Part III Extra credit: writing for myself

Wandering slowly in case disappointment is my destiny, I feign interest in the new books section laid out temptingly for the adults. Look but don’t read, a sign informs those who aren’t yet the magic age of 18. No doubt s-e-x is the main ingredient of the stories within. One tempts me with its small size and single word title. As I reach for it wondering if some alarm will sound or how it will be known that I’ve breached the age divide, the pages part beneath my fingers. 

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked, dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix, angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night...

Naked for sure is in the stream of words whose meaning I understand individually, just not in this order. Since it isn’t the language that makes this adult reading, it must be the pictures. Quickly I flip through the pages. There are misspellings and the punctuation seems wrong, in ways that would surely cause my teacher to give me no credit for the work and direction to rewrite such stuff. Placing the book back on the table, I wonder what adults think about kid readers. How could this book have any of those harmful values, as the nuns at catechism would say?

A Summer Solstice reading list

Summer Solstice is my favorite benchmark moment of any year, even more than my birthday (November 22). Time is long and luxuriously filled with many more minutes, indeed, hours than any other single day of the year. The sort of day to spend in and out of doors, sipping lemonade, and having the occasional [ok, I admit fairly frequent] bite of a brownie, while reading a book. Like a cat following patches of sunlight, I change up the spots where I read during any given day.

Here’s my list of planned reading with a bit of reader participation at the conclusion.

1. The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet’s Nest, Stieg Larsson. How could I resist the closing third of this entertaining thriller series? Decide for yourself whether Larsson has created a 21st century feminist storyline. I especially care for the details he provides about how writers, journalists in particular, develop their storylines. While there is not much detail on the craft, there are nuanced portions that focus on investigative processes and outcomes. Larsson likes to give us the breakfast menus of most characters, vexing for some readers. But, I like to know how and what others consume.
2. War Dances, Sherman Alexie. A collection of short stories by this prolific, acclaimed (twice a National Book Award winner) American Indian poet/novelist/screenwriter. I believe that crafting a short is a challenge and hope to learn something about the magic of brevity from this read.
3. La Perdida, Jessica Abel. One of my upcoming projects is a graphic novel that takes place in Mexico and the United States. In this book Carla, a young woman, seeks her Mexican roots in the Motherland. Her adventures form the core of the storyline. I hope to better understand how to roll out a narrative that relies heavily on a visual element. The images in this novel are all b/w, and it will be interesting to see how the colorful landscape of Mexico is conveyed.
4. Shutter Island, Dennis Lehane with Christian De Metter. A graphic novel based on the bestseller that was made into a feature film. This is graphic novel is printed in a monochromatic color palette. I want to learn how the use of color effects narration, and how to translate a highly detailed story that relies on dialogue for action into another form of storytelling.
5. The Ghosts of Belfast, Stuart Neville. I read a review of this book in the LA Times and its plot line grabbed me immediately. Nightly, the ghosts of twelve innocent victims appear to a former IRA hit man. They will not rest until he avenges their deaths by murdering those who ordered the violence that befell them.
6. Beowulf as translated by Seamus Heaney– Come on! What’s not to like here? A beast with an even beastlier mother coupled with a flawed hero who aims to do them both in order to save his fellow Danes. Very 21st century stuff, even if it was crafted in the first millennium of the Common Era. Besides I really want to do some more Scandinavian reading and the translation by Seamus Heaney fits in with my Irish picks.
7. Tinkers, Paul Harding. No high falutin’ intellectual rationale for this selection. I was walking down the book aisle at the local Costco and the cover art caught my eye. I opened it up and gave the first paragraph a read (a sure test if there ever is one), and I was hooked into the story. Now I need to go back and read the book to find out what happened in the early life of the old man who lays dying in the opening. I especially like that the manuscript was repeatedly turned down before a small press took it on as a book project, and then this first time novelist goes and wins himself a Pulitzer Prize! Proof certain that success is the best revenge.
8. Blockade Billy, Stephen King. There are two short stories, the first about baseball and the second is a bonus add-on. I didn’t read his last novel because it was too heavy and I worried that my carpal tunnel would flare up while holding the book, so I feel a bit disloyal to my longtime mentor.
9. No Country for Old Men, Cormac McCarthy. I want to learn how to better craft men in dialogue, the language and cadence of men in the West. Because I just completed a couple of Elmore Leonard novels, I thought to try someone else in the tradition of the Western/cowboy yarn. These genres contain settings and people who I know little about. As a result I frequently am off balance when reading their works. I like that, not knowing what comes next.
10. ______________________. Open to suggestions. Let me know what you would add to give me my ten books for 2010 summer reading.

PART II Extra credit: writing for myself

A harmonic mix of smells chafes the nose with a low tympanic stink. An eccentric smell of the librarians, who dab rose water behind their ears and vanilla between their breasts mixes with high notes of musk from books, whose yellowed stained pages bear trace scents of former readers. It smells like incense, but not the blessed burning substance used by the Padre on Sundays. This is the earthy smell of my daily house of worship, the library. 

Moving slowly in the dust-mote heat of the afternoon, I scan for the ever-slumbering tuxedoed cat, Felix. And there he is, curled between dictionaries.  Paws covering face, a Cyclops eye contradicts his illusion of sleep. A cat wink greets me, and then as if to show his good faith, the eye closes.  

Scanning the checkout desk, a relieving breath pushes against my lungs.  My favorite librarian Maria Isabel wipes her glasses behind a stack of books.  Her large handkerchief swipes broadly, as she blinks in the direction of the yawning door.  Out from under the cloth come the spectacles.  She places them on her creased plum colored face, and as they come to rest on her nose, she offers a smile of welcome. Pausing, as my eyes grow accustomed to the dimmed light, I focus on that most precious of shelves, the reserved books. 

I had been waiting four weeks for this one. Is it there?  Is it? Don't people know that returning a book on time is important? The penalty for keeping a book over due should be harsh. Like what? Well, like revocation of library privileges, or being forced to listen to Country Western music, something severe. ¿Que no?

A transgender parent reflects on the significance of Father's Day

Mother’s Day. Father’s Day. Two days when there is a frenzy of gilt- and guilt-giving for parenting well done–––or aspiring to be.

When I was growing up in our extended American-Mexican family, a Mother’s Day celebration included our mother and her mother, our grandmother, and several aunts, whom we honored with home-made cards and bunches of flowers from our yard. The festivities were all day, starting with Mass and ending with a tamalada.

Father’s Day? My dad got similar crayon-crafted cards, usually with a requisite ill-constructed necktie that my siblings and I purchased at the local Sears. We fixed him a pancake breakfast and then not much more happened until dinner, when we presented him with his favorite cake–––“white for in and white for out”–––which he doused with evaporated milk.
 
Thinking about the ways such family traditions and cultural influences affect celebrations, I arrived this year at a decidedly 21st century question: “How do families celebrate the holidays of Mother’s Day and Father’s Day with transgender parents?”
 
Gabrielle is a divorced, white, 48-year-old systems engineer and transgender woman living in Fremont, a suburb of San José, California. Her former wife is a public safety worker whose job responsibilities have made it difficult for her to parent their daughter. As a result, Gabrielle is a single parent with custody of their 17-year old daughter.
 
I had contacted Gabrielle with the idea of learning more about a Mother’s Day/Father’s Day duality for transgender parents that I had rolling around in my head. I ended up learning much more about one woman’s approach to parenting that is grounded in a mutual respect of the roles carried out by parent and child.
 
Gabrielle made the painful decision to delay her gender change, in spite of her desire to begin the evolution, in order to provide her young, at the time, daughter with a traditional father role. She said, “One of the reasons that I didn’t transition sooner is that my daughter needed a father, a male figure in her life. Inasmuch as I so desperately needed to change, she was more important.”
 
Her remarks underscored the sacrifices that parents will frequently make for the sake of their children. Immigrant parents will journey across dangerous social and geographic terrain to arrive at a place where they can create a better life for their families. Working parents will take on multiple jobs to pay for their children’s college education. Gabrielle believes that children’s needs are paramount, and that parents must place those needs ahead of their own.
 
“If I could give one bit of advice to someone who is thinking about transitioning, male to female or female to male, think about your obligations with your children first. They really, really need you to be there. At that point in your life, you need to be grownup enough to learn how to sacrifice and put those feelings aside. Be patient because they need you more.”
 
Gabrielle’s comments prompted a question, “How has the conscious disassembling and refiguring of gender roles contributed to this family's ability to successfully, if not imperfectly, travel such uncharted social waters?”
 
“I will always be her father,” Gabrielle says when speaking of her relationship with her daughter.
 
“She has one mother, who birthed her.
 
“Let’s face it, a father is, by definition, somebody who begat a child, an offspring. I will always be her father regardless of what gender I present.”
 
But what about Father’s Day?
 
Gabrielle says, “I don’t care one way or another whether there’s a Father’s Day. I don’t need Father’s Day for my daughter and I to have a really great relationship.
 
“Every day is Father’s Day for her and I.”
 
Gabrielle points to one way in which her daughter acknowledged and supported her as she transitioned from her male to female self.
 
“She knew I was really having a hard time with the name change process. She actually went to court with me, where I had to do a legal petition to change my name. She was there with me.”
 
One lesson that I carried away with me from hearing Gabrielle’s story is that if parents are able to communicate their humanity in ways that don’t rely on selfish, guilt-based, manipulative processes, or that are accompanied by threat of punishment, there might be a time when every day, although probably not every moment, is a celebration of parenting, regardless of gender.
 
Mother’s Day. Father’s Day. How did these observances get started in the first place?
 
Some historians say that honoring mothers dates back to festivities, which celebrated Cybele, a goddess whose origins are rooted in Greek/Phrygian/Minoan/Mycenean traditions. Accounts have described Cybele’s male worshippers as ritually castrating themselves, dressing in women’s garb, and assuming women’s roles, in her honor.
 
Oh, really?

Extra Credit: writing for myself

Dear Loyal Reader, Fridays in the summer seem to suit serial fiction. Don’t know how this ends, or even how the middle reads. We can both be surprised. Your humble servant, María
~~~~~~~
My stagnant revere of the sort summer heat brings ends as a soft crackle tickles my ears. That small noise comes bobbing above a cacophonous sea of sound: tick-tacking computer key clicks, sonorous breathing of seniors, authoritative tapping from a student’s pencil.

A brown skinned girl thumbs leathered library index cards. Oblivious to my scrutiny, the girl impatiently runs her dark and stubby nail bitten fingers down a stack of yellowed, dog-eared discarded cards meant for scratch. Face glowing sallow chartreuse in the reflection of the computer monitor, lip pursed slightly, an expectancy of treasure running down her fingers as they riffle the cards.

Noting information that she seeks the girl turns, weaves away into the shelves. Gone from sight, left in her wake, the impatient card shuffling evokes memories I wish not to have.

Compelled by sound, a sitting meditation finds its way to this page, describing a time when I found an unexpected adventure in that same library.

Soy Gordita

Gordita [gohr-DEE-tah]

Adjective: Spanish for "little fat one." In Chicana/o culture it is a term of endearment applied to plump, chubby, or fat people

Noun: A gordita is made of masa, oil, and stock. Cook on both sides on a hot comal until the masa is set. When done, top with beans, cheese, shredded lettuce, onion, cilantro...you name it. Fold in half without breaking the masa and insert in mouth. Yummmm...

I rarely think about weight. Really, I only think about my size when I eat, or when I think about eating, or when I think about what to wear. Well…there are those occasional other times...

When dressing, or undressing, or walking down the street. For reals, I only think about the size of my nalgas when walking in front of a room full of people. Like when I'm in front of a class to teach or reading at a book signing...which is pretty much everyday, since I teach for a living and am on a book tour several times a year.

However, other than those moments, I really don’t think much about my weight or my size. I accept myself for who I am...don’t diet...eat for life...don’t exercise for size...workout for health... embrace my body as, well, full bodied.

Yeah. Right.

~~~~~~~

A few summers ago, I ran into the sister of a high school friend of mine. She saw me, gasped, and said, Please don’t mind me saying this, but you are nothing like I imagined. You’re, um, beautiful. I was expecting you to be...she laughed...short and fat.

Because I am short, and sometimes fat, and I like the way I look (or so I say), I joined in her laughter.

So, let's see if I understand correctly...short, fat, and beautiful don't belong together in the same sentence?

Although I appreciated the beautiful comment, why does this interaction remain with me years later, and find its way onto this page?

~~~~~~~

Photographs taken before the age of seven, show one happy muchacha. She eagerly clutches the swing chains ready to fly into the air with Mighty Mouse, as they dash off to conduct deeds of daring-do. This child wears a China Poblana outfit, her brown, round face encircled with silk colors that sparkle as brightly as her eyes.

In another photograph, her burnished cheeks contrast with her yellow, orange, and turquoise dress as she kneels in a park playing with family and friends. Another photo shows her with kindergarten buddies in the landscape of an urban schoolyard. There are children of many ethnicities: Filipina, Italian, African American, white. All share a smile of belonging.

After age seven, when the daily regimen of nuns and priests are enforced, the photographs change. There is no more the big-toothed grin on an exuberant face. In its place, there is a forced, fish-lipped smile. The bronzed girl wearing bright colors is now clothed in navy blue and starched white uniforms.

Her size alters, a bit at a time and in a year she goes from swift-footed deer to hopping toad. No longer does song flow from her mouth. She croaks. Her change is size is equal to the change in her sense of belonging. She enters the realm of outsider. Make that fat outsider.

Interestingly, age seven is when she turns to writing. It helps stave off the pangs of isolation.

~~~~~~~

Relentlessly, I am pushed into adolescent uncertainty and discomfort. Nothing much changes in this self-conscious, publicly projected effect of myself, as my life moves from that of child to young adult, mujer, then middle-aged, casí viejita.

Although there is a period of time in the 1970s, when the Movimiento offers me the opportunity of individual consciousness and collective action, and the women’s movement permits me an ideological arena for analyzing the perceptions of zaftig bodies in a world where slender forms rule.

Eventually my journey out of isolation and into acceptance of body self comes from yoga, meditation, and becoming a vegetarian, almost vegan. After more than fifty years, I am at peace with the fact of my body, a temporary vessel that carries me through this voyage of life.

Not the tall-throated drinking gourd woman of my imagination, I am, nonetheless a calabasa. Or more accurately, I am a bunch of calabasas---parts of me are round, firm, and other portions are long, pendulous.

Must I always reference this vision of myself in relation to food? Yes, I must. I am what I eat. More significantly, I am what I desire to eat. The shape of my body belies the food that I take in.

Yikes. All this weighty talk makes me hungry.

Does it actually require all this living to come to this consciousness? Yes, it does.