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?

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.