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My grandmother’s fingers were always thicker than the rest of her. Sometimes, it was like they didn’t belong to her. They attracted my gaze before I saw the droop of her kind soul. She would follow my gaze to the cracked dry landscape inside her hands that looked like a carbon etching filled filled with dirt from the vegetables of La Alameda market. Clapping her hands, she’d say, “See mija, that’s why you have to study so when you grow up, your fingers will just type.” She would fold her thick hands and her skin would pleat with too much moving room to ever be seen as dainty. Her finger tips were pricked from weaving furniture in perfect honey comb octagons. Her afternoon was happy working on chair backs and watching soap operas that we both cried to. Dinner was always fresh. If I didn’t catch the chicken, they would come clucking from the market. “It’s not a farm chicken when the meat is tough and the eggs are bright orange; Those are free range chickens.” To this date I can’t match my grandmother’s cooking.

I’m 30 now, watching a man with no legs drag his torso across the market street pushing a red plastic bowl on a skate board. His speaker is blasting a prayer in another language I don’t recognize. I don’t know if to admire this man for living life four inches above the floor or be repulsed by the obvious appearance. He shoves the red bowl in front of my torso incoherently asking for mercy. His hands are dirty, protected in old fingerless leather gloves, thick, old and rough. All I can see is the my grandmother’s hands: hugging my face on my birthday, weaving furniture reeds and twisting the chicken’s head before Christmas.

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He announces that I am the adult female representative for the city-wide Hapkido competitions in April. He smiles and quickly leaves for a celebratory hot green tea where the fine line will be explained and my black belt shadow presented. I give way and bow following cultural rules, but wanting to strangle the lip gloss, long finger nail, long hair, giggling “cuteness” out of my married counterpart. I look away hearing the dig of a wooden spear against sandy grounds that my eyes have already pierced with a silent affirmation that I can fight my own battles. The least emotion shown, the better chance for success. So, I recall the peaceful elegant silence of the people I admire, and swallow all thoughts to the soft fleshy belly of survival underneath my tongue. I am still an immigrant in country where I don’t speak the language or acquired any education.

Femininity is an important part of her identity and although it’s culturally normal, I wonder if she ever feels frustrated and low. I wonder why she still continues a sport silently approved only to children, university students and older men, and why not do it correctly? I wonder if she is learning anything from me and if there’s anything I can take from this situation.

I breathe in and the second point in the fine print explained: the victory may not really be a victory. Many do not present themselves and the others forfeit. Very few will actually fight. “Well, can I be placed in the male division?” He shakes his head vigorously, “We don’t do that. America, yes, I know. Here no.”

Radical: It’s outside society. I am it to many. Avoided on the subway like nine foot muscular 300 pound black male in a dark alley; Attracted to by my exotic features. People are unsure of how to approach a small quiet female that loves an aspect of their culture and pride reserved only for men. Hesitating on questions and images inside kwan mats and bumping into me on a Saturday night with pink lipstick and parted hair.

The more I’m away, the more appreciation I’ve gathered for the States. There are dark sides to human nature regardless of time, space or location. Individuality has given people like Martin Luther King Jr. a chance to be heard and an opportunity to change the whole within 250 years of history.

I smile. For now, it’s okay. I can only do my best.
I sit in silence recreating battles and battlegrounds in metered breath and…wait.
Leaders destroy the followers and followers destroy the leaders. You have to be your own teacher and your own disciple. You have to question everything that man has accepted as valuable, as necessary. — J. Krishnamurti

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She’s never quiet when anything is terrible but she takes true sadness when she can’t comfort pain. Going from EM nurse to project manager and hacker around the world, she’s lived her life to the fullest. Her bright green eyes, she says are German, against her African brown hair, look so beautiful. Today, she is dictating my exercise routine and I sit quietly and listen. Tomorrow, she will have 7 pound tumor taken from inside her viscera in a 5 hour surgery. One of many in the year to come. Sometimes, I feel like I came half way across the world to hold this woman’s hand. She reads my thoughts and says, “Because you needed a mother. No one knows what life has in stored for us.” Today is the celebration of La Virgen de Guadalupe and I miss hearing the taclas of the dried calabashes in church halls. The entry in my diary is short:

I’m wrapping my words around a wound that hasn’t bled yet
Dripping the rags like prayers to reach you
Hoping to be like marmalade yellow on lemon:
there even when you can’t see me

Far from here, my two friends have/are visited/visiting the operating table. I rely on textbook knowledge to ease popping static emotions on telephone –It’s just a body. It can heal. We’re just Lego parts on operating table. I just want you to think about how happy you’ll be afterwards.

Sometimes, living far away feels like wrapping a tree
Each revolution an onhmed color
and the smell of burnt camphor that I lay on the Virgin’s feet
Exhaled in each breath
fractally sculpting this pacific blue that will
travel the world and darkness to be there,
hoping so very much to be there,
like the single tree wrapped in rags in this sunset room…
Breathing and glorifying God,
Saying, “Everything will be okay,” in the mantra of your name.

“If there’s trouble, sometimes all us freaks have is each other.” –Abe, Hellboy

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Suzanna flipped her perfectly shiny hair while she chewed on the hot pink bubble gum. Her blue jean Gap purse full of trinkets jingled as she ran after me down the hall, “Missss!” She was one of fourth grade’s characters, trend setter and mini skirt dress-code-pusher. She batted her big brown eyes full of mascara, took a deep breath, sighed and dropped her shoulders. Big news. “Yes, mam’.”

A small hesitation but her outspoken nature took over, “Am…, (smack) I want to know if there’s life after death.” I chuckled, “I don’t know but what if throw you out that window and you come back and let me know?” It’s hard to protest while laughing and she gave me the familiar teenage, “M-issss!”

“Don’t know girl, you’re gonna have to ask your mom that question,” still smiling while she hurried to class. What could I have answered? “Well, the Bible says yes but not if you’re not Christian. Other religions follow suit. Many think that’s it; no mas, no menos. Science believes the brain sees what it wants to see when it’s under duress. (BUT, scientists also say love is the same as going totally nuts, so take it with a lima bean of skepticism.) I think the question is a dead end (joke, get it?!). A better question would be is my death worthy of my life?” …Yeah

What human being hasn’t asked themselves that question and how long did it take them to discover their answer? How many people think the same way I do about this subject and how did they come upon their answer?
Does asking a teacher, preacher, monk, or spiritual adviser make any difference or is it something you really need to get on your own?
What would people answer this kid and why would a question like that leave me so dumbfounded for words and so deep in thought?
Is this a bad question because I can’t “teach” it and there’s no empirical evidence therefore no coherent argument but just emotion? Since when did emotion become bad?
Is it dreaming when pursuing something without evidence? Aren’t great actions made of dreams?
How long did it take me to formulate that two sentence answer?
How many questions did I have to ask before I said bad question, you’re loosing your time as of this point forward, return to your question and make a better one?

The spicy radish brings me back to reality, listen. How quiet and sweet does the taste of freedom feel? How small can happiness be given? It’s not the answers but the questions. It’s not a book but the person who makes meaning. Meaning fine tuned makes technique. The whole is art.

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Bang, bang. Shutters rolled closed, people dropped, and…there she was. Except it’s there they were: the Adidas three feet from awry angled foot and a skull that slowly seeped blood on subfusc pavement floor. The 100 pound rickshaw of disassembled boxes untouched by passer bys who gawked at the stiff body, head full of gray hair, planked coldly on the side. What no one saw was the topographical implosion, body from inside the cab over pretty windshield or the bullet hole it failed to dodge. Bang, bang, intent travels at 896ms reaching way before your 3/10ths of a second cognitive deduction reacts and…there you are.

So take heed of who you keep as friends. It only takes 12 seconds to imprint upon memory things that most likely shouldn’t be done and consequences can be felt for years or far more detrimental. Stay with those who smile in sincere connections to remember that you are a complex individual made to be that way since the day of conception miraculously contained in a pulpy skull bigger than the rest of your body. On the first week, cells of your body were only interested in giving you a head and a tail but by the fourth week of your life you sought light. Light to develop, see and feel, and keep searching until the day you die.

Never let anyone tell you that you aren’t a complicated because it’s in these contradictions that humanity finds meaning. Where killing a dog is repulsive, yet we’ll take arms for our country. Where even if the physical makes us sweat, we postpone for the emotional foregoing immediate rewards for long term happiness, like exchanging gold pieces for beautiful color pallets in luminescent paint.

Learn everything you can until the age of 25. You are born with 1 million brain cells running a marathon to make connections, group and regroup. Then spend the next 10 years wondering where it all went but not really caring while you’re riding the red corvette with a license plate that says…Dr.

Never forget that you are special. What else can my five foot temporary presence tell you that you haven’t heard somewhere else? You are special.
You are special.
You are special.
Even if I loose my voice in perfectly pronouncing your name, I’m hoping that by you hearing it enough, you’ll rebuild new pathways and eliminate the old. Temper your emotions into fine blown crystal refragmenting and distributing pure colored light in all directions. Remember those words on days when the memories you willed to death resuscitate and make you cry. Remember the faces of those that helped you when you smile.

Remember, you are special.

~~~~*l*~~~~
Check out Saul Williams’ official website and the series on the brain by the Annenberg Foundation. As I listened to the poetry and the videos, I went back and rewrote the piece with an audience in mind. I made a home visit during my first year of teaching only to realize that it would be me, in the coaching seat using the small 8 hours of the day, and her against the world. I think about her.

On the Blogosphere: A BIG CONGRATULATIONS to my friend Gunfighter, who is now a paid artist! Go by and contribute to Yvonne Russell’s Writer’s Cafe…is it okay to use comments without citation or permission? This is a cool article via Mr. Carvin on Learning.now, on how one teacher using only web apps can make 50 different presentations. Last, one of my favorite websites for traveling, Global Incidents. Tells you everything that’s going on in the world…personally, I like seeing the response time.

Those who educate children well are more to be honored than parents, for these gave only life, those the art of living well. –Aristotle

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The dreaded update of WordPress. If you remember the last one, you’ll remember my exceptional works of art created during this time. In the meantime, enjoy Bob Dylan’s take on poetry: “Anything I can sing, I call a song. Anything I can’t sing, I call a poem.” The more I write, the more I think poetry is awe and honesty put in words.

The following article came from a feature post at The View From Here by permission of the blog’s author and good friend, Gunfighter. His writing challenge was 1,000 words on any random picture sent to him. Thank you for the surprise, GF, and for the introduction to your reading community. What neat comments! Please go by and support the website. –Claudia

Words are powerful.

Words can move nations. Words can effect change.

Words can seduce a lover, soothe a frightened child, or cause happiness, or even gales of laughter.

Words can produce sadness. Words can cause pain. Words can even be used to cause a war.

Words are powerful.

I don’t know what the young woman in this photo is saying. From some of the visual clues that I can see, it looks like it could be an “open mic” night at a pub or coffee house. I don’t know if she is a singer, a poet, or some sort of essayist. Perhaps she is only introducing an act. She seems to be using notes to either read from or for reference, but the look (that I can barely see) on her face is one of passion. Not necessarily romantic passion, but of deep emotion. The kind of emotion that can only come from the soul.

What is she saying?

What does she feel?

Why does she sit there, speaking her words… HER words… to other people, most of whom, it can be assumed, are strangers? She must have something to share. Something deep inside of her that she needs to express. As I said, she looks like a passionate person.

If she speaks of peace, it is most appropriate, particularly in today’s world, where there are wars and rumors of wars running rampant. From little “brushfire” wars to wars of national conquest. Wars for liberation and wars for domination. Wars for security, wars for resources, wars for religion… wars for “peace”. (No, I couldn’t say that last part with a straight face, either)

Speaking out, pleading, for peace is serious stuff. It can’t be brushed off. It must be heard, if not always heeded. What are we made of?… who do we honor?… what kind of people are we, if the voices for peace are denigrated, scorned, or dismissed?

What does it say about our national character when people who call for peace are ridiculed? or are called “traitors” What does it say about our leadership when our leaders will lie about a Causus Belli? Not anything good, that’s certain. When our leaders will lie to start a war, and then continually change the goals of said war, can we believe them when they tell us anything else? Can we believe them when they tell us their hopes for peace?

Of course not. You can’t believe them, because they are the worst kinds of liars. They are the kind of people who will lie to your face because they believe. in the darkness of their own hearts, that most people are just stupid enough… or at least gullible enough to buy their lies, just so they can seem patriotic. Not the sort of patriotism borne of a true love of country… the patriotism that makes you swell with quiet pride when you hear the national anthem. I’m talking about an ugly sort of patriotism. The kind of patriotism that is more jingoistic that patriotic. The kind of patriotism that makes you shout “USA, USA” at the top of your lungs, like some macabre cheerleaders, as our troops engage in combat.

The kind of patriotism that our current leaders wants us to feel, through their lies, all because of their own guilt. None of them served during the Vietnam era (and those who did aren’t in fashion), and are part of our collective national guilt-trip, caused by not giving the proper respect to our soldiers of the time.

Words are Powerful… but words are almost always drowned out by exploding bombs and gun-fire.

So yeah, I hope she is talking about peace.

I hope that she is speaking publicly about her feelings about the current war in Iraq. I hope that she is tearing into the leadership that has caused untold thousands of deaths. I hope she is holding the leadership accountable for it’s lies, and it’s support of the unforgivable practice of torture. I hope that she is taking the administration to task over it’s excuses for making war in Iraq, while it won’t send a single platoon to Darfur to protect the people there from genocidal madmen. I hope that she is calling the administration to account for it’s support of the criminals Alberto Gonzales and Karl Rove.

I hope so.

I’m like most people when it comes to pictures. When I see a picture, I see what’s there, and unless it is self-explanatory, I immediately start wondering what it is I’m looking at. Again, like most people, I draw immediate conclusions, and again, like most people, I see what I want to see.

I want to see a person speaking about peace, and I decided that’s what I am seeing.

God Bless Her for that.

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