, onions, garlic, cilantro, and tomatoes or tomato sauce.   My mother loved to cook and often made pumpkin pie,  flan, and Pillsbury sugar cookies.  

All the years of memories tend to blend together, and in my recollection, I remember our faith practice of gratitude and singing; in old photographs, I see dancing. I distinctly remember lots of laughing and warm smiles.  My mother had started experiencing symptoms of her illness, and my dad took to drinking every day after work and yet,  I remember feeling safe and loved. With all their personal struggles, they made us, their children, a priority.  For that alone, I am eternally grateful.  I think that supportive foundation helped me tackle a lot of challenges throughout the years.

It was that feeling of love and security that I wanted to re-create for our kids.  My siblings and I did.  My daughters and their cousins remember the holidays with the same nostalgia.  They want to pass on the same love, laughter to their own children.  Thankfully, as the family grows, they have added new traditions along the way. 

Today as I contemplate the holiday season, I wonder why Thanksgiving is not a more important holiday in this country. Of all the holidays, I think Thanksgiving can serve to unite us as a nation.  Many cultures and religions practice gratitude. From earlier times people have celebrated a good harvest giving thanks to a higher power.  Even folks who are not “religious” recognize that living in gratitude and being appreciative is to be in a good state of mind. One would think that given the emphasis that our leaders place on God’slaws and God’s rules, that they could agree to celebrate gratitude with more enthusiasm.  Giving thanks seems to be a common denominator, even if you are a humanist you can be grateful for your particular abilities and achievements. 

Perhaps someone’s White House can one day hold a service and invite religious and secular leaders of diverse groups to a Thanksgiving dinner.  There is something about literally breaking bread together that unites people and overcomes barriers.  I know it’s not even remotely on the agenda for this administration but its something to consider for the future. I understand that similar activities have been attempted at different times without success, falling apart at party lines, but I am sitting here living in the moment during a season of hope and so I continue to believe in our democracy.

I am mindful that not everyone feels the same during this season, perhaps some can’t find anything to be grateful for, not past or present.  Itis actually very common to feel sad and alone especially during this holiday season.  I would encourage my readers to open your eyes, look around and reach out to a neighbor, a friend, a co-worker and perhaps invite someone to join you.  My family has never had excessive material wealth, but there has always been room at the table for one more.  To those who may get an invitation, don’t turn it down.  Its never too late to make a pleasant memory. 

I am thankful that you stopped by today.  Peace be with you. 

Home to where I’d never been

I had written this post back in the Spring in response to a prompt for a writing workshop. I feel it is the backstory to my post from yesterday. Today Dr. Rex at “It is What it is.” Posted some beautiful pictures of one of my favorite spots on the island, Old San Juan and that prompted me to re-post. Since last Spring, I have updated the story and mined my memories for more content. I submitted the extended version last month for acceptance in an anthology of Puerto Rican voices coming out next Spring 2019. Wish me luck.

A Roze By Any Other Name

I came across this quote from North 20°54, West 156°14, a personal essay by Maggie Messitt on Bending Genre. “Maps are about boundaries and perception. They are about recognizing and being recognized.”
It is a beautiful place
One summer as soon as school was out, our parents took us to their little island in the Caribbean. It was the late 1960’s; it was the year my paternal grandfather died. It was unexpected. I don’t remember him, and I don’t think he ever met the twins. That’s probably why they made an effort to get us over there to meet the family now. I was apprehensive at first. My Dad was staying home, but we were going for the whole summer! I was starting my teenage years, which is a big deal in itself but on top of that, all I knew about Puerto Rico were the stories my parents…

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My color is Ecru Cream

Alternative title – A Roze by any other name is still a Roze

I Have Been Weary

The other day, Jill Dennison of Filosofa’s Word posted “A SHARED OPINION …” in which she shared an article by Charles M. Blow of the NY Times, titled “You Have a Right to Weariness.” As usual, Jill’s comments to this article echoed my own thoughts.  It is a great opinion piece for our time of unsettling barrage of news stories. I have been weary.”   It’s not in my nature to ignore world events around me.  My eighth grade Social Studies teacher taught me, “Those that fail to learn from history, are doomed to repeat it.” Winston Churchill.  Unfortunately, watching current events unfold makes me feel like I’m watching a train wreck about to happen, but I’ve no superpowers to stop it.

I thought I was Over It

As I attempt a smooth transition to my “Third Act of Life,” I am dealing with feelings and frustrations that I thought I had overcome or mastered years ago.  You see, I am a woman of color, I like to say it’s “Ecru Cream.” I describe Ecru Cream as a very light beige, like raw linen- almost white, but not quite. I lived most of my life that way-almost white.

I  am No One’s Anchor

I was conceived in Puerto Rico, and when my grandparents found out that their 22-year-old, unmarried daughter was pregnant; they sent her to Pennsylvania to stay with her married older sister, Evangeline.  Evangeline had migrated to the States a few of years before when her husband returned from his tour of duty for the US Army.  They bought a house and started a family.  My grandparents decided that Evangeline would be a good role model to help her sister in this situation, and so my journey of life began just outside “the City of Brotherly Love.”

No, I was not an “anchor baby.” My parents were born American citizens in Puerto Rico, and my grandparents were granted citizenship as young adults in 1917.  My grandfather was drafted to the US Military shortly after, just in time for WWI. Brooklyn

Nuyoricans “Passing” for an Opportunity

After I was born, my father came to see us at Aunt Evangeline’s house, and since my mother was “the love of his life;” we moved with him to New York City.  We joined his older sisters and brother who migrated and settled in Brooklyn. My parents seemed to quickly become accustomed to the new culture and way of life while maintaining and blending the traditional customs of the major holidays. We used to tease my mother that she learned how to be “American” by watching “I Love Lucy” and Days of Our Lives.”

My parents socialized very little with friends outside of work so that we spent our weekends and holidays with family.  For the most part, my family is very light skinned; my cousins and I grew up without accents, and our last names did not end in “Z.”  These characteristics gave people an opportunity to get to know us before realizing that we were just an illusion of whiteness.  Yes, we were “passing” as a means to have a chance.

In school, at the church and in the neighborhood, our friends were not Puerto Rican. Our friends were the first or second generation of immigrants.  They were Italians, Irish, French, English, Polish, Canadian, Brazilian or Middle Eastern. Most spoke a second language at home.  Together we navigated the Melting Pot culture of NYC and were absorbed into the American Dream.

Celebrity Magic Shows and Miracle Excelsiors

It wasn’t all easy peasy as my granddaughter likes to say and when I hear the rhetoric, I can’t help but feel a bit of fear and frustration.  I continue to say that DJT is not the problem. He is who he is and who he has been. He didn’t get more obnoxious on the campaign trail. He did gain more visibility. I was not a fan of his before, not as a businessman or as a celebrity. I never watched his reality TV show and rolled my eyes whenever he did a cameo in a movie that took place in NYC.  I was one of those that would have bet my last dollar that he would not get into the White House.  The American people would never vote a con-man into the highest, most powerful office in the country.  By Election Day, I had changed my mind.  I watched how Americans adored his bravado and his magic displays with smoke and mirrors.  I was not surprised by his win at all.  Mostly though, I was hurt.  I continue to feel betrayed by friends and family.

A Christian Education 

I knew race tensions existed, and I was aware the KKK was still alive and well, but the events of the past couple of years reach me at a very personal level. I am reminded of my years as a young adult, my first year away from home in a Christian Bible college.  It was a small Bible College in the North East, about an hour outside of The City.  In was presented as “interdenominational” in promotional events and material.  The leader of my city wide “interdenominational” Christian high school club recommended it highly.  Interdenominational meant that all Christians around the world were welcome. Even though Baptists founded it, the school welcomed students from Presbyterians to Pentecostals in all shapes, sizes, and color.  We had to include a photo with our application.

By the end of my first semester, I learned that indeed all that glitters is not gold and whitewashing walls is a quick, effective way to cover up dirt and imperfections.  We learned that the school accepted minorities and international students of color in pairs, one man and one woman.  It was preferable if they were already married.  One of our friends was “spoken to” because people saw her around campus accompanied by a Brown student.  To be truthful, I don’t remember what country he was from, but in my memory, I recall him as perhaps from India or Pakistan.  The girl was so upset by this situation that she did not return next semester.

The Founder and President of the school taught a class on Dispensations. It was in his class that I decided not to come back after my second semester. I did not go back to my local church either.  His beliefs did not resemble the Christianity I learned at home.  His lessons were peppered with digs and condescending, derogatory remarks about other denominations that were not entirely in accord with Baptist dogma. I questioned my beliefs, my faith.  It was years before I returned to an organized religious community.

Who Are My Friends?

There were many other things about the school that made me uncomfortable,but the most hurtful thing occurred after I left the school.  I had become close friends with my roommate and a few of the girls in my dorm.  Gwen, Margaret and I were inseparable.  Margaret and I made plans to visit our boyfriends at a Christian College in New England next semester. I continued to correspond with the girls by snail mail.  One day I received a letter from Margaret.  One line in the message hit me like a gut punch.  “Gwen and I miss you so much; we had to adopt another inner-city girl.”  Wow! I thought we were friends, real friends.  I thought she was my friend because we had a lot in common because I was smart, witty and fun to be around.  She saw me as an inner-city-girl who went to her school on a partial scholarship and lived in her dorm.

Disguised, They Came For the Immigrants…

Years later, I was working at a psychiatric day services program is a New England city nicknamed “The City of Immigrants.”  One day, after the clients left, and we were meeting to review the day’s events and planning.  There was construction going on around us, and the noise prompted a co-worker, Doug, to make some awful comments, similar to DJT’s views, about the men who were working on the project. 

The workers were mostly brown men if I had to guess they were probably from countries in South America and the Caribbean.  “I can’t believe you just said that,” I told him. His response to justify his words was worse. I explained that these men could very well be my cousin, brother, or father.  While he had never been disrespectful to me or made racist comments of our clients in front of me, it hurt me that he thought this way of these people he didn’t even know – just because of the color of their skin and their accents.

Doug was a man that I worked with for several years; we co-facilitated successful groups, we walked together at lunch, had our coffee together, I considered him a close friend.  He finally said, “I’m sorry, I  just wasn’t thinking.”  It didn’t make it any better if anything, it made it worse that he wasn’t thinking about the impact of his words.  Things were never the same between us.

Then They Came for Me…

People forget I am not “white,” I am a woman “of color,” Ecru Cream is my color.  If our country were to continue to erase all the progress made regarding equality for all people; if as a nation we lose respect for basic human rights what is left for us?  What becomes of me, of my family?  If someone comes knocking on my door and drags me away because of a flippant comment I made on Twitter, will my friends stand up for me?  Will they say, “Well, you shouldn’t have said that after all, he is our President.”  I remember the words of Martin Niemoller, “… Then they came for me—and there was no one left to speak for me.”

All this rhetoric brings all these emotions to the surface. DJT did not get to the White House on his own merits.  Witnessing day after day that our lawmakers condone and defend his actions is very draining.  I am reminded again: “…and when an experience is not retained, as among savages, infancy is perpetual. Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.”  — George Santayana

Hope for Rational Government

The recent elections bring some hope that people realize that the current events are not just politics and business as usual, nor are they healthy for our Democracy.  On the flip side, the recent election shows that there is still lots of work to be done. The numbers were too close for comfort, and there were too many mistakes and too much irregularity at the polls. Yes, I am weary, but I am hoping that tempered and rational thought comes with the new legislators to Congress before we resort to “Hunger Games” for the dignity and survival of the 98%.  

Dem Majority can set useful goals in the House

Great opinion piece by Ronald A Klain of the Washington Post.   Now that elections are over, the democratic party needs to focus on prioritizing the needs of the people to restore some kind of balance in our Democracy.  Its time now to “resist” the negativity by getting to work regardless of what Twitter spews from the WH.

https://www.washingtonpost.com/opinions/the-first-five-things-the-democrats-should-do-with-their-house-majority/2018/11/06/54e99b3a-e1fc-11e8-ab2c-b31dcd53ca6b_story.html?fbclid=IwAR1TX4qnil1EtkKn_uGfggPyS_4niz6d0xByaMElll1j8ChGpPE8MdmE22k&utm_term=.8791018d4f7f

Left Behind after a Death

A social media post reminded me the other night that it was a year to the day since my cousin, Joe died.  I’m sad I didn’t remember, I spoke to his mom earlier that day. We talked for an hour about all sorts of trivial things, but she didn’t mention him till we were wrapping up.  Even then, she told me it was his wife that missed him.  She said: “Lizzy called this morning and told me she had been dreaming of Joe.”  I’m usually more on the ball and can pick up things with my “third ear.” She called because she was sad, but I missed it. 

I grew up close to my cousin and his sister.  Our families would get together every weekend when we were kids in Brooklyn.  He was the best man at my brother’s wedding.  He went to prep school in New England on a scholarship, and after that, as the years past, we saw each other very little.  I know he was a family man; crazy about his kids and a good husband.  His son posted a sweet memorial that day and wished his dad would have been around to meet his first granddaughter.

When hurricane Maria caused chaos in Puerto Rico, Joe went to get his recently widowed mom and brought her back to stay with his family until he was sure things were better in her town.   It was November when he dropped his mom off at the airport. That day, Joe told his mom that he wasn’t planning to retire anytime soon.  He liked his job and was in good health.  “I’m in it for the long haul,” he told her. They said goodbye, and he went to work.   A few hours later, a co-worker found him slumped over his desk. It was his heart. He was 60 years old.  My aunt didn’t go to the funeral; she didn’t want to see her little boy buried.

trees in park

This incident got me thinking about how after death, life goes on around us here on earth. I remember feeling disconnected from everything and everyone whenever I’ve lost someone very close to me.  I sat at my desk one day holding back tears because I was in pain and the world keep spinning on its tilted axis.  The sun and the moon each came up as scheduled, people worked, laughed and played all around me as they had the day before and the day before that. I wanted to scream “STOP!  It still hurts, Can’t you see?  I’ve lost a part of me.” Intellectually, I know we all take turns with grieving one thing or another; and we all grieve differently, but at that moment, it hit me how personal grieving really is, but as they say, “the beat goes on.” 

Growing up, as an Evangelical in Brooklyn, I knew nothing of the “Day of the Dead” traditions.  In that fundamentalist religious culture, anything otherworldly is anathema, considered evil and would lead straight to perdition.  It is that way for Halloween and the “pagan” Gaelic origins in Samhain.  I find it interesting that both the Aztecs and ancient people of Scottish-Irish islands had similar celebrations before Christianity got to there. I was curious and learned that other ancient cultures in addition to China and Japan also set aside one day to celebrate or honor the dead ancestors.

 I found out later in life that my grandparents traditionally celebrated the Day of the Dead, but with a somber tone.  Even though they were not Catholic, they liked to be respectful of the family members who passed on before them. It was a day of quiet reflection for them. When I converted to Catholicism several years ago, I found the celebrations of All Souls Day and All Saints very comforting.  I’m glad that the Church did not erase the sentiment behind these “pagan” traditions.

In my family, we have lost many loved ones prematurely by today’s standards, but really who is to say how many days are in the itinerary for this journey.   Because we don’t know, we are encouraged to live each day to the fullest, to take every opportunity or to “make it a great day.”  What happens when things don’t work out the way we plan? 

A long time ago, I decided to embrace the idea that life or success is not a straight shot.  At least it hasn’t worked that way for me or others I have met along the way.  As I mentioned to someone the other day, getting to our goal is perhaps more like using the subway system or public transit to get our errands done at the different stops along the way.  Let’s say we have a “to do” list, and sometimes we forget or miss an item and have to go back, or we find something interesting but unexpected, and we are detained for longer than we planned.

Of course, sometimes the train malfunctions and we need to rethink our strategy.  The problem is out of our control, but we need to get things done.  What do we do?  We get out and walk, take the next train, find other means of transportation or look at how we can rearrange priorities to maximize our time.  

I’ve been fortunate to have great role models.  Grandparents, parents, aunts, and uncles who taught me that is possible to overcome obstacles.  I have heard stories of any one of them who was helpful to someone in need, even though they may have been confronting their own struggles.  People remember them with love and admiration. 

None of them were famous or of great wealth, but they left a mark that they were here.  During these days of celebrating life and death, I didn’t light candles or put out food for their visit, but I remember them and honor their lives every day.  And if there is a bridge or door or whatever for the spirits of our loved ones to visit, I hope they are pleased with how their seeds have grown and flourished. 

I loved the movie “Coco” #Disney magic.