Just Start Talking: Indecent Proposal

I was not raised to be street smart. I grew up in a small town in New Mexico called Espanola; a town one could miss driving through if you blinked too long. While my hometown was not exactly “safe” for it was non-walkable and quite poor, along with a massive heroine trade that it is still known for, I wasn’t usually that afraid of people. The first time I really experienced fear in my hometown was when I was 15 years old and my friend and I were driving around the local Sonic (a drive-in fast food place). On Friday nights was the “Cruise Line,” a time in which the local “Vatos” would bring out their lowriders, pump up their Dr.Dre, and show off their hydraulics while cruising down the main street.

***Just in case one has never heard of the great town of Espanola, it is known as the low-rider capital of the world. Yeah, we’re famous…

My friend and I, after just getting our driver’s licenses, wanted to be a part of this local culture, so we rolled down our windows, turned up Eminem, and started cruising down the main street in my 95’ White Jeep Cherokee (sans the hydraulics). This lasted for about five minutes for as we were following the line of cars cruising around Sonic, we were waiting at the stoplight when a group of three Mexican girls got out of their car and surrounded my jeep with knives in their hands. “Get the fuck out of our town White bitches. Go back to where you come from,”  They threatened. We were too scared to tell these girls that this was our hometown too, and quickly sped away deciding to never cruise again.

Besides this random incident, I never needed to be worried about smiling at people or talking to random strangers though when I moved to NYC, I learned quickly that my constant smiling and chatting wouldn’t exactly cut it in the big city. While I developed a bit of a defensive wall when meeting new people and chose a bit more wisely the people I talked to, I have never developed a tough enough exterior to deny conversations with interesting people who I meet, even if they are a bit strange.  Because of this, I am telling the following story:

The other day, before walking to the recreation center I workout at in Harlem on 134^th street and Lenox, I walked into a small corner store to buy a bottle of water. I was dreading working out for my I-pod had just died and I hate running without some musical motivation, but I noticed that the store sold a number of electronic items made for an I-pod. I asked the owner of the store if I could possibly give him a few dollars to charge my I-pod and he said that it would be no problem and he would do it free of charge.

While I was waiting for the charge to take place, the man who had helped me started talking to me. He introduced himself as Hamad and told me he was from Yemen, a country in the Middle East. He spoke Arabic and English and had come to the United States over 30 years ago. He told me about his wife and five children, the oldest of who was 25; and told me that he, himself, was in his 60’s. He asked me a bit about my job and was impressed that I was in education. He kept telling me that I was beautiful…which was a bit creepy…but he was so nice that I ignored it. Before I left, he gave me free water, a free I-pod charger, and a free I-pod case with headphones. I tried to say no but he insisted that I take these items and told me how happy he was to have met me. I thanked him profusely, said goodbye, and left feeling inspired. “What a kind man,” I thought to myself. From our conversation he seemed to love his wife and children a great deal and seemed quite intelligent as well. I was happy that I had met such a person and was so thankful that I decided to buy him a thank-you card to give to him the next time I saw him.

Two days later, I came in with a thank-you card in hand ready to give a quick hello to Hamad and leave. The second he saw me however, grabbed my hand and would not let go. “I cannot stop thinking about you” he said. “ I would like you to be my wife.”…Hold up, HEY (in Dr.Dre’s voice)…. “You already have a wife,” I responded. Plus you have children my age. “Yes but in my country, we can have more than one wife, it is God’s way. You are stuck in my head and in my heart. I need you to be mine.” In MY head I was uncomfortable as hell but I tried to remain my composed, thanked him for the offer but told him I was not interested, and quickly left the store. I have, and will not return…ever.

I’m sharing this story because my lack of street smarts, while changing on the surface to some degree, has clearly remained with me. I still like to think that everyone is good, that everyone’s intentions are kind and pure. I don’t think Hamad was a bad man, I think I just mis-read the situation and took attraction for simple kindness. I would like to continue to hold on to some of my naivete, for it makes the world a bit easier to live in, but this was definitely a lesson in not assuming too naively the intentions of a human being, no matter how much free stuff he gives you, how old he is, or how many wives he has.

Just Start Talking: Cause my body’s so bootylicious

New Mexico, my home state, is primarily made up of Hispanic, Mexican, Native American, and White people. If you are familiar with the physical traits of these groups, you know that many Mexican and Spanish people are quite small. Native Americans’ bodies are often bigger on top and smaller on the bottom, and white people usually have straight up and down bodies with flat butts (Unless they’re obese. ) ***FYI: I recognize these are stereotypes and that there are many outliers who do not fit in this description. Point is, I didn’t grow up seeing many people who fit my personal body description: smaller on top, big ass, thick thighs…you get the picture.

Growing up I was always considered “chubby.”  I would get called names at school by both girls and boys (One boy refused to call me by my name but instead just called me “fat girl.”) Some people would chant “1-800- Jenny Craig” to mock the infamous weight loss commercial and one even called me “tub of lard.” I am not writing this for consolation for now, I can actually see quite a bit of humor in it and laugh, but it unfortunately did a number on my psyche and the way I thought about my body.  It didn’t help that I was in dance classes and the dance company I danced for would ask me to lose 15- 20 pounds in a matter of weeks to fit into the extra small bright green unitards needing to be worn for the dances (We shouldn’t have been subjected to these in the first place, but that’s a whole other topic.) All in all, I didn’t feel so great about my physical appearance.

Once I got to middle school and on to high school, my weight would fluctuate and I noticed that in my thinner times, I was much more likely to be noticed by my male counterparts. Even with more positive attention, however, I never felt completely comfortable in my own skin. Wearing a bikini, for example was completely forbidden. One boy told me he would like me if I didn’t have such big thighs and a “wide butt.” OUCH.

When I decided to go to college on the East Coast, I met new people from different cultures and new positive ideas about my body began to surface. I was no longer fat but instead, I was “thick.” The lone phrase “you have a pretty face” (aka “not a pretty body”) was now accompanied by “I like your body.” My self esteem began to rise and I even decided to do a few campaigns to get other “curvy” women to feel good about themselves. Yet even with this increase in confidence, it wasn’t until I moved to Spanish Harlem this year that I have finally not only accepted my curvy body, but celebrated it. I would love to say that this celebration comes from within but in fact, it comes from the external words that males (and even some females) in Harlem are willing to give. Let me give you some examples:

Example #1: A man at the Park and Recreation Center across the street from my apartment asked me while AI was working out if I was a personal trainer and how many clients I have…. This would never happen in New Mexico.

Example #2: A woman walking down the street stopped me and asked me if I was a fitness model..again, would never happen.

Example #3: Several people on my block who see me going to work out have told me I’m starting to look too thin and should stop exercising so much ….I have never heard these words before.

I am not writing these examples to boast about how good I look or how many people compliment me. I am giving them as examples of what I missed out on for the early part of my life. While some of the comments I have received have been utterly absurd and some inappropriate, these words have all supported a belief that I was never taught, a belief that it is okay to be a little thicker, okay to be womanly, okay to be confident with my body and any extra curve or roll I might have.  I would love to get to the place in which I need no external influences to increase my esteem, but until then, I profusely thank the people in my neighborhood who have given me the ability to finally love the body I grew up to be ashamed of.

Just Start Talking: A Bus Blockbuster

There are times in one’s life where a situation occurs, one acts in the moment, an assessment of the situation takes place afterwards, and one feels at ease with what was just experienced. Than, there are times in which even with careful assessment and reflection, the situation one previously experienced just doesn’t make any sense. This lack of reason or “sense” is exactly what happened to me on the bus several days ago.

In order to describe this situation further, I think I’ll set up a kind of script to better illustrate how strange this situation was:

Scene 1

Setting: On a bus going home to Harlem

Anna: Gets on the bus, walks past an older woman with a walker, and smiles

Older Woman: “Hi, you have such pretty earrings. I love them. Where did you get them?”

Anna: “Oh thank you! I got them at H & M! They were only, like, $5.”

Older Woman: “Wow. I love them. They are just so beautiful. I really love them. They’re really beautiful. Wow, they look so pretty.”

Anna: “Um…thanks! If you really like them, you can have them. I can always get other ones!”

Older Woman: “Oh no I couldn’t, I have a short neck, I couldn’t wear them, they look perfect on you. They accentuate your long neck.”

Anna: “Are you sure? Truly if you love them please take them.”

Older Woman: “No I couldn’t…Oh my god that’s just so sweet.”  Woman starts crying. “Why can’t everyone be nice? People are so mean. I have such a horrible life.” Intense wailing begins…

Anna: “Are you okay? Why are you crying?”

Older Woman: “My husband is such an asshole. He is a horrible person.  I give him money and he takes it and spends it on crack. He stole all my food stamps and gave them to his girlfriend. We were married for fourteen years and I have nothing. My life is so bad. Why god…Why god, why????”  Wailing continues…

Anna: “Wow. That sounds horrible. I’m really sorry. I hope things get better.”

Older Woman: “Why God? Why God? Why…..” Wailing continues…

Anna: “Well um, this is my stop. Good luck to you.” Looking around awkwardly. “Bye.”

Older Woman: “Oh, bye sweetie. You’re so sweet…Why God???” Wailing continues…

END SCENE

Okay, if you couldn’t follow this script, I don’t blame you, for I couldn’t really follow it either. I was in a situation that started out seemingly innocent and became an uncomfortable ride of crying, cursing, and wailing that even after some intense reflection, I still don’t fully understand.  What made me want to share this story, however, was the realization that many people are living in a world completely different than my own. On a day-to-day basis, I meet both acquaintances and strangers that seem be on a completely different plain of thinking than the one I’m used to. In some ways this is interesting, for it provides a contrasting perspective on how to live and think in this world.  At the same time, I like to think of myself as fairly aware others and myself, and when I meet a woman like this one who seems so unaware of what is taking place or who is around her, it’s a bit disconcerting. This woman was clearly hurting. She seemingly had no outlets for getting her emotions out and needed to bombard a random person on the bus (that person being me) with her pain.  There’s something quite beautiful about people being able to so freely share their emotions and life stories, but the beauty kind of fizzles when the sharing turns to pure craziness.  I hope this woman’s life gets better. I hope she gets the earrings she loves, and her food stamps back, and maybe even some love from her husband.   I hope this for the sake of her, but just as much for the sake of others,  for one scene is more than enough. Scene two of this story would just be a blockbuster flop.

Just Start Talking: I think I need a cup of tea

I haven’t written in this blog for a long time… over a month to be exact.  My life this summer has been filled with work, friends, work, family, work and some relaxation. Most of the time, I write my blog during work hours so when I have too much to do, clearly the writing takes a brief pause. But I am done with this break and ready to share the lives of amazing people I have met throughout this past month.

This entry will be about Andre, a middle aged man I met in Arizona during my short vacation two weeks ago with my mom.  A perfect parallel to my feeling about Andre would be my feeling about a hot cup of tea. I love tea. Every morning and often in the evening as well I will sit with a cup of Earl Gray tea mixed with milk and honey. Drinking the tea will bring me comfort and peace and while it isn’t exciting or expensive, it is exactly what I need to get me through the week and bring joy to my life. Andre was very much the same way.

The hotel (or more correctly “resort”) in which my mom and I were staying two weeks ago is stunning. It boasts 11 swimming pools, a water slide and waterfall, gondola rides around the hotel and the largest assortment of cactus in all the Southwest. Staying at this place is a luxury and because my mom is now considered a “senior citizen,” we get this luxury for a bit less than the average guest.   My mom and I will go there every few years for a couple of days to lie in the hot Arizona sun, read books and work on our tan. Of course, because of the price of this place, one of the luxuries given is pool side service. Someone (usually a blonde 18 year old boy or girl) will bring you water and food and take care of you while you are working hard on your tan. This year, however, our poolside waiter was a bit different.

Andre was the first person that greeted my mom and me to see if we needed anything after getting our complimentary towels and padded chair. Automatically, I was pleasantly surprised by his warmth. He began chatting to us about our stay and asking us where we were from. He brought us huge pitchers of ice water with lemon when everyone else was getting plastic cups. He gave us free fruit and free drinks. He was wonderful. After saying goodnight to him the first night, my mom and I decided we wanted find a way to thank him. I bought him a card at the hotel store as well as a gift certificate to use at any place in the hotel and prepared to present it to him the next day.

As we were setting up our chairs for the same amazing routine the next day, Andre came around once again to give us a pitcher of water and tell us hi. When I presented him with the card and gift, he was clearly taken aback. He thanked us profusely and proceeded to tell us a bit about his life:  in his forties, bachelor, working at the Hyatt for 11 years, loves sports and animals, originally from Texas…He hadn’t lived some extraordinarily exciting or unique life, but he seemed happy with where he was and more importantly with whom he was. He surprised us later on with free lunch for both me and my mom and made sure to stop by every hour or so to see if we needed anything.

At the end of our stay, I searched for Andre to thank him for his kindness and I couldn’t find him. I tried to ask the hotel if he had an email where we could reach but unfortunately, they could not give us his information. I left feeling sad that I didn’t get to thank him one last time but happy that we had met such a purely kind person. I think of Andre like tea because he was a man who was purely good. He had no ulterior motives for his kindness, he did not ask for anything in return, not even a tip, but he made us feel warm, comfortable and at peace and I looked forward to his presence… just like my daily cup of earl grey.

Just Start Talking: Around the Block

Gentrification is defined by Webster as “the process of renewal and rebuilding accompanying the influx of middle-class or affluent people into deteriorating areas that often displaces poorer residents.” Gentrification is happening in New York City at a rapid rate. Because of the demand to live in Manhattan, areas that were historically inhabited by lower class families are being pushed out and the middle and upper class is moving in. You can see this everywhere; in Harlem, in Brooklyn, in the Lower East side, even in some places in the Bronx (though the Bronx still seems to lacking the full gentrification process of other areas).  Health food stores are replacing bodegas. Neighborhood bars are becoming wine bars. Several weeks ago I even walked by a French pastry shop and café right across from the local barbershop and liquor store on 126th.  The upscale market is moving in and pushing the original inhabitants out.

I would be lying if I said I wasn’t part of this renewal process. While I understand how tricky and controversial gentrification can be, I am a twenty something young person with very little money who wants to live in Manhattan. The most ideal place for me to live financially speaking is Harlem, and so after getting back from Thailand, I found a cheap apartment on 114th  and First Avenue in Spanish Harlem and moved right in.  My neighborhood is somewhat of a dichotomy. There is the Mediterranean hummus bar right next to the Dominican cigar store where men sit all day smoking cigars and drinking beer. There’s the famous Italian restaurant Rao’s down the street from a t-shirt shop that is a front for some serious drug sales. There are neighbors I have met who work for the United Nations and have record deals living along side neighbors who are crack addicts and haven’t worked since Vietnam. It an interesting place to live and one in which the idea of talking to random people becomes quite easy… so easy in fact that I have established a great deal of friends and acquaintances that have played significant roles in my life:

1. There’s my personal trainer, Sergio, who is a Dominican boxer who trained in Muai Thai fighting in Thailand. I met him because for $25 a year, I bought a pass to the recreation center across the street and began working out there several times a week.  Sergio “saw potential in me” (whatever that means) and now trains me for an hour and a half three times a week and charges me $7 a session…amazing.

2. There’s the group of drug dealers who hang outside my door, all of whom are from the neighborhood. They throw block parties with great food, have my back when sketchy guys are around, and even open the door for me when I have locked myself out of the building. Ironically, they provide me with the feeling of safety in this neighborhood that can at times be a bit sketchy.

3. There’s Roger, the alcoholic/drug addict that lost both his wife and child and doesn’t have a job. Every day when I’m coming home from work he says hi and tells me he love me. I won’t lie, he’s a bit strange, but I know he knows many people in the neighborhood and I know that if I’m ever in trouble, he’ll always have my back.

4. There’s Namita, the Indian woman who works at Dunkin Donuts on 116th. I’ll see her several times a week while getting my morning tea and we will talk about men, work, and threading our eyebrows. She has begun to give me free food and tea told me that she has told her family all about me. She’s a nice ray of light in the early mornings before the work day.

5. There’s the staff at Orbit, a great bar down the street from me, who gives me discounts on dinner and drinks and provides a nice place for enjoying time off.

6. There’s even “J” the hardcore drug dealer that deals on the block outside Orbit. If I’m ever walking down the street and any man tries to stop me, he will tell them to “fuck off” and make space for me on the sidewalk to keep walking.

These people might not be the perfect wholesome people that one might want to hear about. They are working class, have their own vices, and are still searching for new aspects of success and security. But they are the people that gentrification is pushing out.  I am at a loss for what to do about an issue that I fully take part in, but what I can say is “thank you” to the people who are in my neighborhood who have added so much to my life and made it quite unique!

Just Start Talking: Some Words To Be Spoken

When I was in college, I was introduced to “Spoken Word.” I had taken years of English classes in which I would read poetry from the 19^th and 20^th century and I never felt connected to any of the words. Whether it was the subject, or the structure, or the even the vocabulary, I do not know, but I did not feel any connection with poetry whatsoever.  Then, my freshman year in college, two freshman guys created an open-mic event that took place once a month. It was at these events that I began to be immersed in what is known as “Slam Poetry.” As Wikipedia explains it:

‘Since its inception, the spoken word has been an outlet for people to release their views. The spoken word, or slam poetry, has now become the present day soap-box for people to express their views, emotions, life experiences or information. The views of spoken word artists encompass religion, politics, sex and gender. A spoken word piece can be powerful with the right emotion behind it but, at the same time, a lack of emotion can set a poem apart. Spoken word is used to inform or make people conscious of some aspect pertaining to life.’

The idea of “Spoken Word” was incredible for me because it was a way to release my thoughts and feelings into words in a creative way without the structures of the poetry I had studied in high school. I began to write my own poems and “speak” them to audiences. It was almost as though I was acting in a scene, though I was saying my true thoughts and feelings. If I was angry, I would write and speak, if I was in love, I would write and speak; I poured my emotions into words on a page and then “slammed” them into the ears of anyone who wanted to hear.

Once I graduated and began teaching young students, many of my own creative endeavors were lost. I was so focused on coddling my students’ creativity that I forgot to take time to focus on my own. While I was in Thailand, I wrote a few poems, especially when I was angry or hurt, but it wasn’t until very recently that I began to write again.  I met a person who was so ingenious with his words that I could finally remember the therapeutic aspect of not only writing down your thoughts, but speaking them as well.

Lately, I have been listening to the conversations of women. I have noticed that whether young or old, many of the conversations that take place between two or more women surround the topic of men. I am guilty of this myself and it makes me aware of how dependent many women are on men. Because of this I have written some poems.  I haven’t yet “spoken” them, but writing them in a blog is the first way to share the words I would indefinitely like to speak.

To Women (and men too)

I hear women talking each and every day
About the men who they love and the men who just play
But I’m still waiting to see that confident sway
Of a woman who knows her worth without male love or male lays

And the beat goes on, and the beat goes on, and the beat of insecurity goes on

The heels they wear seem to be just for show
And yet the meaning behind them I really do know
For as much as I want the appearance of that self-reliant glow
The insecurity of a female is what I feel and I know

And the beat goes on, and the beat goes on, and the beat of the psyche goes on

When I look at my body, I long to please
To feel his fingers slowly gliding up my knees
And though I know through my actions I come across as a tease
The mentality of a woman is to fully appease

And the beat goes on, and the beat goes on, and the beat of sexuality goes on

Sex is the thing that we all use to hide
The inner longing that we feel inside
For the respect of a male truly gives us the pride
To be open and free and not some fuck on the side

And the beat goes on, and the beat goes on, and the beat of the heart goes on

Old people use Mother Earth and Father Sky
To model the equality of a girl and a guy
But somewhere in our history this awareness did die
For equality lays dormant and hypocrisy has gone awry

And the beat goes on, and the beat goes on, and the beat of inequality goes on

So it’s time to stand up for the power we should feel
Without giving up our beauty and making unfair deals
For we need a world that’s completely even-keel
So the respect of both men and women we can seal

And the beat goes on, and the beat goes on, and the beat of Change goes on….

Just Start Talking: Bar Mentality, Bar Morality

I work in a bar on Sundays from 12 pm to 8pm to make a little extra money. Who are the types of people that come to a bar on Sundays from 12pm to 8 pm one might ask? Well I’ll tell you… older people who hate their jobs, older people who have no jobs, younger people who are new to the city and have very few friends, younger people who have no jobs, middle aged people trying to get away from their spouses and kids, and your typical alcoholic who needs a drink any time of day no matter the day just to get by. I guess one could infer that working at this bar is not the most inspiring of atmospheres. And yet, as sad and pathetic as it can at times be, I actually enjoy my Sundays at the small karaoke dive bar on the Upper East Side.

After reading any entry in this blog, I’m sure that it is fairly clear to people that I like to talk and I love to listen. This is really the only reason why I make any money bartending at all. I know hardly anything about beer, or wine, or hard liquor, and if you ask me to make you a special mixed drink, I will most likely ask you exactly how to make it. But people who come to bars on a Sunday afternoon are not there to impress others with their fancy drinks or slick shot taking skills, they are there to get wasted and talk about their lives…a different form of therapy some might say. And I am there to listen and hopefully make a little money in the mean time.

This Sunday was no different than most, except that it was Mother’s Day and the actual money I made was slim to none. There were only a small handful of people who came in on my shift; however those who came in were clearly there for a reason. The first man who came in was the only customer I had for several hours and stayed and talked with me about the economy, his addiction to gambling and his work at CVS as shift manager. The second man who came in was from Mexico and tried to get me to be his girlfriend so that I could help him raise his kids. (* This might sound abnormal…but at a karaoke bar on Sunday afternoons, it’s not). While these two men provided some interesting amusement and gave me a good tip, the third and fourth customers of the day were the two that really stayed with me (emotionally I mean). The third man who came in, named Salvator, was a middle aged waiter trying to make it as an opera singer. While he was singing an aria to me (quite beautifully, I might add), the fourth customer, a woman who comes in every Sunday to visit me named Patricia, came into the bar. We started our conversation over his beer and her tequila shots and what eventually came out was that this man was the father of two boys and had just lost his wife to cancer.

While initially he did not want to get into details, after the second beer, Salvator began telling me and Patricia about his wife’s eight year bout with cancer. He told us how much he had loved her and how strong she had been. He expressed his love of his sons and how worried about them he was. He told us that his oldest son had dropped out of high school to be in a band, but he felt as if that was his son’s way of coping, and he didn’t want to push him. Every once in awhile, Patricia would chime in about her own divorce or her own daughter, but for the most part her and me both listened. He said goodbye, Patricia and I bid him farewell and told him to stay strong and keep singing, and he left. This is where things take a turn for the worse.

As soon as Salvator left, Patricia decided to go to the bathroom. She was gone for quite a while and I was hoping she wasn’t sick from the tequila. Instead, she came back with tears dripping from her eyes. “My niece just drowned,” she screamed. “She was the mother of two little boys. She was beautiful. She was taking them out on a boat for Mother’s Day…She drowned!” At this, I immediately went into mothering mode. “What happened?” I asked, “How can I help? What can I do?” “I don’t believe it, I can’t believe it, it isn’t real,” she said over and over. She called her brother back, (the father of her niece) to make sure she wasn’t dreaming. When he assured her over phone that it was real, she began balling again. “It’s mother’s day, how can she die on mother’s day?” After many minutes of comforting this inebriated woman in despair, she thanked me and left in a rush to buy a plane ticket for the funeral. I was left in silence, not knowing what to do or how to react.

I am telling this story not because it was inspiring or uplifting. I am telling it not because I received any advice about my own life. I am telling it because what these two people experienced is the plight of the reality of life and death. Mortality comes and there is nothing we can do about it. Some people choose to hide this fear in alcohol or drugs, some ignore it, some look at it in the face and perhaps dwell on it too much. But what I did realize this Sunday afternoon at this small karaoke bar is that while we can’t choose when death comes, we can choose how we live life until then. I don’t judge the people who come into my bar. I’m sure some are in pain and some might be addicts, and some might just enjoy a beer every once in awhile; but if I have the choice, I want to spend my days living. A little bar mentality I have learned on mortality.