Feminism: Is It Just a Label?

My great-grandmother died at the age of 114, or so they say.  Her birth certificate wasn't a reliable source to find out her age because children were inscribed on the Island's registries in the later years of their childhood (8 or 9), her name was Maria Simplicia, we all learned to call her Mama Querida or beloved mother.  She didn't read or write and lived most of her life in poverty, she lived through the 1914 earthquake and several strong hurricanes that hit our Island at the beginning of the 1900's.

What was her life like?

I  know bits and pieces of it, but I do know one thing she was a survivor.  She was a quiet and very reserved lady, when she'd walk she would place her right hand at the back of her hip and her dress would go up a bit.  She never wore pants in her life (she missed on that one).  Mama Querida could be described with one word "stoic".  Probably that's who women in my family take after (we have quite a few repressed and stoic ladies around here).

via google images

I first saw that gesture in my grandmother, she would press her lips and move her mouth toward the right side and simply say nothing, but if you saw the line of her lips you knew something was wrong.  The only thing that brought her joy were her flowers, she would get up in the morning and still wearing her pajamas on, I would see her outside checking on her flowers.  I never really understood that, why in the world doesn't she get changed before going outside?  Well as a very grown woman in my late 40's I do the same.  I caught myself sometime ago, roaming my back yard garden in PJ's, I wanted a quick check on my lilies so I stepped outside.  Probably that's why she did it too!  Getting dressed wasn't  a priority, going outside was, before the day began with its hectic display of the craziness of a full house.
My grandmother never used pants either.

Back in their day pants were only used by men.  Decent ladies didn't wear them and if they had to, let's say because they were working in the coffee plantation picking coffee beans, and their pants would be worn under their skirts.  That sure seems comfy!  Pants were the symbol of who was in charge, you know THEM, but were they really in charge?

These two amazing women should have worn pants, if they wanted to.  They were strong and most of all their will made it possible for them to raise large families (more than ten children each).  They went into labor many times by themselves, until the midwife could come.  My grandmother even had twins without proper medical care.  She sewed, embroidered and worked the land to guarantee that my mom and her brothers and sisters had enough to eat.  She complimented my grandfather, they were a team.  Where did she learn to become such a strong lady?  Well,  obviously  from her mom.

via google images

They stood strong knowing nothing about feminism.  Those labels weren't around back then.
What are labels good for anyway?  I personally hate labeling things or people.  Why do we have to give everything a name?

Were they feminists?  A loud and strong YES would be the answer.

They didn't participate in rallies, or marched down a city avenue, or burned their undergarments, or do anything outrageous.  They simply lived their lives being strong independent women (even if they were married),  in a world where men dictated the what's, when's, and who's.  They kept their families moving forward, never stopping until they relied on others to care for them at the end of their own lives.
We live in a world where women wear pants all the time, yet we still have women around that let men abuse and use them like toys or a useless object.  Why?  I don't know and probably none of us will ever.
We can only look back in time and search our family tree to learn through the lessons are elders taught us along the way.  My own personal one would be : you don't have to wear pants to be strong and rise tall above your personal circumstances.  We all have the capacity of change and that's what keeps our world turning every day.

It's more about doing and less about talking.

Words Will Never Be Enough

Francisco Javier (my 20-year-old son) gave me this as a gift last year before I went through a scheduled surgery. It was a reminder of our unity as a family. This message basically is our family motto, it has carried us through our lives and will continue with them as they form their own families. It is our legacy to them.

Even though they were very young when their dad went through his liver transplant they are very aware and grateful of the anonymous family that gave their dad a second chance.
Tomorrow as his 18th liver transplant anniversary comes around all we can say is thank you and God bless all donors. Those who today can donate and continue to live full and healthy lives and the families of those who no longer are with us.

Words will never be enough to express our gratitude and probably will never have, yet our hearts burst with joy because of all the years we have been able to be happy together.

We have overcome all differences, struggles and remained one. Carlos, myself and our three +1!

Have A Great Day Dad!

One of my earliest memories during my childhood was probably during kinder.  It's not about the teacher (which was a great teacher by the way) or about the little red wagon that would be taken by a student or two to the lunchroom to pick up our milk and cookies, or about the new friends I had made, or about anything more or less normal, but about my dad's absence.  I remember clearly the day he moved out as it was yesterday. It was so bad, he took some money my mom had on top of our refrigerator that was for milk. That's the sort of dad I had. 

That was the starting point of a series of episodes where my dad would be in and out of our lives.  His absence would be sometimes for shorter periods and other times for longer ones.  During my early years my dad was a figure that wasn't always around and when he was it wasn't a good thing.

That made Father's Day even more difficult to bear with.  I remember watching all those glossy commercials on television, where always a beautiful little girl handed her dad a great present (obviously bought by the mommy that adored the daddy) and he would swing her around.  Both dressed perfectly!  My dad wasn't always around, I wasn't the typical beauty and my mommy surely wasn't going to buy A THING for my dad, and  I wouldn't be swung around with my dress mingling with the wind.

Basically because my dad struggled with alcoholism.

Probably right this second you're thinking, "Well that ought of explain what a crappy father you had!"

Nevertheless, I actually never saw him like that.  I didn't understand him that's for sure (neither did my brother), but I knew he loved us.  What was crystal clear was that he didn't know how to manage or express his love, but we knew it was there.  Probably because he always would be coming back, even if Mom would shout on the top of her lungs, that he wasn't welcome.

They never divorced if you're asking yourself what happened to their marriage along the way.  Up to today,  they are still married (God knows why.).  My brother and me glued their fate, and I'm not even sure if this is good or bad.   Yet, as they approach their mid seventies I'm happy they make each other company, they are more civilized these days (but that's another story to tell).

Coming back to me and my dad, I had an issue with giving him a father's day card.  I could never find the right card for him as I grew up and up to the day I still can't.  What card can you give a father that never gave his own child a birthday card (at least not until I became a grown woman), or her first bike, or waited for her after school to buy ice cream, or given her some sort of advice on dating or marriage (except a lousy example), or drove her to the movies or where ever it was she was going, and I could probably go on for a while more,   but I have to stop at some point. 

That's when I came up with the brilliant idea of making him his card.  I would always write the same thing, that I loved him and would  wish him a great day. Today I don't bother, I just hug, kiss, and give him a nice present (which he is always expecting with great joy). 

Our relationship has evolved, no longer does he battle against alcoholism, and he still has a hard time expressing his feelings, but one thing still remains,  the love we share. I gave him an opportunity and let him be an active part of my children's lives. He has been a better grandfather than a father, and that's okay with me because I've always loved him and I can only feel blessed he's gotten to experience how it feels to be a father, even if  it has been a little late in life. 

Father's Day 2012 (He's modeling the clothes I bought for him.)

I look back at my own childhood and sometimes feel a stab of pain, but then I look at him (now 72) and only feel grateful we've made it up to here and as the autumn of his life comes around we still share our constant denominator, love.

Life isn't perfect and some of us simply aren't going to get a picture perfect family, but that doesn't mean we can't find our own common denominator.  We've come a long way and today as I see the love he has learned to express to his grandchildren,  I can only feel peace with myself, my mom and with him. 

I love you Dad, have a great day!

"Siempre llueve sobre lo mojado"

Sometimes my husband likes to say,  “siempre llueve sobre lo mojado.”  Which literally means it always rains over what is  already wet.  This is a way of saying that whatever is bad per se is always bound to turn worse.

When whatever is bad turns to awful, it's more than sure it will get on your nerves like it does on mine!

via morgueFile

We’ve lived through a couple of rain storms and have survived, but sometimes like my husband says you kind of get tired of always running into more trouble.  

One of the storms I just mentioned occurred shortly after coming back from New York (a couple of weeks after moving back into our home) the measles came to give us a visit.  My daughter was in Kinder and my two boys, who were than preschoolers, were at home with me. 

One day she came home from school with a single dot on her forehead, my mom assured me that she thought that Stephy had measles.  You know I had to rely on her expertise because I really didn’t know much about measles (until that moment, I would become an expert fairly soon).

To move fast forward quickly, all my three children got the measles.  One just a couple around their little bodies and others all over the place (Caladryl became a household name in my home!). Nevertheless, it really didn’t worry me because all of us get measles during our childhoods and it was a milestone my own children had to go through.  To my surprise, my mother in law commented "lightly" that my husband had never had measles.   Yikes!  This is when it began raining over the already wet ground.

I wasn't surprised at all when my husband got the measles as well. 

Here we had to deal with a completely different situation. I phoned his doctor right away and he briefed me on the things I needed to be aware of (which I barely remember), and what to do if they happened.  The worst cases scenario was that we would need to request some special medication from The Red Cross (which I’m not sure if it was a medication or some plasma).  Blame my long-term memory loss to menopause!  Don't ask me for details because I'm afraid I can’t give them to you. The thing is that we were in a bad situation that was heading to get much worse in a couple of days. 

So, what did happen after all? 

Well, to our surprise (since all of you know our great record on scoring bad things) nothing happened.  Measles came and went and he survived them.  Our dear Lord decided to stop the rain and sent us instead a beautiful rainbow.  

via morgueFile

I opened my front door, waved the measles goodbye and told them to take the rain with them, and welcomed in a nice bright rainbow and pretty much enjoyed the break life gave us even if was only for a brief moment. 

How I Became A Gluten-Free Mom

 This post is dedicated to all those moms who have

children with any kind of special needs.

 
My sons were diagnosed with Celiac disease when they were only seven and eight. After that everything changed for our family. First, my youngest boy was diagnosed and then our gastroenterologist told us that all of our children would have to be tested. Soon, my other son joined him in this new venture our family faced.   Both were admitted to the hospital to get a biopsy of their small intestines to confirm their diagnosis. Out of the three, only two were celiac patients (thank God for that, it could have been three out of three). He went on to explain how what they had was different from an allergy and how it would affect their lives from now on.

No more sandwiches for you, mister!

 With their diagnosis many new things came along as well. We needed to be aware about “gluten”!! To tell you the truth, before that we had never even heard about gluten. Didn’t know what it was or what it did to your body. Now all of a sudden, we needed to avoid not only gluten, but wheat, oat, barley, etc. The first thing we did was schedule a visit with a pediatric nutritionist to make sure the boys were eating right and in the correct amounts.  Foods became a source of anxiety not only for the boys, but for all of us. My daughter was asked to quit foods that had gluten, until we all settled into the boys’s diets. I remembered asking her to stop eating cheese turnovers because these were one of  the boys’ favorite foods and if they saw her eating them, they would get upset.  After a while, when she could finally have them, they were difficult to enjoy,  because eating them became a source of guilt for her, as well as for me for making them.  

via morgueFile

Not only our meals became like walking the plank on a pirate ship, but going to the grocery store also became a reason for stress. If God forbid I left home the list of what we needed to avoid, shopping would become a nightmare. What list? The one that told me what my boys could NOT eat or drink. At the beginning, we often forgot taking the darn list,  so when we would get home from the grocery store many of the items we had purchased couldn’t be eaten by them. Another thing that couldn't be overlooked was the fine print in food labels; all those "nasty"  ingredients food companies put in their processed and non-processed foods that are written in very small words and that had all of a sudden become lethal for our boys. Those years were difficult, but we were able to overcome them as we gained confidence, researching beforehand the products we usually bought and those we would like to buy as well.

 Now parties were another story! Having them go through the excruciating process of saying “No, thank you” was awful. During parties, while party trays full of delicious appetizers were hassled around. My boys would put “a poker face” (which is a face that holds no expression) and repeat "No, thank you" over and over again. They would tell me not to tell anyone that it was that they couldn’t eat them. They felt better, if they only would say what I called the three words of pride, “No, thank you.” It was like they had a choice when saying no.Things got so bad at the beginning that my oldest son once told me that he no longer wanted us to celebrate his birthday because without a cake it wasn’t a real birthday. That’s hard for any parent to hear. Probably you’ll ask me, “Why in the world didn’t you bake him a gluten-free cake? Easy, because I stink at baking gluten-free. I’ve tried, but always end up with an awful tasting cake. Over the years they gave up on my baking skills and would tell me not to even try. Even though they always tell me that I make great pancakes.  

As their childhood left and their teenagers year came along we built the foundation for a gluten-free lifestyle. They haven't always been truthful to it and have paid the consequences because I can no longer watch them like a hawk.  Nevertheless, I like to think that I gave them the tools, so they can take care of themselves and most importantly I survived being a gluten-free mom.

The Goodbye Party

Anyone who knows me on a personal level, knows I hate funerals and weddings, but today I'm concentrating on funerals.  Why? Probably because I think both should be private and intimate moments in life,  where only those who are part of it should be present at all.  That's why it's no surprise to anybody in my extended family when they don't see me around if someone from our community dies.  My mom is always scolding me because she fears no one will attend my funeral.  She always says, "The day you die nobody is going to go to your funeral.!" To which I always respond with a shrug (It's not like that I'm going to be there to see it.   Ha!).  I wouldn't disrespect her by saying it out loud, but the answer always pops up involuntarily in my head.

Wait a second!  Did I tell you that in Puerto Rican communities when someone dies everyone that knew the family is expected to attend?  YES!  That's how it is, which means that you're going to be attending a funeral home that's packed with people, everyone talking at the same time, and some are even going to be coming in and out of the designated area for coffee and snacks (now a days they even serve food). Bottom line, it's basically a goodbye party!

photo via morgueFile

Although it used to be worse back in the day.  When my own grandfather passed away (who was like a father to me), the arrangements for his viewing were held in his own home.  My God, talk about something wrong and I will always have this one on the top of my list.  His viewing lasted three days, can you believe it?  When the day finally arrived where he would be laid to rest I was exhausted, my eyes had dried out, and all I wanted was to get over it, as soon as possible.

I watched in horror as every night people came from God knows where to attend his viewing,  and after paying the widow (my grandmother) their due respects,  than would step out to the "batey" to talk with folks they haven't seen in years.  Sometimes people would get loud, making jokes and drinking coffee till the wee hours of dawn.  Did I also forget to mention that you weren't suppose to sleep during the viewing.  This is when probably my hatred for funerals was born.

Some time ago I read a great blog from Ann Jacobous featured in Friends For The Ride, where she points out that "the moment a loved one leaves this world is a sacred moment..".  This is how its supposed to be!  I really don't know how I'm going to feel when my own parents pass away, but for sure I want privacy and serenity to be able to face the moment when it eventually comes around.

Facing the eve of life of anyone who's important in your life is hard enough, let's not make it more difficult by adding the grievance of having to put up with the endless line of friends, friends of friends, family,  and family of family (if you're Puerto Rican you know what I'm talking about) as they all want to share a piece of you.

Life goes on as it usually does, and after the funeral is when our friends and family need us around to help them cope with their loss.  Let's give them the necessary space to deal with the moment they need to say goodbye and make it through that very sacred moment in their lives when their parents pass away, but without forgetting about them afterwards.

I always tell my one and only brother that if I pass away first, if he doesn't get here fast (24 hours), he is going to miss my funeral.  Yet it's not that important because who he really has to be concerned about is my husband and my children.  Their the ones that really need him, so he knows he's coming anyway maybe not for our traditional goodbye party,  but to share his own pain with the three pieces of myself that I'm leaving behind in a quiet tea party that will be held only by invitation.

Attachments: Who Said They Were Wrong?

During the past two years I've heard my fair share of, "don't get to attached, they can take him away." I'll tell you who I'm talking about in a little while.  But first I need to clarify a couple of things, so bear with me.

Another zinger I've heard (which annoys me even more) is,  "Not even your children belong to you in life, so don't get to attached.".  Sorry to differ, but they DO belong to me. They became mine the moment I received the blessing of  carrying them in my womb.  Precisely it was there, where  a life long journey of  caring, loving and looking after them began.  AND (sorry for the conjunction at the beginning of my sentence) I am and will become attached to them!  Let's not leave out the mommies that adopt, who also can and will become attached to their children with the only difference is that they carried them not in their womb, but in their hearts.  Our attachment doesn't mean we're exclusive, it means that we are joined, linked, united, cemented, glued, (and I can go on and on) yesterday, today and forever with them.     

Some of the greatest things in life, begin with thoughts and words.  Life pulls us towards different places we don't even know we want to go to. This can probably explain why every time my husband and me went to the mall, we would end up in the baby department, looking at the cribs, baby cloths, bottles and all the modern baby gear that was available (we had our first child in 1989).  Not only did we do this in the mall, but also in our weekly trips to the supermarket.  Every time we passed the baby aisle, we stopped and talked about all the variety of baby products that were also available today.  We lingered around and then moved on.  With each stop we walked through memory lane and talked about our own children and that's how are yearning was born.  That desire of having our home rejoice with a child's  laughter again was overwhelming, but we really didn't say it to each other.  Probably because neither of us knew how the other would react.  My daughter had brushed it aside saying that we were suffering from the Empty Nest Syndrome.

Our yearning was private, we didn't voice it out.  We just mingled with the idea in our heads.  Up to one day when my husband finally worked up  the guts to ask, "what if we adopt a baby?"  He did it, he had dared to speak out our longing, that wasn't good because we would have to talk about it in a concrete way.  So,  I did what I usually do, I backfired with a million questions and statements. What if we do try and fail?  How are we going to handle the heartbreak? What are the kids going to say?  It's not fair for them! Are you nuts, we are in our mid forties, we should concentrate on us for a change! After a lot of soul searching and going back and forth,  talking or may I say persuading our own children of how great of an idea this was (to which all shouted in protest), our imaginary "baby" became a real possibility.  We decided that our baby would be a girl and began planning, looking for information, getting ready to adopt.

"I wanted to be the healer, but became the healed."

As things turned out, my Myasthenia  relapsed  and so did our dreams of becoming parents again. We were forced to face the fact that my health wasn't up to raising a fourth child.  I gave up on my hopes of  healing, loving and the most important of all, bringing her home.  I would always tell my youngest son, "Somewhere there's a little girl calling my name."  We had taken a step further, and we had already chosen a name for her,  Carmen Isabel.   So you can imagine, what we went through when we faced losing our dream.   As a family we grieved about the baby girl who would never come home with us.  We had become attached to a dream, we had allowed ourselves to cling on to something, but weren't regretting it a bit.  Life brings us joy, but sometimes it also brings us hurt, and there is nothing wrong with that.

What we didn't know was that we were being prepared as a family to receive our newest member.  If you're still reading my blog, come and meet, who people warn me about not getting too attached to....

Ian and me in Franco's Honor List Activity at his University.

 It turned out that my husband's brother trusted him under our care when he was only two months and he turned two a couple of weeks ago (That's another story to tell).  He was formed in another woman's womb, but at the same time was being formed in my heart.  His name is Ian, his mommy chose that name not even knowing what it meant.  The curious thing is that it means, a gift from God.   One of my sons told me a couple of months ago "You know what Mom, you were right about a baby calling you, where you got it wrong was on the sex,  it wasn't a baby girl that was calling your name, it was a boy.".

Once again,  we've faced life with a baby in the house,  and dealt with my relapses along the way.   I wanted to be the healer, but became the healed.  Ian healed my soul and to my surprise my immune system has been much better even since he became part of our lives. We're adjusting, now we don't long or yearn in the mall or the supermarket, but complain (happily) on the soaring prices of baby stuff, but the most important of it all is that  he has become our greatest joy. We are and always will be attached to him, and the best part is that there is absolutely nothing wrong with that.