A short yellow and black school bus on a white background. The text below reads “You’re Special.”

I’m a mama’s girl but I’ve been so angry and frustrated with my mama lately. Until about two months ago we spoke from twenty minutes to  an hour each day. But I’ve been falling in love, and while hormones swirl in my body leaving me elated and joyful when I think of my love, I become simultaneously agitated and detached the moment my thoughts turn to my mother. To make it even worse, now she has tit cancer and it feels like everyone is waiting for me to step up, but there isn’t a single cell in my body that can worry or give a single shit about my mother’s life or her tits. Tomorrow she’s having a partial mastectomy and we will find out if the cancer has spread to her bones or to her lymphatic system. I feel petty, and twelve, and feel that she is being a drama queen and that she enjoys the attention. I mean, why wouldn’t she, it’s not exactly like she has a lot of friends or attention in her life. Most of the attention comes from me and I’ve been less than a doting daughter these past few months. It was supposed to be an outpatient procedure, but she insisted that she spend the night. I would have had money to take time off work and care for her but I decided to go to Idapalooza and think about what my life would be like if I decided to live a little bit differently. Still, my thoughts return to my mother and this time they are a lit bit softer. She must be really frightened.

I’ve been caring for my mother since I was a small child and I don’t want to do it another day; of course I will if it comes down to that, but so far I have been hanging back and waiting for other people in the family to step up. It feels like a game of chicken. My mom likes to remind me that the reason she had kids was so that she would have someone to take care of her when she got old. This makes me furious.  I say “That’s what a 401K is for, Mom!” I know that this is preposterous and does not make any sense in my culture. It’s the cycle of life, kids care for their parents when they are no longer able to care for themselves, unfortunately all this started for me when I was still just a kid myself. I asked her two weeks ago  if she had told my tía and tío about the cancer.

Normally I would be amused by her melodramatic antics but when I was a child my uncle stepped in to care for me because my mother or sister could not, and this last winter my tío and tía  helped me care for my mother for months when she was raving mad. They helped me sneak out so that I could take time for myself.  They helped me insure that she was med compliant every night when she was delusional, and blessed my ass and tits with holy water because she was sure I was being raped by demons in the night. It seems like they deserve a phone call.

I know my mother has psychological disabilities and I have them too. Although, thankfully, my disabilities allow me to function at a high capacity: I’ll take run of the mill depression, anxiety and suicidal ideation over visual and auditory hallucinations any old day. At least I know that all the cruel voices in my head are my own. I decided a long time ago that I would not have children because I would not want them to experience the neglect that I did when my parents were too sick to care for me or when symptoms of their illness resulted in psychological abuse. I am not saying that people with psychological disabilities should not have children, I’m saying that maybe my parents shouldn’t have. I almost got taken away from my mother by Child Protective Services and I can remember feeling frightened but curious: surely there was someone who could take better care of me.

My fourteen year old niece gets straight As and my mother likes to tell her that she had better not let her grades slip; that my sister, brother and I got terrible grades because we were lazy and didn’t try hard enough in school, which makes me furious. My brother witnessed the anger rising in my throat at the breakfast table as we all sat around in our jammies having coffee and pan dulce, and interjected:

“Well, we were all very smart, it’s just than Gracielda has a lot of structure in her life.  Graci has what she needs to succeed in school.” says my brother. A bit of the anger dissipates. Someone sees me. My brother understands. It feels impossible for me to separate the neglect that was a result of my mother’s own disabilities from what was a result of her being careless and lazy. When I look back at my marriage and all the mistakes I’ve made, I have a difficult time telling the difference behavior that was a result of clinically depressed, and mistakes I made because I was just being lazy.  I know that mental illness and disability is often conflated with laziness and that’s not right, but my whole life I’ve struggled with thoughts that I was stupid and lazy. It’s been very confusing: I’ve always being placed in ‘honors’ or ‘gifted’ classes and failed them miserably because I couldn’t keep track of assignments, or because my mother kept me home, or we didn’t have paper or pencils, or supervision, or whatever it was I needed, to complete my assignments. When I grew up and went to college I had the same problems, only I felt like everything was my fault.

When I was five I was placed in a school for children with learning disabilities. The children were dyslexic, had processing problems and ADD. I literally rode the short bus to school.  I could tell that the adults around me were ashamed that I went to this special school. Eventually my mother removed me and placed me in a regular school where I was picked on.  I was a perfect target: a poor, smart, fat, depressed kid who missed lots of school, was eager to be liked, had low self-esteem and a chronic case of head lice.  Sounds like a winner, huh?

So when I think about the sweet little girl that I was, I think about how I wasn’t getting the care that I needed, and how that’s affected my entire life: the relationships I chose, my inability to accept gifts or kindness because I think I do not deserve them, the terrible challenges of performing basic self-care tasks like bathing, brushing my teeth, and cooking for myself. I struggle with these things and it makes me angry and sad that even with twenty-five years of practice they are still a struggle. These were all areas in which both of my parents struggled.

I get very irritated at people who sit around and blame their parents for their low self-esteem, their eating disorders, etc. I hate when my sister complains that she didn’t get a childhood because she had to start taking care of me when she was seven, but it’s true: she wrote all of my notes and even attended my parent teacher conferences.  I don’t like those people who complain about their shitty childhoods because I am one of them. I want to kick them all in the teeth and give them a healthy dose of “shut the fuck up, stop whining!” and “grow the fuck up, nobody gives a shit about you!”  And “you (by which I mean ‘I’) should just be able to hold it together without crying about the tiny injustices of the past!”

Most of the time, almost all of the time before two months ago, I could see my mother with tenderness and compassion. A lot of the time I can look at my mother with compassion and see that she was my age when she was born, that she probably also has ADD, and that she feels helpless, like managing everyday life is nearly impossible. I am her primary support system, and though I am still able to be gentle with her, she has been diagnosed with breast cancer and is having surgery tomorrow.

Some part of me says what I need is just a healthy dose of forgiveness, which, I swear, on most days I am full of. But these days I am just filled with anger and fear that I will have to care for her always and forever, and never get any care or learn to care for myself. I don’t know what to do with my anger. I don’t know what to do with my frustration and irritation. These emotions feel foreign to me. Many people comment on my sweet and caring disposition. I think in situations when most people get angry I feel only hurt and depressed. I need to learn how to express and feel anger. For now, it feels like I need to learn forgiveness. Perhaps if I can let go of the hurt and anger that I feel for my mother I can learn to be more kind and gentle with myself.

This video made me cry this morning. Could every radical queer who thinks they’re an ally to disabled people please watch this? If we’ve been lovers, watch it twice. And if you’ve ever insinuated I wasn’t radical enough/committed to the struggle cause you didn’t see me or som other person with a disability at a march/rally/demo/action OR you’ve been judgmental of folks who’ve designated themselves unarrestable at an act of civil disobedience, also, fuck you too. Meanwhile I’ll be picking up my lazy crazy self up by my bootstraps while you fuck yourself real good.

May Day 2013 Queer Contingent Flyer

Noon At Broadway/Olympic in Los Angeles 

I should have posted about this earlier but I’ve been crazed with school! Come out at noon today and March with me! Join the Queer Contingent for the May Day march! Let’s make sure Lesbian Gay Bisexual Transgender and Queer issues are addressed in immigration reform and workers’ rights agenda! We’ll meet up at noon at Olympic/Broadway! Wear your red shirt if you have one and Look for Queer Contingent Banner and rainbow flags, Come Out! We’ll be handing out some bottle water for folk who need them and will have some snacks and posters for folk as well if you want to make some noise and be seen!

Security folk will be wearing armbands or vests, so if there is an immediate need or emergency please look for them!

https://www.facebook.com/events/520039768042803

El Cucuy

 I’m writing from the sky and smiling because it is such a very melodramatic declaration to make and also because I’m highly sentimental and melodramatic and I love these parts of myself.

I think my melodramatics are at least in some part, cultural. With all the “Ay Dios,” cautionary tales of monsters in the hills, weeping women in the streams, heavy sighs and tongue clacking of my mother, her mother and my many aunts it would seem impossible (disappointing even) if I were to turn out otherwise.

Even the people in my family who were not insane used the fear of monsters to keep us from going into the garage (dangerous cement steps) or playing outside after dark (strangers).  The word “Cucuy” was often whispered with exaggerated grimaces of fear; we were frequently reminded that we were always in the presence of monsters.

     My mother, her six brothers and sisters and my grandparents often
spoke of the ghost that lived on the farm in San Martin. The ghost
lived in the house they settled in after working as migrant farm
workers from Texas to southern California until they finally settled
in the tiny country village just outside of Gilroy. He was the ghost
of an old Japanese man who had died in the house and they spoke of him
affectionately. He threw clods of dirt from the roof, fondled my
grandmothers breasts in the bathtub and when they could see his shadow
it was said that he often stood behind the stove. They also said that
I seemed to have a special relationship with the ghost and that I
would follow it through the house, pointing to his shadow and shouting
for his attention. I grew up believing without any doubt that there we
shared the world with spirits, monsters and even demons.

     When we got there I had to pee and I asked my mama where the bathroom was and she said to go ask the lady at the front desk but to make sure I said “Can you please tell me where I can find the ladies room?” She said to say it that way and make sure I didn’t say bathroom because it was crass.

     We met Nina for dinner in the restaurant and we were very nervous because it was a fancy restaurant. Nina wore a white linen shirt and tight old blue jeans and slipped off her sandals under the table and crossed her legs like they taught us to do in school. Nina had bare feet right there in the restaurant! That’s how I learned that rich people can go to dinner dressed any old way they want.

     Last week Linda said we should dress up and go to the ballet and pretend we are rich and I told Linda that if we want to pretend we are rich than we should wear rags, carry designer purses and fart in our seats. Rich people don’t seem to give a fuck about anything, at least that is what I’ve always thought.

     There is a latin family sitting in the table in the corner. It is Saturday and there is a special Saturday brunch buffet. I wonder if the family is the family of the waitstaff. I am so unaccustomed to seeing latin people with money. Is that racism  classism or intimate knowledge of  my own culture? I find with greater and greater frequency that I am unable to tell the difference.

     Now that I am a grownup, sitting here in this crappy hotel restaurant, I know that it is not fancy. If the children at the table next to me are self-conscious, which they don’t appear to be, I’d like to go let them know that they don’t have to worry, that the hotel is not fancy at all. My heart aches for the little country mice who thought that they were not good enough to be here, that they didn’t belong. I want to take that little girl and tell her she is better than this place, that she is better than multi-billion dollar corporate hotel chains, better than key cards, and nylon ferns in cement containers. She should not worry about velvet ropes or using her best manners because when she grows up she’ll take her long distance girlfriend places like this so that they can stay in the bathtub all day without worrying about her roommate needing to use the toilet. 

The chef comes out of the kitchen and smiles at the family seated at the largest table. He introduces the waitress’s to his mother and for some reason this makes my heart happy. Why is that? Why did I want them to be poor too? I think it is because I am lonely and I want to feel closer to them and not far away. 

The maitre’de leaves the kitchen, buttoning up his jacket. He is carrying sweating pitchers of ice water and a silver carafe full of coffee and creamer balanced on a silver tray. He sets them down on the buffet table and checks his watch. 

Looking into the kitchen it like seeing everyone with their pants down. From here I can see every headache, every hangover, every missed period, and aching tooth and it is beautiful. 

I made rice today. I washed the rice many times, laid it out to dry. Cut the onions and toasted the garlic, cumin, paprika and rice in oil until the rice was as clear as the onions. The rice seemed larger than it had originally, when I first set out to cook.

I began to worry that my container wasn’t big enough, that that old cast iron skillet could not be trusted to contain all of my swollen rice. I feared that my rice would be crunchy and inedible. I scooped out a whole cup of rice before I added the broth as I know rice doubles in size. Which  means that I was playing it safe and the pot didn’t boil over and the rice was cooked but there is a sad and lonely little pile of rice, oil and spices raw and waiting to be cooked on the counter. I wrote a note for myself to remind me to cook the rice at breakfast. What if the rice went rancid? What would that mean?

I can’t help but thinking over again and over again:

     ”But what if my container just isn’t big enough? What if I can’t hold all the rice?” 

And I know that this beautiful cast-iron skillet came into my life to teach me a lesson about my capacity for love and the dangers of playing it safe. I just hope I remember where I put this old cast-iron skillet when I need it.

Prompt: Write a Love Letter To Someone Who Is Undeserving Of Your Attention

Tonight I am sleeping in the living room and giving Johnny the privacy of the guest bedroom. It was three a.m. and he was sleepy and I was not so it seemed like the kind and logical choice. Yesterday was your birthday. I have an image of you, sitting at your formica kitchen table in that cold grey apartment, wearing a paper birthday hat. I’ve always thought those cone paper hats were particularly humiliating; especially the elastic chin strap. In the image  you are seated before a chocolate cupcake. The cupcake is decorate with pink icing and has a maraschino cherry on top. You’re salivating and holding his knife and fork upright like a cartoon wolf. Only you are prissy and so you hold the knife and fork in that prissy way that you do. I can just imagine you closing your eyes and blowing out the birthday candle.

Can you remember a time in your life when you were happy? Do you think that happiness is a silly modern Western concept? Of course there is pain and shame and struggle but I remember all the brightest times in my life I was falling in love. It’s like looking through a bunch of index cards in my brain. So many of the images are so dark and then there are places where the sunlight cuts through the shadows and here and there there are flashes of light and I was happy.

A friend of mine asked me if I was happy in Los Angeles and I said I didn’t know because I don’t think I had ever been happy and they only looked sad for me and I wish that they didn’t.

The first time I was happy was when I went on anti-depressants for the first time in my early twenties. It was before the house fire when dad was still alive. Back then I was swimming everyday and I was strong and tan and my garden was always a good barometer for knowing how sick or well I was and I was in the sun and the dirt and the water all day and about four p.m. I’d get cleaned up and go to work at the mall where I sold expensive French beauty products to other poor people. The products were toxic and probably made us all sick but buying the products made us feel expensive, beautiful, valuable, and rich.

The lights in the house flicker often, just about every time the train comes by and Gina says she hopes the dam bursts someday and I asked if she knew why the river was more valuable when it was bound and forced into submission and she clacked her tongue and said she didn’t know the answer to that. I clacked my tongue back.

“Bondage,” I said.

“It has something to do with the way they harness the river’s energy.” she said. I think she also said some fancy word for bridle and it sounded like “hydro-electric.”

So it’s no surprise that we’re all happier and healthier when we go unbridled. No surprise at all that I am the most happy when my hands and face and feet and skin and hair are out in the sun, water, and earth.

WHOA! Calm down!

And

The the Lord spoketh to me:

To be aware

That government

Is actively disrupting

Activist movements

This disruption extends to

awareness,

frustration,

and

to understand the line

between

good

and

abusive.

Show this generation

The Order of Things

Diesel Fuel,

Gun Oil,

used plastic,

and

queer error.