Express Yourself, Don't Repress Yourself

I don't want to get all soul searchy here, but I've been doing a lot of thinking lately. Mostly about my writing, which is weird because I thought I had given up on it years ago. I had really reconciled myself to believing that writing wasn't going to be the way I made any sort of living. Maybe I'm wrong. I can be wrong. I've been wrong about a lot of things, I could be wrong about this, too.

Here's a little back story for those of you keeping score at home: I wrote my first poem in the fourth grade. For a boy. And it rhymed. It was terrible. How terrible? Here's a taste: "I know you're going to grunt and gripe/but to me you are the perfect type." Seriously? Seriously. I can't believe that (a) I wrote that in the fourth grade and (b) I just shared it with whoever is reading this. My apologies to those who were rendered so nauseous by reading that bit that they cannot possibly continue. I never got the boy, but I kept writing.

I wrote poems all through high school. Rhyming poems, haikus(!), I think I even tried sonnets. To be fair, it wasn't all terrible. I had a couple of poems published in Nova, the high school's literary magazine. I was also co-editor of Humanist, my high school yearbook (my first job writing copy!) All of the classic themes populated my work: love, death, war, things that, as a teenager, I had no clue about. I realized years later that the more I lived, the more I experienced things, the more specific my subject matter became. The bigger my world, the "smaller" my writing. Junior year, I was introduced to a playwright named Andrew Young. He spoke to our writing class and invited us to see a performance of his play at Maxwell's in Hoboken. I spent that summer going to a writing/theater workshop every Tuesday at the Y (what is it with me and not being able to stay home on a Tuesday night?). It was good for me, so if anyone knows whatever happened to Andrew Young, let me know, because I'd like to thank him.

I kept writing in college, and eventually declared English my major. (I can still hear the classic question in my head, "So...English major? So, you want to teach?" I've had some wonderful teachers in my life. They nurtured, supported and encouraged me. I would never besmirch their noble profession by joining their ranks. That is my final answer. But never say never, right?) I had a couple of poems published in the school paper and the literary magazine. My friend Benni (nickname) even made some of my poems into beautiful pieces of art. You can check out her awesome work here.

I don't think I've ever written more than when I was in my early to mid twenties. Lots and lots of poems, all a bit sad, some a bit sexual, mostly about one person who I will refer to as the Magnificent Obsession. I could be less dramatic and simply use initials, but he actually went by his initials, so forget it. How magnificent was this obsession? I basically wrote a whole book about it. Yup, a book. I was showing it to Furonda (not her real name) the other night and realized that I hadn't read the thing in at least five years (I wrote it ten years ago).I don't know why, but I was scared of what it would be like to read it all again. Maybe I was afraid that it would suck, maybe I was afraid that it would bring back bad memories. I read it yesterday morning and (a) it doesn't suck, (b) I'm not that person anymore and (c) most of my memories from that time are good. Basically, a win-win-win. Which brings us back to me thinking seriously about my writing.

I haven't written a poem in over four years, and aside from the late-night rambling I do here, I no longer keep a journal. I stopped right around the time my dad's health took a turn for the worse. I guess I lost my focus in a lot of ways during that time. I do spend a lot of time writing for work. Some of it's serious (memos, reports, meeting minutes), but a lot of it's not so serious (Tea Leaves, marketing copy, web stuff). The boss occasionally calls me Punster, and I'm often called upon for my brainstorming skills. Does that sound geeky? Well, I'm proud to be a three-time spelling bee champ and scrabble nerd, I can't help it if I'm good with word association. Go ahead and call me bookish, I'll take it as a compliment. Anyway, I'm feeling like it's time to get back out there (because this blog isn't out there enough). Seeing Sharon Olds definitely stirred something up inside me. But it's more than that. In some ways, I'm trying to regain my focus in every aspect of my life and writing was a huge part of my life for twenty years. Writing the blog is part of regaining that focus, but I feel like there is more to be done. Why not take a chance? Oh, right, fear of rejection. I'm working on it. I'm showing the book to a couple of people who know nothing about that time in my life. I figure they'll be objective. I'm also running the idea past friends who were with me the first time around. I figure they'll be as encouraging as ever (I'm getting a lot of "About time!"). We'll see where this all takes me. Baby steps, people, baby steps.

Poodle (again, phony name) said to me the other night, "Like it or not, the world wants you to be a writer." Well, like it or not, I guess I am.

Words Are All We Have

This should be so easy to write, because I feel so full of, well, feeling. But how? How do you write about meeting someone who has moved you in ways that you might not even be able to explain to yourself. I guess I'll start at the beginning, or as close to it as possible.

Tonight I went to see Sharon Olds give a reading at Yale. I heard her read at the University four years ago and was pretty blown away. In fact, I barely got out of the auditorium before I got all teary after she autographed my book last time, which may seem silly, but whatever, everyone knows I'm super sensitive. Tonight was different. Different room, different crowd, different vibe altogether. For one thing, I've never seen so many people at a poetry reading. Seriously, there were at least a hundred people in there, all ages, all walks of life. And the one thing we had in common was that we're all totally enamored of this woman. The excitement in that room, when she walked in and people realized it was her, was electric. As soon as she took the podium and started her remarks, I was teary. I know what you're thinking, "Are we talking about a POETRY reading here?" Yes, yes we are.

Sharon Olds doesn't act the way you'd think someone who was the Poet Laureate of New York would act. She's an amazing writer, but she's still a person, someone's mom, someone's daughter, someone's teacher. She is who she is and that's it. No diva attitude, no entourage, no crazy demands. She brought her own bottle of water, carried her own case. When the guy introducing her had trouble with the microphone, she helped him figure it out. The first poem she read was not her own, but one in which she had found comfort after September 11. And her poems...they're just good. (you can read one here) Some are funny, some are dark, some are sexual, some are heartbreaking, but they are all simple and beautiful in their own way.

She read some of her older work and some stuff she's working on for her new book. She took a break from reading in the middle to do some question and answer stuff, or "have some conversation," as she put it. She was so gracious in answering and seemed to be enjoying that part of the reading most of all. She was really into it, which is important, because who wants to hear someone read poetry if they aren't even excited about their own work. Imagine going to see your favorite musician and being all psyched and the band just sort of phones it in...no good right? Sharon Olds is right there with the audience the whole time. She read one of her favorite poems, Those Winter Sundays by Robert Hayden, and when she finished, she looked so happy to have shared it with us. I recognized the poem as soon as she read the first line. I had read the poem in college and in that moment, I felt so grateful to have had that opportunity. It was like coming full circle in a way, because college was where I first read Sharon Olds.

She wraps things up and thanks us all for "your lovely company." There's thunderous applause. Now, of course, people are going up to her to meet her and say hello and have something signed, and I'm in line too. I'm super nervous and emotional because I'm going to ask her to sign my copy of The Father, the book of poems about a woman dealing with her father's illness and death. Yeah, I know. So, I'm standing there, waiting my turn and thinking about what to say and how much this book has meant to me in the last few years. This naturally leads to dry mouth and the beginning of a lump in my throat. I let the mother-daughter combo standing diagonally across from me go first, since they have three books to sign. Sharon turns to me and says "You have such nice manners!" "Well, yes," I'm thinking to myself, "but I also need to stall so that I don't blubber all over you". Finally, she turns to me and thanks me for coming (I think, it gets blurry here). I smile, probably shyly, probably weirdly, and hand her the book. She says (to the book), "Ah, my old friend." and I start to say "This one got me through a hard time," but I get choked up and my voice drifts off and, if it wasn't for all the people in the room, I would have just let go, because she makes me feel like I could if I needed to. She pats me on the shoulder and tells me that the colors on the cover of the book are based on a handkerchief (dark grey with maroon stripe). The publisher wanted to make the cover glossy, but she insisted that it be something softer, something you could rub against your cheek (she demonstrates). She asks to whom she should sign it and I tell her my name. She loves my name by the way. "I haven't signed a book to anyone with that name in a long time," she says. "Maybe since the last time you were here?" I ask. She smiles, "I think so!" and she draws a little moon and stars in the book for me. I thank her for her work, especially this book and ask if I can hug her. She gives me a hug. She's a good hugger. And then I leave. I walk part of the way with two other women who had been at the reading, and all three of us are gushing about how great Sharon is, what a wonderful soul. We totally have girl crushes on her and we are not ashamed. I'm on my own for the last few blocks, trying to keep from crying. I don't know why I cry whenever I see her. Maybe I do, but I can't explain it. Wait, yes I can:

When I get home, Mike asks how it went. "Imagine getting to meet Jimi Hendrix and you'll understand how I'm feeling right now." It's enough to make a girl start writing poems again, or at least start trying to get the old ones published somewhere. Now, where's that old notebook?

Read Any Good Books Lately?

As you can see, reading is fundamental. I'm not absolutely sure, but I'm guessing from my bookbag and braids, this was snapped at some point during second grade. And yes, I'm reading a textbook. Why? Because I'd probably read everything else I could get my hands on at the time. At least it's a reading textbook (something with a brilliant title, like Adventures in Reading). I'm not reading about fractions there.

I've always been a reader. It runs in the family. I remember my parents reading in bed all the time (unless there was a game on, of course). My mother used to have me read to her before bed. She taught me to read basic Spanish by reading the comics in the back of Replica, the big magazine of the time. My father read the Spanish newspaper and studied the New York Daily News very closely. I have a theory that both of my parents developed quite a command of the English language years ago, but have refused to let their children in on their secret.

To say that my reading was encouraged, well, no one discouraged me, to be sure. My father would buy the Sunday paper for me to read in the station wagon on those long rides to Nyack or the Jersey Shore (there is only so much staring out a window one can do). My sister would let me read her copies of Glamour, Cosmo and Bride (that should explain the stack of fashion magazines next to the bed). I still love magazines and I still get excited when there is one jammed into the mailbox. I tear through the weeklies (New York, Time) within a day or so, but I save the fashion magazines for when I can really devote a couple of hours to flipping through them, reading every article and losing myself in the clothes, shoes and bags (oh! The bags). I'm not about to reveal how many magazines I get in a month, not because I'm ashamed, but because I've lost track. Yeah, things may be out of control on the magazine front.

The magazines sit in a basket next to the bed and are purged regularly. I used to drop them off at my local Laundromat, but since I moved across town, I've found that there is a woman at my favorite coffee shop who is always happy to see me walk in with an armload of Vogue and JANE (who wouldn't be?). I will admit, not every issue of every magazine leaves the house. I buy the Vanity Fair Hollywood issue every year, study every photo, then placeit with the other "collectors' issues". Don't ask me why.

I was a very faithful library user throughout my childhood. We had library class once a week and got to pick out a book to take home. (Do they still have that? A class on how to use the library? Do they even have school libraries anymore?). I remember coming back to the school library the day after class to return a book. The librarian asked me if I was returning it because I didn't like it. "No," I said. "I finished it." I was in the fourth grade and the book (Primrose Day by Carolyn Haywood, still a great book) was over 200 pages. She looked at me in that, "Either this kid is lying or she's some kind of freak" way, but she stamped the book returned and let me choose another. (For the record, I have never lied to a librarian, and if reading a 200 page book in one day makes me a freak, so be it.) I spent my high school summers working at Town Hall during the day and reading 1950s romance novels all night to cope with insomnia. These were Harlequin-type books, but there was not a lot of bodice ripping. I remember reading a whole series about nurses in extenuating romantic circumstances. And yes, they all ended up married to a doctor or a handsome patient who had been saved from the brink of death by the care of the right woman in white tights and orthopedic oxfords.

I don't visit the library anymore. If there is something I really want to read, I'll buy it. I had to start keeping a list of books in my wallet, because if I am left to browse a bookstore without any idea of what I am looking for, well, a search party might be required. I'm also happy to share the wealth. If I finish a book I think a friend will like, I pass it on, no strings attached. I regularly meet two of my girlfriends for dinner and a movie and we always bring books to swap. The books I love best, the ones that mean the most, (To Kill a Mockingbird, Girls' Guide to Hunting and Fishing, Letters of the Century, Anne of Green Gables) I keep and read over and over. I received a bunch of books (hardcovers!) for my birthday and they are all stacked on the nightstand, so I'm good for a little while. But, as it says on my favorite bookmark (I have a lot of those too), "When I get a little money I buy books; and if any is left I buy food and clothes."

34 Is The New 34

Today is my birthday. I am thirty-four years old, two years younger than my mother was when she had me (although if you ask her, she will tell you I am thirty-three today. Somewhere, she has lost an entire year.)

There are certain rituals I can always count on when it comes to my birthday. My sister will inevitably call to tell me that I was born during Here's Lucy, the episode guest-starring Donny and Marie. The story is that my mother went into labor, my father dropped her off at the hospital and then drove home. When he walked into the apartment, my sister told him to go back, I was here. I don't know if he drove home to be with my brother and sister (they were 12 and 13, respectively and very capable of looking out for themselves), or if that was the thing to do back then, just drop her off and head home. Maybe he thought it was going to take a while. I'll have to double check with my source.

As you can see from the photo, I like to do it up on my birthday. This year's no different. I went out with some friends for an early celebration. Yes, I got dressed up. Yes, I had a lovely time. And yes, I got drunk. Some people have no interest in marking their birthdays. I use June 19 as the one opportunity a year to celebrate and maybe be a bit selfish. My parents always made a big deal out of my birthday, maybe because I was the baby, maybe because I was born in America, maybe because they needed a reason to throw a big picnic to kick off the summer. No matter, they always made me feel special. Lots of people, food, booze and presents. Fifteen is, of course, the BIG birthday for a Cuban girl. More on that some other time, for that birthday memory deserves its own entry.

The only thing that will be missing today is the phone call from my Dad. He'd call and sing Happy Birthday to me in English, which sounded like "Hoppee Berrday tooo zhooou." Cracked me up every time.

According to one website, my birth "tree" is: "Fig Tree, the Sensibility: Very strong, a bit self-willed, independent, does not allow contradiction or arguments, loves life, its family, children and animals, a bit of a butterfly, good sense of humor, likes idleness and laziness, of practical talent and intelligence." I had no idea I had a birth tree. Birth stone, yes. Birth tree? I think overall, it's accurate, even the idleness and laziness part. I like to spend the occasional Saturday or Sunday on the couch reading magazines.

This website also breaks down my age in dog years, which is always good to know. Good news! At just over four yearsold, I'm still chasing cats.

My Body, My Self

I went on a shopping spree on Saturday with my girlfriends. It was pretty great, lots of good deals and it's always fun to hang out with the girls. But I paid the price on Sunday and spent most of the day flat on the couch because I pushed myself too hard and strained my back, again (this is the part where my sister will say I need to be seeing a chiropractor regularly). Anyway, I had a lot of time to think as I lay there smelling of Icy Hot and waiting for the drugs to kick in and I realized that I've been doing a lot of shopping lately. This is unusual because (a) I tend to prefer spending my money (now that I have some) on others more than on myself and (2) buying clothes means looking at myself in the mirror (in a cramped dressing room, under hideous lighting) and that's just an opportunity for me to pick myself apart. It's that dazzling cocktail of vanity and low self-esteem that makes for a great day of trying on clothes.

Let me go back a bit. I was your typical chubby-cheeked kid with a little pot belly and maybe I never got over it. I took gymnastics for four years and though I never played sports in high school, I was fairly active (gym class, school dances, etc). My mother (loving in her own crazy way), though I don't think she obsessed over how much I weighed, still calls me "gordy" which is Spanish for chubby (perhaps I've mentioned this before?). My father would tell my mother to leave me alone if I came home from college weighing more than I had when I left. He told me I looked great, even if I didn't. I gained the freshman fifteen, then lost it. At some point during senior year, things got out of hand. The first semester was really hard, and I felt like everything was out of control. I had one semester to go and no post grad plans. I had already dropped some weight during RA training that August and at some point decided that the only thing I could control was what I was eating or not eating. I started going to the gym a lot more and hitting the dining hall a lot less. I wasn't weighing myself, but I knew I was dropping pounds. This was in the early 90s when everyone was wearing flannel shirts and baggy jeans and those oversized sweaters from the eighties were still lingering, so you couldn't really tell what anyone looked like under their clothes. I have no idea know how much weight I dropped during those last 5 months of school, but judging from the look on my mother's face at graduation when she saw me in a sundress, it must have been a lot. Scary.

My weight fluctuated for the next several years, and the body I had at 30 was a result of a lot of nights spent in smoky bars drinking myself silly and an equal amount of mornings spent in greasy spoons eating what one eats the morning after. Somewhere along the way, I started to take care of myself and deal with my eating disorder. Therapy helped, so did having friends that would say "eat something" when I needed to hear it. Unfortunately, I had a relapse the summer before my dad passed away. Again, things felt out of control and the switch in my head flipped. I basically stopped eating and spent many a lunch hour sitting on a bench feeling helpless and sorry for myself. I knew I had to eat, but I just couldn't bring myself to do it. I also knew I wasn't fooling anybody. The scary part was I no longer cared.

I think I'm at a healthy weight now, and I try to eat regular balanced meals, but it's still hard. I worry that too much stress can flip the switch again,so I've got to keep my wits about me and listen to my body when it needs food. I'm pretty sure that the woman I see in the mirror is actually in better shape than I perceive her to be and I'm still working on accepting that fact. I'm also working on taking a compliment when I hear one.

Here's the kicker: I bought a bathing suit for the first time in 6 years. Two piece, Calvin Klein,eggplant colored, super cute. This was my third outing to find a suit and I was starting to think I would never find one. I couldn't figure out if I was getting the wrong size, if suits were simply being made with less fabric or if there was simply more of me to go around. Fortunately, the very pregnant sales woman made what could have been an excrutiating experience a lot less painful simply by being straight with me. "Looks great, love that color on you, that's the one" At first I thought she was just being nice and trying to make a sale, but as my friend Heather put it, "She looks at butts and boobs all day, if it didn't look good, she would have definitely said something." Point taken.