Soulfest

Ana Maria!

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181269_563340613688631_1466761944_nIn the US, they are called illegal aliens – I am yet to see the spaceship landing – but across the world, they are perhaps, referred to as undocumented. Forgive me but they are simply human beings, emigrants in search of a better life to me.

I am not going to get into the politics of the subject because it would perhaps be a mile long of unrepentant speech and unwarranted cracked jungle of lines, but tell a story of Ana Maria and the highest sacrifice any Undocumented Emigrant mother can make.

It is not only the United States that has issues with undocumented workers. It seems to be the topic of my conversation with a friend who is so adamant about deporting all “illegals” as if they were one altered yogurt in his refrigerator, ready to turn his stomach upside down and make him run to the bathroom in an omelet frenzy. It is not.

Most countries, especially Europeans are experiencing some kind of forceful migration as people move from countries to countries in search of means of survival, as their countries economy are going bust. It is simple mathematics. It is about economics. It always was and it will always be and the Europe is not immune to it. The difference is some countries are screaming bloody Mary more than the others. Understandable. Fear is one ugly accessory. So, the world is today one box of chocolate.

Set aside your thoughts and hear me, I mean her, Ana Maria.

I met Ana last year at a friend’s house. I really don’t know how she ended up in Europe; perhaps, she told me and me being me, it did not stick, it flew out like a little butterfly just out of the larva but getting there she did. Last I heard, she moved overseas temporarily, the main reason as in so many cases, to work hard and send money home to provide for her kids, give them a better life and education.

Funny, how the subject of a husband was never discussed. She never mentioned him or if there is even a him in her life, and if he exists, is he helping her out, how is he fitting in the picture? The subject is after all a personal matter and it was not my job to neither ask nor judge. So, I did not ask.

I just liked Ana at get go. We kinda clicked in a jiffy and found ourselves talking as if we were old pals and we weren’t. It was one Sleepless in Seattle kind of “attraction”, her determination and sacrifice, her survival skills, her story, really did me in and was attached to the hook.

Ana is in her early fifties, I believe, she does not tell her age, then again which woman does; one well mannered, curvy and gorgeous, smart bubbly Latina.

She has been working hard since she arrived in the country, holding different jobs, mostly domestic work, cleaning one house here and another there like most in her situation do and she had plans.

Mind you, she has not seen her kids in about eight years. Aside from pictures, she has not seen them metamorphosing into young men. She has heard their voices but didn’t know if they grown a mustache. She heard their voices but has not touched nor felt them in a while. She heard their voices but have not caressed their hair or chosen their attires to school. She heard their voices but has not met their girlfriends, yes they are boys and as far as she knew it, all was well. But then again, this is not how the story ends.

And then there were two.

You see, Ana had plans but lately, she has been talking about going back home a lot. She is done and thought now that the kids were grown and were old enough to fend for themselves; she had the carte blanche to return. She did not see herself staying behind two years.

That was her plan and she had it all planned out. The older had just graduated college and the younger is still in high school, and now that he started working, the plan was for him to help her raise his younger brother letting her to work less and return home.

Great! I love plans, I envy plans but sometimes, there are others plans. Plans that are out of our control. You see, we can make plans all we want but often, there are other forces stronger than our plans, other curves, semicolons that are inserted into our plans and we just have to sit tight and ride it, deal with it the best way we can. They are called life tests.

Just when the older son was set to begin his new job, a brand new lawyer you know, and help his mother as she so envisioned, he was struck by a car and killed instantly. Blink and he was gone, yes just like that.

Yes, she had plans.

Now, what is this supposed to mean? How cruel can the world be? I know I know, I am always the first one to preach about life and how He has it all lined up for us, blah, blah, blah but c’mon, is there a better test then this? What now?

Off course she was devastated. Off course, she wanted to drop it all and go. Off course, she wanted to say goodbye, I mean, it was her first born, and any parent would drop it all and go. No parent should burry his/her child but she did.

The grieving process has not been easy for her and it complicated matters more with the realization that she couldn’t leave the country and there is one additional being who still relies on her plans, if she did, there was the possibility of her never coming back.

It is hard, difficult but ultimately she decided to stay, making the ultimate sacrifice once more than any mother can. She is relying on prayers, strength and courage to cope but she is also aware that God never gives us more then we can bear. As many plans as she made, as many outlines, periods, sentences and paragraphs, there was something more powerful in control, a semicolon, and He only He can answer for it as He so wanted that way.

A Letter To My Mother, Second Take!

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FlowerMom, I remember you having a mile-long list of things you wanted to realize but could not wait to hang your teacher’s baton to pursue them. You made plans to enjoy life, to breathe and live the world whenever time permitted. You were looking forward to retirement and could not wait.

Your dream was to travel the world, visit countries and see your girls whenever you felt like it, and for as long as you pleased. The plan was for you and Dad to do it the way retirees usually do.

You yearned to jump on board a big cruise liner, sport kaki shorts and Hawaii shirts, sunglasses, designer hat and cruise the world; hop on a plane and land in the nearest town, chronicle your latest adventures, take and share your many photos with us. You dreamed it all and were on track to do just that but it was not to be. The Almighty had a different script and your wishes were diverted, thrown off course.

Your husband first earthquake – he came down with not one but two and three strokes – came like a full force hurricane. It brushed his wits and for the avid reader that he has always been, it was an unintended prescription tantamount to a death sentence. The illness progressively ate up his brain and his physical and emotional behavior for a while; never mind how long but it was a while.

Locked blindly like a prisoner, it battered your body but did not take an ounce of your energy or soul; and like one good warrior, you soldiered on, catching the bus or taxi, whatever means of transportation to the hospital everyday, sometimes twice a day to visit your husband, to spoon feed your guy, your soul mate, your man.

Through it all, you tirelessly became his eyes and ears; his translator, his nurse, his companion in chief. You, the once delicate invulnerable flour in my Dad’s eye, metamorphosed into one-woman machine who (un)selfishly and meticulously lives by her very script of “God had other plans for me and I have accepted”, and no one dares say a word because you refused to hear it.

You could have commemorated your 53th wedding anniversary last week; yes, could have are the words but it was not there. I hoped to seeing you strolling down the aisle, flooded by your loved ones, hand in hand with your unselfishness, and his bashfulness and hearing the priest pronounce you “husband and wife” once again, but it was not to be.

I recall you wanting to celebrate a deux, fearful that he would not have any recollection or get too fidgety to even grace the event. Instead, it went by, like any other day. I did not call you purposely, so not to upset you nor remind you of the beautiful life you once had. So, I let it be.

I imagined you sitting in your bedroom, alone, at the tip of the bed, going through pictures, sobbing, reminiscing but that was just my imagination. I don’t know how it went for you because I did not dare ask you how the day went.

You have not talked about touring the world lately and I don’t believe you have stopped dreaming, nor accepted the fate that has been delineated for you either. Perhaps, beneath the seemingly stalwart veil, there is a glimpse of hope that you, one day, will be able to be that famous tourist you once longed for after all.

Your devotion to him, your irreplaceable love, transcended imagination. It was beyond belief. Yours was a bond that I will neither be able to mimic nor replicate but I observed it and am proud of.

Mom, I just don’t know how you did it. You were a locomotive, one woman Inc., your own superwoman. I can vehemently utter that I am jealous. Jealous of the sense that I wanted to be you but I am not. I will never be you; I will never be like you; I will not even pretend to be you, but your daughter I shall always be. You are one of a kind!  Thank you for being my Mom.

Happy Mother’s Day!

Note: This was originally written in 2009 but minor changes were made to incorporate my father’s passing last year.

You Did Come Back!

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IMG_1198Rare is the day I am out and about, and not be approached by a person panhandling for some kind of donation at an intersection. If it is not the kids having a car wash or the firefighters having their annual fundraising, it is some church, homeless shelter, schools fundraising, car wash solicitations or someone selling flowers, fruits, toys, shrimp or a hustler… You name it, they are all there. Sometimes, at the same time, jamming the streets forcing drivers to maneuver around them.

Sometimes you give, sometimes you don’t. Sometimes you buy, sometimes you don’t. I wouldn’t dare buy shrimp on the street but would buy roses.

They look suspicious sometimes, like at the gas station the other day when a woman approached everyone in their radar with a story that she needed $10.00 to buy gas to return home to Georgia because she was dumped by her husband.

Just like popcorn, my “goodness” button immediately started popping, going into the giving mode. Oh yeah, in this trying times, why not help a mother who was in agony and fallen in hard times. So, I gave and then some, without a doubt and felt good about it, unaware that I had fallen for the cheapest trickery in the books.

Without a blink of an eye, I bought the tale cheap. Oh yes, I did but the surprise, however, was on me. I see her again, two weeks later while at a local supermarket.

She appeared in a different part of the neighborhood, this time with a friend and two kids, tattling the same old song. What she was unaware of, is that I was ready for her this time. I recognized her from afar and was not about to let her exploiting me or anyone else as a matter of fact.

Let’s face it. I am an artist. Perhaps, she should have not mess with an artist. We get faces stamped on our foreheads and can draw one with eyes close; well some of us can.

She walked straight up to me, yes, me, no one else, as if she knew I was a “giver”. I guess something in me read “stupid” or fit into her perfect mold because I could not understand her “straight shooting” target. Yeah, I may be a giver but despise those who exploit and use others.

She was out of luck this time. I was not having it.  She and her friend not only got an ear full, yes I looked like mom bear ready to attack but also heard from the supermarket security who was right on their tails with all his magnetic force. They run faster than lizards on the trails running away from a squirrel before they could scream, help. If such thing was even possible at that moment.

IMG_1196There are instances when one really feels that something to help but others…

There you have the panhandler looking plain, with a semicolon. Like an homeless who one clearly sees that she/he needs help but is dumped on the streets with the sole purpose of collecting and hand over his/her earnings to his/her pimp who is awaiting on the next corner. However, there are others who are sincerely in need, desperate; their clothes fifty, their shoes messy. Then, you have the punks who just hang out to make a few bucks for beer or cigarettes without a desire to get out of the funk.

So, it brings me to this story.

I was running an errand the other day when I had to stop at red light. As I waited for the traffic light to turn green, I was approached by a physically challenged gentleman, at an intersection, limping on one of his legs with a white bucket on his hands, fundraising for his church in exchange for a leaflet of prayers. Just as I was pulling money out, the light turned to green and with million of cars behind me, I had no choice but go but not before shouting to him that I would come back. Hum, yeah right. The look on his face said it all. Yup, he did not believe me.

So, I went my way, run my errands and was on my back when I noticed that he was still there, at the same intersection but on the opposite side, patiently spreading the word about his church. But this time, I was approached by a different gentleman and not him.

I declined and indicated that I was looking for his friend. Again and by the fluke of things, just as he was calling for him, the light turned to green, the car in front of me moved and million others behind me went bananas. So, I did the unthinkable, the kind of thing I would criticize any driver for and if I were behind me, I would be buzzing at me too, mad as hell that I was not moving.

I let my ethics go south and decided to go nowhere fast this time around. I was not leaving until I gave the cash to that man. Hello, my reputation (yeah, who died and set it because It is not like he knew me) was at stake here.

Just like a robot. I took the amount out of my bag, made a fast stop, slammed the breaks almost causing a fender bender, put the money on his hand and remarked, “I told you I was coming back”. He took it, smiled back, surprisingly touched and replied, “Yes, you did come back!”. Yes I did!