Playa, Piscina, y Comida en Cullera

From the windows and terrace in our apartment on the 13th floor in Cullera, Spain, we can see the Mediterranean Sea spreading across the horizon. We sleep to its tide reaching and receding. We wake to the sun rising above it around seven o'clock, lighting the greyish sky with yellow and orange hues. We watch its surface glisten in the sun for the entire day, bathers lining its shore with colorful umbrellas, children hanging on to inflated unicorns and crocodiles, wind surfers drifting across. We watch the yellow moon ascend black sky, lining the sea with its light. We sleep, wake, and breathe its daily embrace.

I have an unusual history with this town. The first time I came here was with my parents and brother in the late 1980's. During that trip, we stayed mostly in Cullera but also rented a car and visited Valencia, Toledo, and Madrid. This was a unique experience for our family because prior to that, we had only traveled to places to visit family: the Philippines, Texas, California, Florida, and New Jersey of course. In Spain, we had no family and no familiarity. Fortunately, we all spoke Spanish. The Colombian couple who lived in our home and helped take care of my brother and me only spoke Spanish, so it was the third language spoken in our house aside from English and Tagalog. Knowing the language helped us with daily life. But aside from that, we did not have any prior experiences that connected us to the country. The culture, landscape, and history were very new to us.

As time went on, Spain became a place that my family often visited, so we became more and more familiar with it. In the late 90's, my father, Leonidez, bought this apartment we are currently staying in (without my mother's consent, but that is another story); from then on, this became his second home. But why did he choose this place? Why not some place in the Philippines? Or some place
closer to our home in Queens, along the Long Island or Jersey shore? Perhaps because a two-bedroom along the beach here is a fifth of the cost of a comparable apartment close to home. Property in the Philippines is much cheaper but much further away. And it seemed like he did not identify with his native land.

Having property in Spain helped him actualize his fantasy. From as far as I can remember, my father was obsessed with being Spanish. So enamored was he with being from Spain that he unlawfully changed his name from Galang, a Pilipino name with roots in Pampanga and Bulacan, to Galan, a Spanish last name; he confused the DMV and US passport office by unofficially changing his name on all of his documents. Along with this, he invented a fictional past in which his parents were Spaniards and he grew up in Madrid before moving to the Philippines. He constantly told people this lie; this angered and disturbed me, and made me wonder why he denied being Filipino. Was he so  ashamed? Did he grow up thinking that being Spanish was superior to being Filipino? Was he simply brainwashed by this colonized mentality?

The sliver of truth to his fictional past is that like most Filipinos, he has a mix of Spanish, indigenous, and either Chinese, Indo, Malay ancestry due to colonization and patterns of migration. Culture in the Philippines is clearly influenced by Spain; this is seen in names, foods, religion, and Tagalog words. Yet my father was extreme in denying his ethnic roots and appropriating the language and culture of the colonizers. I cannot fully understand what influenced him to shame his roots, but regardless, this country did become part of his identity, and thus mine. Being here now is an extension of his fabricated past; his love of this particular place has extended into my and my family's lives though we have disposed of his false pretenses. Though some of my ancestors were likely Spanish, I do not identify as such; I am proud of my Filipino and American heritage and do not hold any grudges against Spain for having colonized the Philippines for around three hundred years. Instead, I have embraced this country, its culture and its language simply as an interested itinerant.

People can identify with whatever culture and country they want to; our ancestry or place of birth  should not limit who we are nor where we live. We should be more open to embracing various cultures, not simply the ones we are born into or settle in. While my father was very narrow-minded, and while I often criticized him for his false identity, I am beginning to see that his multinational existence exemplifies an ideal global citizen. Though we should acknowledge our past, we should not be tethered to it. If there are some countries we want to inhabit due to an inherent passion or desire, we should be able to do so. If only this choice were available to more people in the world.

I am glad that my family has also been influenced by my father's unique relationship with Spain.  The is our third time traveling here together.  The last time we came to Cullera was the summer of 2015; we came with my father. He was weak then, limping and thin, needing a wheelchair to get through the airport. Nonetheless, he was fairly independent, able to go to the supermarket and church on his own. He was content, relaxed; his often virulent and prejudiced comments were more subdued, the conflicts and tumult of his home life remained distant. His demeanor was more tolerable when here. And the five of us existed in relative harmony. He enjoyed spending time with his only grandchildren; we had delightful dinners on the terrace, at times walked along the boardwalk in the evenings.

Now, a year and a half after his death, this apartment continues to symbolize my father. Memories of him often wash up along the shores of the present. Our first  meal of paella de mariscos was an homage to him. We shared positive memories and qualities we liked about him; how he loved to sit on the terrace with his shirt off, rubbing his feet against the low wall at the edge of the terrace, how he liked to share his junk food of soda, magdalenas, and papas fritas. People who I speak to who knew him remark upon what a generous and kind person he was, always bringing presents and befriending the locals. They were saddened by the news of his fallecimiento.

Despite all of the differences and frustrations I had with my father, I am grateful that he introduced me to this place and that it represents a  safe and shared space where he and I can exist peacefully together. I appreciate every moment that my family and I have here, swimming in the dolphin pool, lounging at the beach a few hundred feet away, frequenting el horno, Supercarn, Paella Kiss, the local fruterias, and going on nearby excursions my father never did such as hiking to the Castillo or visiting El Museo de la Pirata Dragut. Aside from enjoying the lifestyle and landscape of this place, we are enriching our lives. My children are being challenged by their inability to understand or speak Spanish; the experience encourages them to learn this and other languages. My husband and I contintue to acquire new vocabulary and learn to better express ourselves. Together, we learn to navigate around unfamiliar territory.

While this is the last time my family and I will stay in Cullera since we are selling the apartment, it will always be a part of our conscious existences, essential chapters in our family history. And while we will miss this place, we will use the loss as an opportunity to travel to other countries, explore and experience new cultures. But for just a few more days, my kids will have churros for breakfast, we will have our comida and descanso during siesta, and I will continue writing on this terrace with a view of el mar Mediterráneo, feeling the breeze cool my suntanned skin.

  


                

His and Her Stories

From Black Spring by Henry Miller:

"One passes imperceptibly from one scene, one age, one life to another. Suddenly, walking down a street, be it real or be it a dream, one realizes for the first time that the years have flown, that all this has passed forever and will live on only in memory; and then the memory turns inward with a strange, clutching brilliance and one goes over these scenes and incidents perpetually, in dream and reverie, while walking a street, while lying with a woman, while reading a book, while talking to a stranger... suddenly, but always with terrific insistence, rise up like ghosts and permeate every fiber of one's being" (9).


From Her Body and Other Parties by Carmen Maria Machado

"When you think about it, stories have this way of running together like raindrops in a pond. Each is born from the clouds separate, but once they have come together, there is no way to tell them apart" (60 of 663). 



From An American Marriage by Tayari Jones

"Much of life is timing and circumstance, I see that now. Roy came into my life at the time when I needed a man like him. Would I have galloped into this love affair if I had never left Atlanta? I don't know. But how you feel love and understand love are two different things" (138).


These are stories of bodies and memories, of where bodies walk or lie with others or in solitude.

What I valued in Miller's story was the body in relation to physical spaces, particularly New York City and Paris. Reading Black Spring, I could inhabit these spaces in the body of a masculine, often chauvinistic narrator. I found myself mesmerized by his cinematic descriptions of places and characters, but often resisted the condescending way he spoke of his wife and other women.

Carmen Maria Machado's stories were similar in their poetic language and solipsistic characters. Both stories had moments of raw intimacy and eroticism. While Machado's ultrafeminine focus was refreshing, I was not engaged in the narration. Her stories had ghostly presences.

Jones' book was a different experience: I was consumed with interest and absorbed in the narrative. Though I resisted the characters at times, there were many layers of complexity to unpack in this book that show how our relationships are affected by society, family, and individual expectations.

Sabbatical Epilogue

Endings seem simple. THE END in bold on the last page of a fairy tale; credits moving with music at the conclusion of a movie; a monosyllabic BYE! before hanging up a phone or more likely touching a round red button at the bottom of a touchscreen. End punctuation: . ! ?

Dates and times help signify finality. May 14 was the last day of my classes at College of Staten Island. Today, June 26, is the last day of public school for NYC students and teachers. But these are mere symbols, temporary markers to put on our calendars.

In reality, our lives are in perpetual motion, connected to the expanse of time, part of a perpetual continuum where every moment is a confluence of vibrations, sensations, disruptions. Discomfort, trauma, joy, freedom, relaxation... never end; they sometimes exist, and they sometimes don't. The last day of school isn't really the end of school for most. The last day at a job usually isn't the last day of work. Doing the last of 30 pushups or coming out of holding a long plank isn't the end of being in a strenuous physical position.

It is natural to desire and dread endings, to have complex emotions around them. I have found comfort in knowing that the traffic on the BQE will end and I will eventually get home to Staten Island from Queens or Brooklyn, that my mother's stay in a rehabilitation center was not permanent. And it is natural that we see endings differently. For most teachers and students, today, the last day of school, is a day to delight in, but for my daughter who graduated from 5th grade, it is a melancholy day that signifies being separated from her friends.

Many people have been asking me how I feel now that my sabbatical is over. But this is an oversimplification of its meaning and impact on my life. The education courses are over, which I am ecstatic about. While I gained some insight on the psychology of learning and sharpened some of my word processing skills, I learned more from my self-inquiry and personal syllabus than from the prescribed courses at the college. And while the period of time set aside for my sabbatical is over, it still exists in me. I have been changed by it and my teaching will be, too.

My routines and responsibilities will shift but I don't dread the overness of my sabbatical.  I have been slightly restored by a year of being a student and full-time parent and dog-walker. Within the limitations of my children's academic, social, and extracurricular schedules, I found space and time to practice yoga, read, write, and take long walks. When I stop myself from being overly self-critical and abstain from thinking, "I didn't write enough" or "I wish I hadn't gained 5 pounds", I can recognize and value the times I spent watching my kids spend time in the playground with their friends while I chatted with other parents, remember the books I read and get excited about books I plan to read in the future, appreciate the 7-8 hours of sleep I had on many weeknights (I will miss this the most).

Better not to see my sabbatical as having ended or of seeing this last hour before I have to pick up my children from school as my last hour of my freedom. Better to find the right ending to this essay and move on.

A little over a month ago, my mother's right femur broke which started a new chapter in her life. She had surgery and stayed at Elmhurst Hospital for about three days and then spent three weeks at New York Center for Rehabilitation in Astoria. For her, these weeks were restorative and with two hours of physical and occupational therapy every day, she gained strength and was able to walk again. She was discharged about a week and a half ago, and is happy to be back in her own apartment without a roommate and the constant presence of nurses and other staff. She is walking around with the help of a walker and cane, watching her favorite TV shows on her couch, having meals with family and friends at her dining room table, no longer restricted to hospital food. Seeing her throughout this time, I marveled at her positive attitude and her physical progress. I was grateful for all the medical attention she received, but most importantly, for my family. My brother and his girlfriend supported her every day life and needs, seeing her almost every day that she was at rehabilitation. My cousins, aunts, and uncles, along with my mother's many friends visited her regularly.

Being on sabbatical also allowed me the time to visit and be with my mother while she was recovering from surgery. While driving back and forth from Queens several times a week added thousands of miles to my car and ended up in a few parking tickets, the trips were the travel elements of my sabbatical. And this journey continues. I will leave Muse Cafe soon, rush to move my car before alternate side cleaning, go pick up my kids, and celebrate the last day of school with a picnic in Prospect Park. There will be grass, tears, sweat, laughter, and most importantly, time spent with people I love.

Spring in Atlanta, Part II.

The chill in our bones from winter began to warm on a sunny 60 degree day. The kids got spontaneously soaked in the famous Fountain of Rings at Centennial Olympic Park. This was after the musical display of shooting water that was entertaining to watch; the waters danced to the Beatles singing "Twist and Shout" and a part of Tchaikovsky's "1812 Overture". We had a picnic and played soccer on the main lawn.  There was also a large playground: new, clean, and underpopulated, unlike the playgrounds in NYC.

Nearby was the Georgia Aquarium, an immense, architected watery wonder. We watched a sea lion and dolphin show, both showing off the amazing skills of these animals. The dolphin show was in an indoor stadium; if you sat in the first 10 rows, you got splashed and/or drenched. The trainers dove in the large pool with sleek, agile dolphins that leapt to great heights and danced in unison like Olympic synchronized swimmers. The audience watched, eyes wide, gasping in amazement at the performance. It is advisable to line up an hour before the show's start time. The rest of the aquarium was just as engaging; we saw piranhas from the Amazon, a whale shark, the largest fish in the world, white American alligators.


The Fountain of Rings


Georgia Aquarium

On another pleasant spring day, we rented bikes and pedaled through Piedmont Park and part of the Beltline. Welcoming green hills, fitness area, ball fields, a playspace created by the sculptor Isamu Noguchi, a serene lake were some features of Piedmont. The BeltLine is a 22-mile loop encircling the city; it was formerly railroads and is now a park with clearly-marked pedestrian and bike paths, a skateboard park, commissioned murals, sculptures, all with access to many restaurants and stores.


The Beltline


On our last day, we visited the Center for Civil and Human Rights. Walking through the main exhibit on the Civil Rights Movement was emotional and educational for all of us. One wall showed the list of the exclusionary Jim Crow laws by state; this interactive wall clearly communicated how restricted the rights and lives of blacks were in these places. The children were shocked and outraged, asking "How could this happen?"

One part I was not prepared for was the lunch counter simulation. While there was a sign that suggested people 13 and older to experience it, I allowed my 8 and 10 year old after asking them if they wanted to. There were only two seats free, so they went before I even experienced it myself. They sat, hands flat on the table, headphones on, and they had to keep their eyes closed. The audio consisted of men and women shouting angry, racist slurs that increased with volume and intensity and climaxed to a point of punches and kicks; at this point, the seats shook. After about 2 minutes, the violence quieted and a narrator concluded by commemorating the brave individuals who risked their lives as they participated in non-violent protests. This experience shook us all; my son began crying and we sit on a wooden bench in the next room, talking about what we felt and how to move forward. We discussed the dangers of anger and hatred and focused on the importance of kindness and helping others.

We continued on, heavier than when we walked in. It is difficult to confront the vicious realities of our country's past. Museums like this help to stress the importance of justice, change, and hope. My children not only learned about the outrageous and heinous acts of local politicians and a vast majority of citizens; they also learned about outstanding, extraordinary individuals such as Ruby Bridges and Mahatma Gandhi. 




Outside the museum are tall panels with moving water and words. Below is a picture of my daughter in front of a Margaret Mead quotation: "Never forget that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world." It helps me see possibility and purpose in my children's future and reminds me of the importance of working together to make our world more just. As a teacher, parent, and citizen, I found the experience of this museum extremely valuable.


After this, we shopped in local stores in Little Five Points, a colorful bohemian neighborhood. We bought vintage clothing at Clothing Warehouse and I bought a Nina Simone t-shirt at Moods Music. We concluded with dinner at our friend Sonya's who lives in Midtown on Ponce de Leon Ave (which I now know is pronounced "pONts" with one syllable). Next time we go to Atlanta, we will try to learn more about local color and speech. My kids liked pointing out people's accents and enjoyed trying to speak Southern, but the only line they were taught by our native Georgian friend was "Y'all gon git drunk tonight?", and they repeated it countless times with various intonations. Of course, being responsible, exhausted grown ups, we did not get drunk; we just buzzed with delight as we immersed ourselves in conversation and drank ample glasses of wine and beer on the porch on Ponce. 

Spring in Atlanta, Part I.

At the beginning of the month, with winter still monopolizing the weather in New York, my family and I were looking forward to flying south to Atlanta, Georgia. We excitedly packed luggage and daypacks for our first out-of-state trip since summer of 2017. Books, snacks, sketch pads, ipads, earphones for the plane. Pants and sweatshirts for cooler days; shorts and bathing suits to will warm days to come.

As the Delta jet fueled us into the sky from Newark, I could feel the pre-trip tasks of cleaning out the fridge, boarding the dog, and ensuring that all of our medical and health supplies were packed... falling away and settling. Contained in the narrow metal cabin, I could be idle and read. The book I brought was Black Spring, Henry Miller's 2nd novel; while I enjoyed the Whitman-esque sentences and nostalgic details about sooty Brooklyn streets, I found the narrator overly self-absorbed and chauvinistic.

Happily, our journey in Atlanta was much more interesting than the book I was reading. This city was filled with colorful murals, clean sidewalks, green parks, historical museums, and global food. And what made it even more enjoyable was spending time with friends who were also visiting from New York and friends who lived in town. Having others to socialize with made the kids more excited and open to new experiences and put less pressure on the parents to ensure the kids were engaged and content. 

We stayed at the Hyatt Regency on Peachtree Street in downtown Atlanta, a neofuturistic building opened in 1967. The elevators are like glass pods that move you up and down the 22 floors through the center atrium. Our room was comfortable and clean with a balcony overlooking the busy street. The main restaurant, Sway, had delicious breakfasts; a bowl of cheesy grits and eggs sustained me for several hours of walking and wandering. At the top of the hotel is Polaris, a blue domed rotating bar/lounge that we did not personally experience; on our last night, my husband, our friend since college, Sonya, who lives in the city, and I tried to go but there was an hour and a half wait without a reservation so we ended up talking and having drinks in the lobby restaurant. Next time we will not underestimate the popularity of Polaris and will make a reservation in advance. 


           Hyatt Regency  

  Sway restaurant with Sonya

Getting around Atlanta was simple and affordable. On our first day, we rode the streetcar which makes a loop in the area where we stayed and stops at many popular destinations; an all-day pass was $3 with one ride at $1. We took the streetcar to Sweet Auburn Curb Market which reminded me of Essex St. Market in Manhattan with its various indoor eateries, butchers, and bakeries. My son had a Vietnamese tofu and rice bowl from Dua II Go while the rest of us had arepas from Arepa Mia. Sean and I agreed that these were the best arepas we had ever had, including the ones we had eaten in Venezuela in the late 1990's. The arepas fit comfortably between two hands, had the perfect balance of crunch and softness, and were stuffed with flavorful vegetables, cheese, and sauces.















Vegetarian arepa at Arepa Mia

Our next stop on the streetcar was the Martin Luther King, Jr. National Historical Park. It was April 4th, the 50-year anniversary of King's death, which added deeper perspective to our visit. We waited on a long line and took a silent walk through the 2-story house where he was born and lived in for twelve years. The house was spacious and the furnished rooms preserved its past familial life. It was a tangible representation of a loving, close-knit family; the comfortable and orderly rooms were probably a warm refuge from the harsh realities of the segregated south.

We also visited Ebenezer Baptist Church where Dr. King and his father were ministers. We sat in the pews, the lively voices of children and families all around us. Nearby was the memorial to Dr. and Mrs. King; a long, bright blue fountain with "Until justice rolls down like water and righteousness like a mighty stream" in white print along the upper steps that create a waterfall that empties into a large pool. Within the lower part of the fountain is a small concrete island where the King tombs lie. Several inspiring quotes line the surrounding walls, including the Six Steps of Nonviolent Social Change. Finally, we walked through the exhibitions at the Visitor Center which highlighted King's childhood, education, influences, and his role in the Civil Rights Movement. The exhibit "Children of Courage" showed how young people participated in nonviolent action and conveyed the message that young children can stand up for what is right and help fight injustice.



MLK Jr's Birthplace         


 Ebenezer Baptist Church

MLK Jr. and Coretta Scott King's tomb


Exhibit at Visitor Center





  

March and Write for Our Lives

“Be a nuisance where it counts, but don’t be a bore at any time... Be depressed, discouraged, and disappointed at failures and the disheartening effects of ignorance, greed, corruption and bad politics — but never give up.” 

- Marjory Stoneman Douglas, advocate, writer, editor, 1890-1998

On March 14, 2018, my 10-year old daughter and at least a dozen other students from her elementary school stood outside, homemade signs blowing in the wind, eyes squinting from the sharp sun rising over the hill. It was the National School Walkout. The principal had allowed parents to voluntarily sign their children out for the event while the rest of the school participated in activities about kindness and mindfulness. Understandably, our group of parents and children was small, but outside, we were surrounded by the entire school and staff of the two middle schools on the same block. Outside, children and adults were united by a sincere, collective concern over school safety and a call for the government to pass legislation to control guns and increase mental health awareness and treatment.

Between 10 and 10:17, young students held up their signs, such as: "We deserve to feel safe" and "Schools should not be battlefields." Many huddled to stay warm. The choir from one of the schools sang Simon and Garfunkel's "Sound of Silence"; at the end, the local councilman, Carlos Menchaca, read the names of the 17 victims of the Parkland shooting as the crowd stood silently, many people bowing their heads, crying, feeling the sensation of the cold and the coldness of the tragedy. The walkout was a physical and visceral experience of activism and a reminder of the importance of uniting across generations to advocate for causes that affect the present and future lives of all citizens.





10 days later, many of the same families present at the walkout participated in the March for Our Lives. My daughter and I rallied at Central Park West on a bright Saturday morning, arms linked to avoid separation. At first we got off the train at 72nd Street but there was no entrance to the CPW marching path, so we had to walk uptown until there was an opening in the barricades. This prologue to the march was dizzying; we didn't know where we would be able to walk into the march, so we had to follow and trust that the crowd was moving in the right direction. We asked police officers along the way who guided us to 86th Street. The officers were attentive and polite, answering all the questions directed toward them. They effectively guided the throng of protestors along the narrow sidewalks.

Fortuitously, around 86th Street, we united with friends from our school community and were able to march along, cheering and moving with action and purpose. We marched to make a statement that enough is enough; it is time for the government to take gun violence seriously. We marched to prove to the country that the people are arming themselves with votes and voices, that in this democracy, we the people rule through our elected officials, that this country does not belong to branches of government but instead to all of its citizens. We marched to exercise our freedom to participate in peaceful protest. We marched because as citizens, we must communicate our demands to the government. We marched because we need to propel the movement toward a safer, fairer society through continuous pressure and collective action.



The organized protests that have been occurring locally, nationally, and internationally are invigorating. While it is difficult to observe immediate effects, our actions are influencing dialogues and debates, moving some legislators to pass local gun control measures, getting young people involved in our democracy, bringing families together in civic engagement, strengthening the bloodlines of our country.

As a native who has lived in the United States for the past four decades, I have never before been so involved and immersed in civics. I have voted throughout my adult life but never fully believed that this country was mine, that my voice was significant, that I or other Americans had any power. I never felt I was truly represented in government for several reasons: my parents were immigrants from the Philippines and I felt like we were somewhat foreigners; I never saw Asian-Americans, especially female Asian-Americans in government. Another important reason for my lack of civic engagement was my apathy and cynicism; it felt as if the mostly white men in government made decisions and there was nothing I or anyone could do about it. I realize now though that this type of attitude gives government more power and makes the people impotent and powerless. Apathy and cynicism add up to idle inaction which only benefits the politicians. Therefore, we must follow the words of Marjory Stoneman Douglas, to be a "nuisance where it counts"; in order to do this, we must care and believe in our ability to make positive change.

I have finally metamorphosed into a freer and emboldened citizen. I have risen above simply harboring anger and animosity toward governance and particularly the executive leader who I believe acts in his own self-interest, is intolerant and biased against non-whites, protects and supports the white upper class, is rash and undiplomatic, and does not respect women or immigrants. I do not support any of his executive orders and feel empowered by my freedom of speech to let my disapproval be known. Through writing letters to senators and local officials, through reading and being informed of current events, through protesting and marching, I exercise my power as a citizen.

It is necessary to also raise young people to be critical thinking, active citizens who work toward education and knowledge and participating in the governance of our nation. The current climate of non-violent activism shows that we the people cannot and will not give up on demanding responsible and fair legislation that protects all people. We must work together to open our minds and think beyond barriers and party lines; we are citizens first and foremost, and we must demand that our representatives work toward security and justice for all. And if our representatives fail at this, they must be voted out of office.

The Shadow of Killers of the Flower Moon by David Grann

Books alter our states of mind, infuse our lives with emotion and experience. When I was reading A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, I was breathing in the life of locals in Williamsburg, immersed in empathy for Francie as she watched the slow demise of her father, feeling her pride as she became an independent woman with an education and a career, transcending tenement life and moving on with hope into Francie's future past the end of the book.

But roughly around the same time as Francie's story, in the early 1900's, a more menacing reality was unfolding. Over a thousand miles southwest of Brooklyn is Osage County, Oklahoma, where David Grann's Killers of the Flower Moon takes place. In this book, instead of romance or relishing in the past, there is regret and resentment. Instead of poverty and drunkenness as central conflicts, the driving forces of American Expansion, greed for money and land, and systemic injustice are the main culprits of an entire people's loss and suffering. In this book, Grann exposes the true crimes against the Osage Indians. He tells the stories of their families who lived peaceful lives in harmony with the land on which they lived until the disruption of Western Expansion that robbed them of their homes and attempted to obliterate their existence.

Mollie is one of four sisters born to Lizzie and Ne-kah-e-se-y, Osage Indians who had grown up on their ancestral land in southeastern Kansas. Their people were forced to cede nearly a hundred million acres of their land to the United States and find a new homeland. They settled on unoccupied territory where they believed they could be happy because "White man cannot put iron thing in ground here... white man does not like country where there are hills, and he will not come" (40). The family settled in an area called Gray Horse. The troubles caused by the forced migration and diseases such as smallpox led to the tribe's population falling to a third of what it had been seventy years earlier (41). The list of troubles they endured was seemingly endless: mandatory assimilation, the dwindling of buffalo, a major food source, unfair government mandates such as having to learn Western farming in order to receive annuity payments, and an overall status quo attitude of the white settlers that the Indians were unintelligent savages who didn't deserve to live on the land they had been living on for generations.

Already by page 44, I was outraged. How could this be allowed to happen? I know superficially that the Native Americans were ravaged, slaughtered, brutalized, and dehumanized much like African slaves were in this country. However, to learn about how deeply entrenched this was in the culture of America is disturbing, enough to make me feel shame for this country. I realize, though, that I cannot blame the country for the injustices. The evils uncovered and revealed in this book have to do with numerous immoral individuals and the culture of expansion and supremacy that protected people who committed atrocious crimes toward the Native Americans.

The situation worsened for Mollie's family after an ironic twist in the tribe's lives. The land they newly inhabited turned out to be above one of the largest reservoirs of oil in the country. As a result, they began to accumulate a fortune from leasing the land and receiving up to millions of dollars a year. In the 1920's, "the Osage were considered the wealthiest people per capita in the world" (6). Their wealth made them easy targets and victims of deceptive individuals who married into the Osage to inherit their money and other scheming swindlers who manipulated their way into Osage money, often through poisoning and murder plots. The tribe's tremendous wealth came with tremendous tragedy. Mollie's sister, Anna Brown, went missing and was found dead in a ravine. Then there were other murders of Osage Indians that went unsolved: Charles Whitehorn, her other sister Rita, and her mother, Lizzie. A pattern emerged and the details of the deaths came together throughout the book.

Reading this, I was disgusted by the lawless criminals, corrupt local officials, and the greedy white men who abused their power, deceived the Osage, and took their money, and most importantly, scores or most likely hundreds of the tribe's human lives. At the same time, I admired the courageous, upstanding lawmen such as Agent Tom White who helped to unravel the mysteries and find culprits to some of the murders. I learned about how J. Edgar Hoover hired White and others to investigate the Osage murders and how much control Hoover had over the handling of the case and how carefully he tried to craft the reputation of the FBI. However, while there was success in resolving Anna Brown's murder, there was so much left unresolved. The bureau estimated only 24 Osage murders, though the number must have been much higher. The FBI seemed to have closed the case too early, shortly after trying and convicting criminals responsible for Anna Brown's death, and they failed to continue bringing other murderers to justice; "at least some at the bureau knew that there were many more homicides that had been systematically covered up, evading their efforts of detection" (282). One of the bureau agents who was investigating the Osage cases, acknowledged the culture of killing and revealed that "There are so many of these murder cases. There are hundreds and hundreds" (283).

At the end of the book, David Grann writes about his encounters with current members of the Osage and descendants of many killed during the Reign of Terror. He learns about many more deaths that were not investigated, including Mary Jo Webb's grandfather who may have been slowly poisoned by his wife who was white but was ultimately killed by a hit-and-run. He also met Marvin Stepson whose grandfather was killed, possibly by one of the convicted felons mentioned earlier in the book. It is clear that countless families have suffered from lack of peace and justice regarding their murdered ancestors.

These accounts of cold-blooded murder are not mentioned in American History textbooks or general school lectures. These deaths are not memorialized by people outside of the tribe. I assume that the majority of Americans do not know of the Osage murders nor the specific details of systemic oppression that affected the daily lives of Native Americans during the expansion of this country and still today. As citizens of this nation, we need to understand and confront the many violent truths of our history. Our land is "saturated with blood" (291). We must acknowledge this, not for the reason of resentment or animosity, but for the reason of education and wisdom.

I am grateful for writers such as David Grann who help uncover a truth about this nation's history. This book helps galvanize ongoing civic engagement. While the murders of the Osage cannot be undone, we must work toward a nation where policies and practices are in place to ensure that all people's rights and lives are respected and protected, and we must insist on uncorrupted support from our local and federal governments.
 

  

Finding Francie in Brooklyn

     Reading A Tree Grows in Brooklyn by Betty Smith inspired me to wander around the Williamsburg area of Brooklyn and search for Francie Nolan's spirit. As I walked around on a cold January morning, I was embraced by the serenity of the protagonist's home town, wrapped in layers of the literary landscape of Smith's first novel. The story begins in 1912, when Francie is eleven, and ends in 1918. Exactly 100 years since the end of the story, I search for ways to connect to Francie's character and her world.

     While not exactly part of Francie's neighborhood, I started out in Greenpoint. I walked around the quiet Historic District with quaint brick row houses, bicycles locked on black iron fences, bare trees growing from small sidewalk spaces. From the gusty winds, I found refuge in Word Bookstore, a community store on Franklin St. This seemed like an appropriate start to my wanderings since both Francie and I are booklovers. In large letters on the window of the store is an Audre Lorde quote: "I am deliberate and afraid of nothing." Inside the sunlit store, an array of contemporary and local writers to browse.  If Francie were alive today, I imagine her as the owner, walking around the store and giving recommendations to all of her customers.

     After purchasing an illustrated paperback about The Great Wall of China for my son, I returned to the cold and admired the quintessential Brooklyn blocks. Across the street was American Playground with a tall water tower in the background. On the corner of Milton and Franklin St., a colorful bodega with a Puerto Rican flag painted outside. It is interesting that there are no Puerto Ricans or Latinos in A Tree Grows in Brooklyn since the people in Francie's neighborhood were from Ireland, Italy, and Eastern Europe. While there were some Puerto Ricans in the area in the 1920's, it wasn't until the 1960's that thousands came from the island to work in nearby factories. As the daughter of immigrants, I love the rich, immigrant history of this city. Francie, a 2nd-generation American, whose paternal grandparents were from Ireland and maternal grandparents were from Austria, would appreciate the evolution of immigrant history in this area.

                                         

                                                      Word Bookstore at 126 Franklin St.

                                              American Playground on Franklin St.

                                              Colorful Mural reminiscent of 1990's graffiti style

                                                   Corner Boricua Bodega

     I left Greenpoint and went a mile south to East Williamsburg to visit page 7 of the book. In this part, the narrator describes a typical Saturday morning when all the kids are in the streets, collecting trash to sell and help feed their families:
             "Soon after nine o'clock of a Saturday morning, kids began spraying out of all the side streets on to Manhattan Avenue, the main thoroughfare. They made their slow way up the Avenue to Scholes Streets. Some carried their junk in their arms. Others had wagons made of a wooden soap box with solid wooden wheels. A few pushed loaded baby buggies.
            Francie and Neeley put all their junk into a burlap bag and each grabbed an end and dragged it along the street; up Manhattan Avenue, past Maujer, Ten Eyck, Stagg to Scholes Street. Beautiful names for ugly streets."
Now, on this Friday, all the children are in school. There are construction workers drilling and banging in the street, a few people walking their dogs, young professionals heading to work from home. There are early 20th-century walkups aside glossy condominiums from the beginning of the 21st century. There are public housing apartments which replaced many of the tenements from Francie's time. While most of the people living near her were impoverished, there is more economic diversity in this area, and it is a hip, desirable neighborhood to live in with ample cafes, restaurants, and independent stores. These street names are now beautiful names for beautiful streets.

     I continued on Manhattan Avenue, looking for older buildings that may have been there in the early 1900's. I came across a large brick building with boarded windows that could have been a factory. I turned onto Montrose to see the church mentioned in the text, the Most Holy Trinity Church which I learned from the blog Literary Traveler is where Betty Smith was baptized. It has a gothic facade and tall spires. It has an interesting history (see Brownstoner) and ghostly presence on this wide avenue of mostly residential buildings. It is the church Francie goes to for confession and mass. In the following passage near the end of the book, Francie and her family are attending mass on Christmas morning: "Francie was wearing her lace pants and freezing"; she had made her brother Neeley buy this for her for the holiday, and she regretted wearing them instead of her flannel bloomers. Sitting in the front pew,
            "Francie thought it was the most beautiful church in Brooklyn. It was made of old gray stone and had twin spires that rose cleanly into the sky, high above the tallest tenements. Inside, the high vaulted ceilings, narrow deepset stained-glass windows and elaborately carved altars made it a miniature cathedral" (396).
The next few pages capture her rapture for her religion. She is absorbed in the physical beauty of the altar and crucifix and muses on the mysteries of God. She declares, "Of course, I didn't ask to be born a Catholic, no more that I asked to be born an American. But I'm glad it turned out that I'm both these things" (398). Growing up, I too was raised in the doctrines and rituals of the Catholic religion but never felt a spiritual connection to; I marveled at the architecture and was most interested in talking to my friends after mass. Nonetheless, the church I went to with my family, Immaculate Conception, will always arouse vivid memories of my childhood.

     Around noon, I concluded my brief wanderings with lunch at a cafe I passed on Manhattan Ave. The name of the place is Bearcat, an ideal setting to read, muse, and feed. It has a modern yet rustic atmosphere with tall ceilings and wide aisles, a communal feeling with the bar in the center and kitchen in the back. Customers worked on laptops or chatted with friends, sipping warm beverages. I had a delightful meal: quinoa salad with cauliflower, beets, and a hard-boiled egg and a chai tea with oat milk. This food dramatically contrasts with Francie's meals: "The Nolans practically lived on that stale bread and what amazing things Katie could make from it! She'd take a loaf of stale bread, pour boiling water over it, work it up into a paste, flavor it with salt, pepper, thyme, minced onion and an egg (if eggs were cheap), and bake it in the oven... Mama [also] made a very fine bread pudding from slices of stale bread, sugar, cinnamon and a penny apple sliced thin..." (44). The narrator goes on for another page to describe all the other delicious meals Katie made from that core ingredient and the other few items she had in her kitchen. So as I ate, I appreciated every palatable bite and morsel, relished in my ability to sit and be served, and reread favorite parts in the text, thinking of all the other street names and landmarks I want to visit on a warmer day, on the sequel to my Finding Francie walk.  

                                           Unknown building on Manhattan Ave.

                                                       Most Holy Trinity Church at 138 Montrose Ave.

                                             Bearcat at Manhattan Ave. and Scholes St.

The Women's March

Last year at the inaugural NYC Women's March, my children and I marched with other families from our school community and several thousands of other families. We held paper signs that read: Equal Rights for Girls and Girl Power. We walked through midtown, marveled at the masses, stood in unmoving crowds, snapped cellphone photos, and handed out snacks to ward off hunger and tantrums. The kids and their friends were energized and emboldened by the cold and the atmosphere of protest and collective action. At some point, they chanted "Dump Trump" while we, the parents, tried to encourage more positive rhetoric and discourage hate rants. We did our best to transform all of our outrage and mortified disbelief into peace and love.

The 45th presidency began a new era of learning for our children and young people across the country. Thanks to the newly-elected president, they had to learn the double meaning of the word pussy; they were baffled that a man who said he would grab a girl by her pussy could be the man with the most political power in the country. They were also frightened by his beliefs; they questioned the fairness of his promise to ban Muslims from our country when so many of their classmates and friends are Muslim. This shows that many of our children have an unyielding power that the president lacks: empathy. This ability will help our children promote kindness and peace in their daily lives. This gives me hope.

With the 2nd NYC Women's March taking place tomorrow, Saturday January 20th, there is a lot on my mind. Should my kids and I attend? My kids have karate and drum lessons, my daughter has a 2:30 middle school audition and another the following morning, and my son has a soccer game later Saturday afternoon. If we attend, we will have to miss classes and risk being late or emotionally unprepared for the audition, and I will get burnt out by noon. While I am willing to make these sacrifices and have a burning desire to participate in this march, my husband and I decided that we should not take these risks.

Instead, my kids and I will make signs for those we know who are attending the march. And we will continue leading lives of empathy, civic engagement, and spiritual and intellectual development through reading and learning. We will raise our children to raise their voices against unfairness and oppression. We will raise our children with the understanding that all people are equal, regardless of gender, race, or religion. We will raise our children to be feminists who believe in and demand social and economic equality for all genders.

This new era has helped me grow into a more socially and civically responsible and active citizen. I never grew up with a sense of voice or national or local politics. I never started calling senators until 2017. Like many women, I feel a more urgent need to fight for equality and empathy. With this in mind, I have been thinking of people and words that inspire empowerment and change. Here are a few quotes that may go well on signs:


"I'm a woman
Phenomenally,
Phenomenal woman,
That's me."
- Maya Angelou

"Women's rights are human rights."
- Hillary Clinton

"The only way we can create global peace
is through not only educating our minds,
but our hearts and our souls."
- Malala Yousafzai

"If there is no struggle, there is no progress...
Power concedes nothing without a demand."
- Frederick Douglass


Other possible slogans:

Less patriarchy!
More Pussy Power!

Say it loud!
I'm feminist,
and I'm proud.

Crossroads in American Street by Ibi Zoboi

         Fabiola Toussaint, the protagonist of Ibi Zoboi's debut novel, often finds herself stuck at crossroads where opposing worlds and places converge and collide. She and her mother, Valerie, have left their home in Haiti to live with Valerie’s older sister Marjorie and her daughters Chantal, Donna, and Pri in Detroit, Michigan. However, the journey does not go as planned, and instead, Fabiola and her mother are separated by a glass wall and Customs in Kennedy Airport. Her mother is being detained while Fabiola, born in the U.S., and thus, an American citizen, is allowed to continue to her destination, but now she is alone. At the airport in Detroit, her cousins pick her up, and they must all accept the absence of Valerie. They do not dwell on this reality and try to reassure Fabiola that their mother, her Matant Jo, will bring her mother back.

          A moment that clears the path for a new road is when Chantal, the eldest of the three sisters, acts with tenderness toward her cousin; it is a winter night, and she "takes off her thick, long scarf and wraps it around my shoulders - a gesture that only my mother has ever done for me. Back in Haiti, it was always just me and Manman. But now, my world has ballooned and in it are these three cousins, and my aunt, too. Family takes care of each other, I tell myself. We will get my manman. We leave the airport. It feels like I'm leaving part of me behind - a let, an arm. My whole heart"(13). The rest of the story involves Fabiola's struggle to get her heart back.

          As a high school teenager, Fabiola must traverse many roads on her own, without her mother's guidance. She must learn to live the American way of her cousins and aunt in her new home at the crossroads of American Street and Joy Road, surrounded by abandoned buildings, a "liquor place", and a "God place" (36). She must adjust her eating: "There are only eggs and sliced bread. There are no plantains and avocados to make a complete Haitian breakfast" (36). She must get used to the new landscape: "Nothing here is alive with color like in Haiti. The sun hides behind a concrete sky... But God has painted this place gray and brown. Only a thin white sheet of snow covers the burned-out houses and buildings" (47). She must adjust to a new school, the private school that Donna and Pri attend. She meets new people at Dray, Donna's boyfriend's birthday party. Here she encounters archetypal characters who she had often been warned about in Haiti: vabagon, people who lead to nothing but trouble, and malfekte, people who are evil. But she also meets Kasim, a charismatic shapeshifter who associates with Dray, the malfekte, but in reality, is a lover, and he helps to fill the void left by her mother's absence. While there are many conflicts caused by the convergence of divergent paths and characters, Fabiola settles into her new life with great determination to find the way to her heart, her mother.

          Another crossroad where conflict exists is between reader and narrator. Throughout the book, I doubted and questioned Fabiola's trust in the Iwas and her belief that Bad Leg, the local vagabond who sings on the corner outside her house, is Papa Legba. She explains who this religious deity is to her cousins: "He is the Iwa of crossroads. When there's no way, Papa Legba will make a way. He opens doors and unlocks gates...I have to pray to him so he can help my mother come to this side" (34). Fabiola listens to this homeless man's songs and believes they are prophecies, and she bases many of her choices on his lyrics. To me, she is naive, and it frustrates me that she makes decisions based on spiritual reckoning rather than reason. At the same time, this tension keeps readers engaged and committed to Fabiola's journey.

          For a short while, her life moves along a peaceful path. She is able to unite her Haitian and American cultures as she makes Thanksgiving dinner for the first time. As Fabiola concocts her own versions of traditional dishes, she finds herself "at peace" and in her element: "I let the warmth of the house wrap around me. I let the scents of my food fill me up with nothing but joy, because this moment is like a hug from God" (230). I, too, relish this moment because I can relate to the power of food to stir up sentiments of belonging and familial love. The kitchen is a place where cultures can cross and meet in surprising ways, where people, especially recent immigrants, can find comfort despite the strains of assimilation and alienation.

          

          Soon after this meal, Fabiola collides with several unexpected obstructions. The obstructions involve truths about her Detroit family, a female law enforcer named Detective Stevens who enlists her help to arrest suspects involved in the death of a white female from a lethal cocktail of designer drugs, and Dray and Kasim. A series of unfortunate events occur and she struggles to find her way out of the wreckage. In the end, we find where the roads lead to, and we are left wondering, does Bad Leg/Papa Legba really open up the way for her or is it the manifestation of the American Dream? What roads will open for her now?