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I’m in my friend’s apartment cleaning. Every part of my body has some layer of grime. It’s the third day of packing and dust thickens the air. The back and forth motion of mopping reminds me of my grandmother’s linoleum floor, years of lower belt status wondering why I had to mop when there was enough money to hire a maid and now here, in Korea on Friday night Salsa. Looking at my blackened feet from cleaning, I wondered how it crossed Jesus’ head that he had to wash dirty stinky feet like mine for Holy week with the reason, “Such as my love has been for you, so must your love be for each other.” Yet, sometimes interpretations come from life events, like leaving good friends or having them leave you. Like my friends did for me, I helped her because I was given it when I needed it, because I knew she would do the same for me, because I wanted to see her happy and I knew this would help. And somehow, because it made both her and me feel safe; in the sense that someone is watching out for us from head to toe.

In the taxi, I rushed goodbyes to hold back tears but I always look back for three seconds to get a picture of the people I leave, why I find them so inspiring, so strong and remember that life is momentary. Happiness are moments stacked like cubes magnetically attracted by faith. Knowing that small actions are meaningful and every road has a definition, is a smile after any departure.

So ahead of many entries, I give you St. Theresa’s Prayer and my photographic journal observing all the beauty in people: “Life Story Stills/claudiapena/flicker.com”

May today there be peace within.
May you trust God that you are exactly where you are meant to be.
May you not forget the infinite possibilities that are born of faith.
May you use those gifts that you have received, and pass on the love that has been given to you.
May you be content knowing you are a child of God. Let this presence settle into your bones, and allow your soul the freedom to sing, dance, praise and love.
It is there for each and every one of us.

Happy Easter! For Mona, Jaz, and Jentz…nothing like chosen sisters!

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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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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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The following article was submitted to the wikiHow.com as how to use a squatting toilet. Hey, laughter is a good thing…my father would be so proud of me!

Ladies, you’re in the right restroom and that’s not the wall you’re looking at, it’s the floor. You look all around but every single one is like this. You really have a lot of “alma matter” to release, but you don’t want to look like you’ll need a special pass to go to the nurse’s office for a new change of clothes once you’re done. So how do you use a squatting toilet without any accidents?

You’ll Need:
* toilet paper
* hand sanitizer
* wipes
* meditation breath

Steps:
1. Make sure you have all your materials before walking into the stall. Go in, face the hood, and close the door.
2. Fold your knees slightly inward and forward. If you have a skirt, this is easy. If you have pantyhose, take one side off and hold it. If you have pants, roll up the bottom, and get close to the hood. Pants are best outside the hood but always make sure your body is inside the hood, midpoint.
3. The hood is there to protect you. It will catch any reverb action. Aim at a 45 degree angle to test the hood. Adjust angle as necessary. Remember not all hoods are made the same.
4. No matter how much protection a hood can provide please don’t approach it with projectile intentions. Take a deep breath and slowly, methodically release.
5. Clean, most of the flushing apparatus are on the floor so step flush, carefully adjust your clothes outside the stall and wash your hands.

But Claudia, sitting up is much easier for urination…what about #2?
Yes, the dreaded 2. If you are an outdoors type, you will already have a good sense when it’s good to strip down from the waist down, if not, do it anyways.

1. Make sure that you have all your materials. If you’re feeling gooey and sticky, pour some water inside the hole first. If you’re feeling projectile action, raise up your heels.
2. Get your balance on midpoint. Use three fingers to hold yourself against the door or balance on the side panels.
3. Do a test run if possible and adjust your body as needed.
4. Relax and enjoy the moment. If the smells are perturbing, hurry up.

Tips:
1. Many places don’t provide paper. Always carry your own or take lots of water.
2. Look around first. If the locals aren’t on point all the time, than you shouldn’t feel bad.
3. Do not attempt to answer your cell phone and mess up a perfect position.
4. Check your pockets before squatting. You really don’t want to fish your passport from the hole.
5. Many places don’t differentiate between girls and boys restrooms. Tell your traveling buddy to look out for you or ask one of the local old ladies to wait or help you.
6. Always look out for your safety.
7. Do NOT touch the floor with your hands.
8. Keep it all in perspective. It’s an adventure!

Sources:
Doug Lansky, editor of There is no Toilet Paper on the Road Less Traveled
Article by Frank Bures at World Hum.com
Wikipedia has great pros and cons with the squatter.

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I couldn’t match the Hangul or crawl in Urdu
but I could witness

Liver spots and cheeks bright red
brown beaten alligator shoes in all black with gold chain
He never looked at me in the eyes…
back home he would be a dirty old man pimpified
and drunk,
flashy bills to compensate the slow death
of his unsatisfied hair committing seppuku

Two brown faces
Spit shoots like fireballs
across the subway seat
Finger cursing, two machetes in his bag
black handled wooden coat
Go to hell!– I want to shout
But I’m NOT leaving

It could have been some
Mojado against an armed rancher,
It could have been a 1970s silent white kid
on a Mississippi bus full of black folks
in a come to Jesus meeting ‘cuz the sheriff’s wait’n,
The hatred stays the same
–Spic, Go home!
Nigger, you pollute the race!–

God, please look up and MOVE!
You don’t have to take this
The subway has plenty of seats
You came here out of need to fulfill a need
You came here to a better society
The plead escaped me in one Spanish word
and their eyes met mine:

Bloodshot and sniffling
no tears, no anger
they couldn’t be more than 23
telling me without words
in the silence of the passengers
that they already moved

My face reddens
I…don’t know if to feel guilty
I don’t know if to speak…
Am I wrong to ask for justice
because I’ve always had it?
Am I just looking at this from
western mentality?

Sometimes I think
that racism is a genealogical,
irremovable,
handicap in the human race

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