E. Steven Collins - the man, the myth, the legend...

Ernie Steven Collins, better known as E. Steven and best known as simply, E.  Yesterday morning I started my day with a phone call no one wants to receive.  E, a dear friend and mentor, had suddenly passed away.  I was numb with sadness and shock.  It had been over a year since we communicated but the pain was still palpable, nonetheless.

E was an original, a class act.  He was a community leader, an exceptional mentor, a comedian, a loving husband, a tremendous father (and an influential father figure to so many others), an amazing friend.

I was maybe twenty when I met E.  He immediately took me under his wing and showed me the radio ropes.  He taught me how to produce a show, how to work under pressure, and most importantly, that nothing is impossible if you put your mind to it.  "Sweetheart" he'd say, "to get what you never had you've got to think like you've never thought and do what you've never done." He gave criticism without belittlement.  A warm word, a corny joke, a random lunch date, were all possible every time you passed his office.  He could be listening to Biggie or Coltrane, depending on the day.  A simple lunch at Reading Terminal Market could turn into a meet and greet with the Mayor, a councilwoman, a longtime fan, a church leader, or perhaps just a former intern.  The beauty of E was that they were all received with the same importance.

E touched everyone he met.  He was a gentleman, a shining star.  He lived life to the very fullest and brought whomever was willing to come along for the ride.  No matter where life took me, or how long it had been since we spoke, I could always count on E for a warm "Miss you!!"  Love you lots!".  That was just E.

While the sadness remains, I can't help but feel blessed --- blessed to have known him.  I'm struggling...it is so very hard to put into words just how special he was.  A plethora of information.  An open book.  A welcome wagon.  A cheerleader.  E was...amazing.

My prayers go out to each and every person who had the privilege of knowing him -- for I know we all have similar stories and thus similar pain, sadness, and shock.  I can only hope that every one of us takes a little  E with us as we continue on our journey.  Paying forward the love, respect, and guidance he gave to us is the greatest homage we can give him.  E. Steven Collins - the man, the myth, the legend!

Rest in peace, E.  Miss you and love you lots.

Moving On

Moving on has to be one of the hardest things for a person to do.  No matter the age or the gender.  Be it moving on from a job, a relationship, a home, a city or even a way of thinking.  Change is a natural part of life but not always a welcomed one.  We see it all the time, in the lives of others and (at times begrudgingly) in our own lives.  Einstein once said, "The world as we have created it
is a process of our thinking.  It cannot be changed without changing our thinking."  That consciousness he is referring to, has to arrive before change can ever happen.  Realizing and recognizing when something no longer serves you or the road you've "selected" for yourself.  Change can be scary, almost paralyzing...but why?  Well, it’s very closely associated with another "ch" word -- choice.  People have protested and even died to secure our "right to choose" within this society.  Even God himself tells us through the Bible that we have been given the gift of free will.  Blue pill? Red pill? You have the final say.  Every moment of our lives we are making choices, both consciously and subconsciously.  So for those of us that love saying, "I don't know what to do" or "I'm so bad at making choices", well, perhaps there's a bit of a silver lining in the notion that every thing you do and DON'T do is...a choice.  So why is this relevant to change? Well, before we make a choice to change, we have to count up the cost.  That's when the What if's show up.  What if...what if the next job is worse than the last, what if he/she doesn't love me the way I imagined they would/should, what if I get my heart broken yet again, what if I really don't know what I want to be when I grow up, what if I never live in the same city as my family ever again, what if my friends stop calling me because of my new way of thinking, what if my family makes fun of me, what if I'm not strong enough, what if I'm not good enough, what if I truly am not all that I think I can be...

Just typing those what if's brought tears to my eyes.  Imagine carrying them around with you all the time? In my heart of hearts I believe we all know what we really want.  While many of us don't have a detailed map, if you pay attention you may realize that it feels like there is almost a code written within us that navigates us during those really important moments.  There's a section of society that make a conscious, unapologetic effort to follow that internal navigation.  You can call them yogis, Christians, spiritually awake people, Hindus, Jews, Muslims, Buddhists, Sufis, insert label here, etc. The label is simply a label, but is usually a first step to a truth that is sometimes difficult to put into words.  Simply put, you realize that you are part of something greater -- a grand design.  When this happens, you become keener.  Despierta (awake).  And so, when the change that needs to happen is counter to your very being, somehow you still make the choice.  Not because your heart and soul really wants to, but because it is literally the natural next destination on your map.  No, it may not end up the way you think it should have, no you may never live in the same city as your parents again, and he/she might tear your heart to pieces, and that job might just be the worst job you've ever had --- but that might be just what you needed to make you wiser, stronger, gentler, kinder, more forgiving.  The more "in tune" you become with the God that lives within, the more you can see, understand and even accept -- well, life.  Even if it hurts.  Moving on becomes less of a boogie monster.  The truth isn't so hard to tell anymore.  Choices are made with genuine consideration and not fear or anger.  Change is welcomed.  And in some way, if we're walking in love, even the world changes for the better.

Glory, glory!

There are times when it seems nothing is going right.  When it seems the world is coming down all around you and even when you know better, you don't necessarily do better.  My last post, regarding my grandmother, was one of those times.  I did know better. I wanted to do better.  I just didn't know HOW to change my attitude.  Here is this woman that I have deemed ungrateful and cold.  I decided I no longer belonged there with her.  I had to move on.  The moving on part stands true, but for sake of time and space, I'll save that for another post at another time.

Mama celebrates 89!

Before I could move on I knew I had to "fix" my heart...and I knew it was no one's job but my own.  Many times, its easy to blame outside sources for what has happened to you, how you feel, or where you are or aren't in life.  But, we must remember we are in charge.  Everyday.  We make a choice.  Yes, there are things you can't escape like children, grandmas, and other such responsibilities but even in those things we really do make a choice.  Plenty of people have turned their backs on these types of responsibilities that many of us consider inescapable.  So, by simply being there we have made that choice.  But, if you're going to be there ---  well, be there...and bring something meaningful to the table.  In my case, I am still working towards building the foundation of my life.  Who I am, where I stand, what I do, etc. are all still being formulated.  But now, Mama has become a major part of that process.  So, how do I honor her while still staying true to my own camino (walk/journey)?

Step 1 - I apologized for my attitude.  I sat there, tail between my legs and I apologized.  I explained that I am conscious of how angry and difficult I have been and I explained why.  Using me.  Not her.  While I easily have an opinion on how she contributed to my less than appealing attitude, she has to come to her own conclusions about her behavior.  That's HER choice and her cross to bear.  Not mine. Having the ability to be true to who you are and being the best you possible is not an easy feat.  But, to allow anyone or thing to come in and tear that down in a blink of an eye says there's serious work left to be done.  For me, this is the definition of maturity -- the ability to face adversity without crumbling, digressing, or making rash, emotion filled decisions.  Be the change you want to see...

Step 2 - I prayed (and continue to pray daily).

Step 3 - I spoke to my father.  That conversation was one of the realest conversations we've had in awhile.

Step 4 - I got moving.  I found a housekeeper/grandma sitter.  Praise God she is truly an angel.  I "randomly" got her name and number from city hall and only after her interview did we find out she was the sister of our old handyman/neighbor whom Mama really loves.  Serendipitous, really.

Step 5 - I am getting back to being the loving, sweet and kind granddaughter I was when I first got here.  Looking forward to adventures with Mama and really making an effort to spend time with her.  Being present, patient and forgiving when I am with her (even if it means watching corny novelas and super annoying Puerto Rican gossip shows).  So many times, we just get use to those around us.  Then we wonder why we feel like we're in such a rut.  You hear it all the time when it comes to marriages, but it really can be applied to any relationship. It is a work.  A constant reinvestment into who they are and what they mean to you --- especially when things get so gray you're unsure about those answers.  That reinvestment clarifies the place they had in your heart, before life started piling into that once pure space.

Step 6 - I am allowing myself time for me.  Yoga, prayer and meditation, Newsroom watching time, time with other family members, working without guilt, coffee or drink dates with myself (and others), reconnecting with the outside world.  Finding that balance between responsibilities and relaxation.  When that is out of balance, so is your life.

This blog serves as an account of my story.  My characters consisting of Mama, my parents, Max, sister-cousins, etc.  But you too have your own story.  Your own challenges.  Your own characters.  To you, on your journey I say - be encouraged.  There may still be more question marks than periods, but I'm learning that that's life.  That's the beauty of life.  The journey is in the questions.  In yoga, its called "the flow".  Well, I encourage you to remember you too are living the flow.  The challenging, strengthening, frightening, yet magnificent flow.

The Warriors

February of 2013.  That was the last time I looked at this blog.  A six month adventure has turned into a 3 year (this December) ordeal.  In this time I've grown closer to God, farther from seemingly everyone else in my life, and have reached a stalemate with my grandmother.  If I seem down, its probably because I feel a bit defeated.  The rain is coming down in front of me -- literally and I feel the same way inside.  These are the hard times.  The point of this blog was to get me through the happy, sad, funny and tragic.  Happy and funny come easy.  Sad and tragic, well that's a bit harder to express -- on a public forum to people who could care less or care too much.

My grandmother is tough.  She's cold.  Quite frankly she can be quite the pain in my ass.  But, who isn't?  I know I'm a pain.  I can be tough and I can be quite cold when I want to be (and even sometimes when I don't want to be).  In my yoga teacher training (which I completed about two weeks ago but now feels like 2 years ago), we learned about karma.  Stored up karma, karma in your present life, karma in your future lives.  Perhaps this is mine.  Learning how to deal with someone as hardheaded as I am.  Feeling what it's like and gaining new insight on the love and patience it must have taken for those who have been apart of my life to "deal" with me.

In the training we also learned about personalities using an enneagram  test.  Initially, I ranked tied with a 7 (the adventurer) and a 9 (the mediator).  When my teacher described the different types of personalities I pegged my father and grandmother as an 8 (the warrior).  These personalities (when unbalanced) are dominant, they have a 'my way or the highway' attitude and when they are in attack mode -- well you better watch out!  Our teacher told us the exam we took was an initial one and if we'd like to go deeper, we could meet with her separately....so I did.  Well, surprisingly, I discovered I was actually a 7 and an 8.  It seems I too, am a warrior.

The warrior personality is developed through hurt.  A serious injustice that was enacted upon you which shifts the manner in which you approach people, situations --- life in general.  You hurt them before they can hurt you.  You bring a grenade to a fire fight.  You put on an armor and you wait for the shoe to drop and war to start.  "But Mish, that's so not you." some would say.  While others, unfortunately, are reading this and just nodding their head.  To those, who are probably still mending war wounds as a result of my actions, I say I'm sorry again and again and again.  While I didn't have a label of "warrior" to use, I knew there were things I wanted to change about me.  Things that were unsettling and so I began to address it, I made a real effort to see what was wrong and how I could be a better me.  That journey started years ago and has truly enhanced my life in so many beautiful ways.  But, that's the thing about this journey called life.  It's a journey.  And so, there will always be something new to challenge us.  A new opportunity to use what we've learned and apply it so that we can move to a new level of living our best life.  This sounds amazing and fun, but its anything but most times.  See, my inherent nature is to protect myself.  To make sure I'm not hurt, like ever.  Because feeling hurt can paralyze me.  This takes me back to my grandmother...

I'm a warrior living with a warrior.  I am trying to provide, love and guide her in the best way I know how without losing myself in the process.  I am looking at 32 in a short few months and I have dreams of a secure financial future, an amazing husband, and cute as a button bilingual children.  So, I find myself working on my budding conversational English company, tending to Mama, attempting to maintain contact with the outside world and tending to the house.  Everything, obviously, is done half heartedly because while I'm doing one thing the other is being neglected.  I don't have a social life past liking things on Facebook and Instagram, and attending my weekly yoga and English classes.  So my dreams are feeling more and more like that -- dreams.

Then, on the day I graduated with my yoga teaching certificate, my grandmother ended up in the hospital.  I was none the wiser until my father told me the next day.  Apparently she told her neighbor not to call me because she knew I was graduating.  She took the dog for a walk, felt dizzy and rushed home, only to fall flat on her face in the middle of the living room.  She had a medical alert bracelet on her arm that she could have used but instead the prideful warrior attempted to lift herself up (unsuccessfully).  Thankfully, a neighbor came by for one of her daily visits and helped her up.  They then took her to the hospital to tend to her bruises and to make sure there were no further injuries (thankfully there weren't).

Since that incident I decided things had to change, so I started looking for a cleaning lady -- which led me to find a great free town program that is offered to the elderly.  In this program they are picked up in the mornings and dropped off in the afternoons.  They are fed breakfast, lunch and a snack, they play games, listen to music, and do a whole slew of activities.  It's like school for old folks lol.  The place is beautiful and nicely maintained.  My parents (who were visiting) and I made an appointment with them so that my grandmother could see the place and hopefully give it a chance.  Well, we didn't get that far.  She vehemently refused to even visit.  I was pissed.  I was hurt.  I was sad.

I can now see, though, that I was so angry because I was thinking about myself.  What a relief this would be for me both mentally and physically.  How perfect this would work with my schedule and how this would free me a bit more to start laying the groundwork for my own life.  Me, my, I.  So, when she was adamant about her position, I took it personally.  How could she be so rude? How could she not even consider this, knowing how helpful this would be for me?  Doesn't she care about me and my feelings?  Doesn't she want to see me happy?!  I wanted to book a flight on the first thing smoking and leave her proud warrior ass in the dust.  In the past, I probably would have.  But, I know better now and so I have to deal.  I still have a heavy heart.  I am still displeased with her and quite frankly don't even want to be nice to her, but I know that I have to figure it out.  I have to break out of my own warrior shell and find that thoughtful wife and loving mother that I hope to be one day.  This is truly one of the hardest things I've had to do...not sudsy butt crack washing or dog piss cleaning. ..but this --- going against the very grain of who I am and loving and being gentle towards someone who has disappointed and hurt me so much that I don't even want to look at much less talk to.

Today the cleaning lady came for an orientation before she begins on Monday.  I couldn't help but notice that as she was leaving, Mama mumbled "Buena suerte" (good luck) under her breath.  And so, it seems, the adventure continues...

Hands

Hands that touch.  Touch a frail body ever so sensitively.  Hands that are wrinkled.  Hands that are freckled.  Hands that can have the weight of a ton of bricks.  Hands that I use to beg to intertwine with mine.  Just for a bit.  Calm hands.  Nervous hands.  Hands attached to long fingers and even longer nail beds.  Proof we're related hands.  Hands with the blessing of cooking skills.  Thank you Mom hands.  Well manicured hands taking care of rough calloused hands.  Signs of a lifetime of hard work hands. Seemingly huge hands have grown smaller over the years.  Mini hands full of multicolored polish.  Full of life and so much possibility hands.  Hands that look for a phone but instead find their way to a keyboard.  Hands that clean.  Hands that iron.  Hands that hang freshly washed clothes.  Hands that wipe tears.  Hands that come together to pray.  Hands that grip a yoga mat.  Downward dog.  Bridge.  Help me hands.  Help me make sense.  Hands.

The lab

Next week, Mama has an appointment with her primary care physician.  That being the case, we went to the local lab this morning to take her routine exams [blood, urine, etc.].  Mama seemed to be semi-excited, maybe even anxious this morning.  She woke up and the first thing she said to me was, "We're going to take blood this morning right?"  I assured her that we were and even suggested we go grab some breakfast afterwards.

Why aren't I at work you ask?  Well, I've significantly reduced my hours at the job in order to be around more often for Ms. Mama.  I also [thankfully] secured a position tutoring a group of engineering students at the local university.  So, there's still money coming in and more time to care for Mama.

Back to the lab.  So, as Mama is getting her blood drawn, the woman attending her is trying to convince her to take a short trip with me back to New York.  She's making a good case but Mama is just politely laughing saying its too cold over there right now.  She faithfully watches the Weather Channel like its a real channel.  Its almost like a favorite past time of hers or something.  I mean really, what is it with old people and weather?  She goes straight for the weather section in the newspaper, must see the weather on her afternoon news program, and knows the Weather Channel number and schedule by heart! You would think someone so invested in weather would use it to her advantage and actually plan outings or something!  I digress.  

Where were we? Oh yes, the woman finishes taking her blood and hands her an empty tube and a plastic cup.  Mama looks at me with these bugged out eyes and says "You can stay here."  I ask why and she responds "I have to give a sample of my urine so I have to go to the bathroom." I say, "Ok, well then, let me take your purse." See, in my mind she already has a cane and a bad arm.  If she wants bathroom privacy I'll grant it to her but the least I can do is hold her purse.  Here's were it gets interesting...as I reach for the purse, she pulls back and refuses!  But like nervously refuses - with crazy eyes this time.  Now I know something is up and before I could open my mouth again she says "Come, come with me to the bathroom."  Lord oh Lord, I think, What is she up to??  

As soon as we walk into the bathroom she starts unzippering her purse.  As she's doing that, she's explaining "I don't go to the bathroom in public places, and I never pee here.  I always bring my own urine."  Yes.  Read it again.  Ingest that.  I promise it just gets better.  She then proceeds to pull out a small plastic bottle.  As she's doing this I'm thinking - that bottle looks very familiar....don't tell me.  No. she. didn't.  The bottle, ladies and gentleman, was the bottle I use to store my natural juices that I make at home.  My famous baby bottle that I love because it doesn't leak and is small enough to fit in my bag.  Yes, that bottle is now Mama's pee pee cup.  I can't.  I didn't know how to react and so I just mumbled [desperately and in full English] "Nooooo, you can't be serious." under my breath.  Mama saw my face and said "What?"  I responded "Mama I use that for juice!"  While pouring her pee from my bottle into the tube and passing me the unused cup to throw away, she nonchalantly said "Well, I couldn't find the cup I usually put it in and so I grabbed the first thing I saw."

Please note: 

#1- I am afraid to ask what she use to put her pee pee in before my bottle came along. #2 When did she find the time to do all this without me noticing?  She must have done it last night before she went to bed...when I was out teaching...ugh #3- there is no way she just stumbled on that bottle because I store them on the second shelf in the kitchen --- of course I would have the TALL 89 year old grandma! 

As I type this I am in a fit of laughter.  How are you such a germ-a-phobe that you won't use perfectly clean public toilets but you'll freely piss in a baby bottle that people drink from?!?!  It's like I'm living a sitcom sometimes...and these things are just too good not to share.  Happy Friday folks!

Exhibit A

Clearing the Air

It has been over a month since I unofficially moved back in with Mama.  Within these last few weeks, the unofficial move became official when I sat down and had the "Mama I'm moving back in" talk with her.  Then I began packing up...once again.

Plaza Colón in Mayagüez, Puerto Rico

Pretty quickly, the holidays approached and I realized why, this same time last year, I moved out.  Christmas here is depressing.  "What?" you say, "Christmas in Puerto Rico?  Depressing?  No way!"  Well, my response is no, Christmas in Puerto Rico is not depressing.  Christmas in Mama's house is.  She has no Christmas spirit and even less now that she's in a sling.  There is no eagerness to visit family and she in no way considers this a special time of year.  It is no wonder that right around this time last year I decided to pack up and move out.  But, it seems God has other plans for me.  So, almost exactly a year later, I'm back.  Apparently, I have unfinished business here and one way or the other, I am going to have to deal with it.

 

Mama's brother's house was a rockin' good time!

Ahh!  Stay on beat Mish!

Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, I am ashamed to say, were probably two of the most tense days in this house.  Christmas Eve Mama said she wasn't going anywhere [we had been invited to her brother AND her sister's house].  I got upset and down.  I went into my room and Skyped with my little brother and my dad until pretty late.  Then, I pushed myself to get dressed and only made it to Mama's brother's house.  While I felt welcomed and did my best to make the most of my evening, I was still bummed.

Christmas Day wasn't much better.  She hardly even looked at the gift I put under the tree.  She was quiet.  I was quiet.  I even bathed her in silence.  The tension you could cut with a knife and all I kept thinking was "Michelle, you're supposed to be better than this.  You have to make it right."  That evening I had a long conversation with an old friend.  I expressed my frustration regarding this situation to him and he simply asked me "Have you expressed any of these feelings to her?" I quickly responded "No." To which, of course, he asked "Why not?"  My response was "I don't want to make my grandma cry." He laughed and said "Why would you make her cry?" My response was simple, "Because I think I want to make her cry.  To prove she has feelings.  Which tells me I don't need to talk to her yet." He left it alone and we continued on talking about family and other stuff.  But, that part of the conversation stuck with me.  I knew I needed to come to a space where I was able to express myself, able to have hard conversations, without necessarily hurting [or wanting to] hurt the other person.  While I had done well with this in the past, I have also had my share of miserable failures.  I didn't want the latter to happen with Mama.

It wasn't until the morning of December 26th that I sat down with Mama and I cleared the air.  I had just returned from an early morning run.  After preparing her breakfast and cleaning up the dishes, I sat in front of her in the living room...and I started. "Mama...necesito que decir lo siento y que pide perdon..." [Mama...I have to say I'm sorry and ask for forgiveness...]

I went on to explain that I know that my behavior over the last few days was less than stellar.  I told her that I was angry but perhaps not for the reasons she thought.  I went on to tell her that my parents raised me with an emphasis on the importance of family.  I told her I work to maintain contact with everyone because for me, these people are important.  So, I explained, it hurts me when her attitude towards family is so nonchalant.  I get that people are different, I even get that we are not always going to agree.  What I am still working on being ok with is the way it seems she could really care less about anybody in her family.  In fact, she seems to only really care about the neighbor's kid [the one she pretty much raised, put before everyone, and still refers to as her son].  I went on to explain how deeply that situation has hurt me throughout my life. How no matter how hard I try I can't wrap my head around it.  I also let her know, I was done trying to wrap my head around it.  The past is the past and whether I understand it or not, it just is.  I concluded that while that hurt, I am still here.  I am here and I am willing to work.  My focus is on peace.  The only way I can love her the way I'm supposed to is if I find my peace within this situation.  This conversation was an enormous step in that direction.  I finally spoke about the elephant in the room.  Actually, my elephant.  By talking about it, without hostility but with honesty, I was able to free myself.  She heard me.  What she does with what she heard is up to her.  I have no expectations.  My mission was accomplished.

I'm proud of myself because I found a way to say really difficult things in a sincere way [oh and all in Spanish!].  As soon as the conversation was over it was like a weight was lifted off my shoulders.  Mama didn't say much, she just listened.  I found it interesting that I wasn't looking for nor needed her feedback.  What could she really say?  Nothing I said was untrue and in no way do I want her to lie to me.  I know she loves that kid...now that man [and his daughter and his wife].  I know that she can't help how she feels about him and that she made certain decisions in her life that cultivated that relationship yet destroyed others.  I also know that I can either accept her for who she is or spend my entire life wishing she were someone else and finding myself miserable.  You can't choose your family, but you can choose how you deal with them.  She may not be a warm and cuddly grandma, but she certainly is one who is teaching and growing me daily.  For that, I am thankful.

Feliz Navidad.

Tostones de Pana

Mama was NOT really cutting

Pana.  I love pana.  Before I came to live here in Puerto Rico, I had never tasted nor even seen a pana.  Pana, also known as breadfruit, is commonly eaten boiled and paired with algo guisado [something stewed] or cut into cubes, lightly fried, smashed, and then fried again [like tostones].  Today's cooking lesson will show you the latter...both super duper easy AND TASTY! [The other way, you simply boil with salt to taste for about 20 minutes]

How to cut/cook pana [in pictures]:

Step 1: slice in half

Step 2: Slice like you would a cantaloupe

Step 3: Peel the skin

Step 4: Cut into cubes

Step 5: Place in bowl with water and salt to taste

Step 6: Heat oil and fry until lightly golden

Step 7: Place on flat surface [my neighbor uses a plastic bag, I don't know how I feel about that]

Step 8: Squash the pana down

Step 9: Open & refry for a few minutes 

Step 10: Voila!

I hope you enjoy this recipe as much as I do.  It has been quite a journey thus far with Mama and her one arm and a more detailed blog highlighting those adventures is on the way.  Until then, though, I cook, and make lemonade out of lemons [or tostones out of pana].

Limbers de Coco

Mama getting her one armed Skype on!

Mama's bum arm has come with quite a few silver linings [some of which I'm sure I'm not even aware of yet], one being...drumroll please...new recipes!  Yaaay silver lining!  Since I have essentially moved back in until further notice, I am now playing part time chef and part time nurse.  Part time chef comes with its perks, the following recipe being one...you're welcome... in advance.

Limbers are Puerto Rico's version of a flavored icy.  These amazing cups of cool, sweet goodness don't come in your average flavors though.  Coconut, sesame, guanabana [soursop], and crema [cream] are just a few of the most popular.  Mama and Papa use to run a store from a renovated garage in the same house she still lives in.  The neighborhood would come for various grocery/snack items, one of the most popular being her limbers.

Recently, Mama had some visitors from New York, a step-daughter and her husband...and they absolutely love her coconut limbers.  Apparently, every time they come to visit Mama has a freezer full waiting for them.  Since she's got one arm down, the neighbor and I joined forces and became Mama's sous chefs.  In doing so, I got this amazingly simple recipe...and now, so do you! Mmmm icy....

Tools/Ingredients:
- Pot
- Plastic cups
- Can opener
- 1 cup of sugar
- 1 bottle of coconut syrup
- 1 tablespoon of vanilla
- 1 can of coconut milk
- Water [use the empty syrup bottle to measure]
- Cinnamon [optional]

Step 1:
- pour the coconut milk, syrup and water into the pot

Step 2:
- add vanilla and sugar

Step 3:
- mix with a big spoon so that the sugar does not settle at the bottom of the pot
- add cinnamon, extra sugar, etc to taste [optional]

Step 4:
- Fill cups and place in freezer
- once frozen garnish with cinnamon [optional]
-ENJOY!

Enjoy!

What. A. Day.

Today Puerto Rico celebrated its day of "discovery".  It is an official local holiday and most offices and all schools are closed.  I, after having spent the weekend continuing to reunite with my newfound family members, was looking forward to this day "off".

It started just how I wanted it to...early rise, followed by daily readings, followed by a trip to the local track for a long overdue jog in the crisp morning air.  Check, check, check.  Next, I was heading home to jump into my pilates/yoga regimen.  Then, I would start on the laundry list of to-dos I had assembled the night before.  But, just as I was starting my car and heading home, my phone rang. It was Mama's neighbor.  They were in the hospital.  They'd been there since about 5am.  Mama was experiencing such a severe pain in her arm she could not get herself out of bed.

From then on out it was hours upon hours in the extremely cold hospital emergency room.  Thankfully, she was in a bed by the time I got there, and a stroke/heart attack had been ruled out...but the pain had hardly subsided.  It wasn't until almost 5pm - yes, 12 hours later - that they realized she had dislocated her shoulder.  For 12 hours she suffered through injections, tubes of blood being sucked out of her, apathetic technicians who borderline manhandled her, and numerous, personality varying nurses.

Her neighbor/bff was there the whole way through.  And, while she certainly can't seem to stay still, and has an apparent issue with more than a few minutes of silence, she is an excellent follow upper.  She is precise.  If they say they're coming to check her pressure in two hours, well she's checking her phone every half hour to make sure they come when they said they would.  When they don't come, because they never do, she is making her rounds looking for the nurse.  I am thankful for her and have even begun to admire her.

Dislocated right shoulder

Once Mama was finally diagnosed, we were told they were going to sedate her for a short time so that they may put her bone back where it belonged.  Then they'd take another X-ray to make sure nothing else was awry.  How does an 88 year old woman dislocate her shoulder?  Well, the answer to this particular question, when it comes to Mama, we will never specifically know.  But, my hard headed, warrior woman, grandma still rearranges furniture.  She still mops her house, still insists on gardening, and as if that weren't enough, she does stuff like gets dizzy or falls and tells you about it days later after she's picked herself up and kept it moving.  Because of this, a few months ago, I got her the Life Alert bracelet.  Sadly, she didn't actually use it last night.  Lucky for us, her neighbor/bff heard unusual commotion against the wall their bedrooms share.  She called out to Mama through the window to check if she was ok.  That, was when she discovered she wasn't.

Today was emotionally draining.  I continued to battle feelings of inferiority, of naivety,  and of pure freight.  When the doctor told us Mama would have to be in a sling for the next two weeks, I honestly freaked out inside...because my first thought was...I'm going to have to bathe her.  How selfish right?  Why is that even a thought? Well, it was...that and every other foul, funny,  and disturbing thing that may pass through ones mind when they realize bathing an 88 year old is in their very near future.  I honestly had a moment.  How can I get out of this? Who else can do it? I thought.  No one but you was the immediate answer.

By the time we got home, Mama had had a mini bathroom accident in my car and was still a little dazed from the drugs she was given at the hospital.  My feet were sore from standing for so many hours and we were all exhausted.  I knew shower time was coming and I knew that meant showtime for me.

I am pleased to report I put my big girl hat on and I just went to work.  It was fairly easy once I put myself in Mama's shoes.  Here is a very proud and independent woman who now has to depend on another for just about everything for the next few weeks.  She is tired, she is embarrassed, she is feeling her mortality and she is counting on a neighbor and a granddaughter that, two short years ago, she had a distant relationship with...at best.  She deserves my utmost respect, my upbeat demeanor to lighten the mood, and my compassion.  So, I got a washcloth, I made the water comfortably warm, and I began to treat her like she was at a spa.  She deserved it after all she went through today.  As I continued to bathe her, I thought about the numerous toddlers I've bathed in my life.  This wasn't much different.  While many of my friends are dealing with terrible two's, accidents, bath time adventures, and first time boo boos....I kinda am too.  It's like I'm in bizarro Mommy Bootcamp.  The circle of life I guess.  I'm doing my best to embrace it.  Fighting feelings of "What the hell am I doing here?" because the truth of the matter is I know ...

Challenge accepted.  What a day...of "discovery".

Guineo Escabeche

As promised in my last post, here is the guineo escabeche recipe.  Mama and I made this together for the family reunion last weekend.  Very simple, very tasty.  Enjoy!

Ingredients:
olive oil
vinegar
onions
bay leaves
olives
garlic
salt to taste
guineo verde (small green bananas)


Process:
- slice the guineos down the back, keep the skin on
- set the guineos to boil for about a half hour - depending on the amount of bananas you're boiling

- the guineos should be soft enough to easily peel the guineo, but not too soft
- while the guineos are boiling, slice onions and press garlic
- while guineos are cooling- take a pot and combine olive oil, vinegar, onions and garlic under low/medium heat
- allow this to simmer a bit, then throw in a bay leaf or two
- peel the guineos and cut them into slices and throw in the pot
- add olives and salt to taste -- note that you shouldn't need much salt considering you're using olives
- remove from heat and allow guineos to sit and marinate for at least a half hour
- you may eat at room temperature or cold

Brothers & Sisters

The "every Ramirez" photo

Hermanos.  This past Saturday, a major "Puerto Rico to-do" was scratched off my list.  My beloved Tio Roberto and his wife Nereida, threw a family reunion!  We got more than half there, as six out of the ten who are still with us were in attendance.  This was, without a doubt, a victory!

The personality differences definitely shined from time to time...little miss diva Mama removed herself from the group at one point because a bottle of rum was on the table.  She is the eldest and it is quite evident that she is a bit of a separatist.  Speaks when spoken to, you know, that sort of stuff.

Eventually, with a bit of help from the more outgoing, younger generation of cousins, she warmed up.  Before I knew it, she was singing her heart out to classic boleros, providing enthusiastic backup vocals for a group karaoke session, and shoulder shimmied the night away to salsa, merengue, and even reggaeton tunes.

I'm getting my photos one by one!

The reunion not only brought brothers, sisters, cousins, aunts and uncles together, it also managed to shine a light on just how close Mama and I have become.  When it was dinner time, I served her a plate.  As I walked up to her with plate in hand, I spotted her adamantly shaking her finger and head in unison (as any mature 5 year old would do).  By the time I got to her, she announced (sternly and proudly), "No, no.  I'm not going to eat."  This, of course, was declared in front of an audience of her sisters...one of whom had already deemed the food not to her liking (this sister, I must add, is painfully skinny and doesn't seem to eat much of anything...further in that discussion I will not tread).  So, I looked Mama straight in her eye and as softly, warmly and equally sternly as I could, I said "I'm getting my plate now and we'll eat together."  As I walked away, mumbles of protest continued to fill the warm night air.  

Add caption

I prepared myself for the battle ahead of me, but upon my return, "motherly" instincts simply kicked in.  I removed her from her "audience" by encouraging her to face me with her plate.  I then asked her to pray over our meal (as she does everyday with me at lunch).  As she eyed her food, I reminded her I prepared the salad myself and we made the guineo escabeche (recipe coming in next post) together.  I saw an air of comfort fall over her face as she picked up her fork and started for the leafy greens.  Finally, I sealed the deal with her favorite...a nice cold Coke.  Before I knew it my Mama's plate was spotless!  She even ate her dessert (and half of mine...what a greedy lady)!

She arrived clutching her purse, refusing to eat, and being almost anti-social.  She ended up singing, chair dancing, laughing, smiling for tons of pictures, and being the LAST sibling to leave the party.  

Titi Rosa, Mish and Mama

Mama with one of her many nephews

Mama Maria is the big sister.  Serious.  Independent.  As one of her brother-in-laws describes her, "..una guerrera...siempre" ("...a warrior...always").  This may not be the most popular personality in a family, but she is still family.  She is a mother, grandmother, great grandmother, aunt, daughter, and sister.  And these, well these are her siblings...and there's nothing she can do to change that.  Whether they want to admit it or not, they need each other and probably always have.  Tio Robert gets that.  On Saturday, the veil seemed to lift for many of them, and they are now getting it too.

Titi Fanita, Mish, and Titi Virgin

I am one of three.  The middle child.  The only girl.  The wild card.  My older brother is the definition of stability.  Responsible.  A meat and potatoes kinda guy.  The "little" one is taller than all of us.  Charming.  Warm, yet cool under pressure.  Together, somos hermanos.  While we may change, that fact never will.

Right now, the three of us are separated.  One in Japan, one in New York and one in Puerto Rico.  Conversations are far and few between, as we can no longer count on Ma's next BBQ to catch up.  Between the three of us, there are currently three different time zones, three children, journeys of self discovery, bills, questions of next steps, significant others, oh, and not to mention, aging parents.  It now takes effort and a level of consideration for each other's lives...separate from our role as brother or sister.

Thank you technology!

Saturday night, when I got home, I e-mailed my little brother.  I'm looking for a good old fashioned sibling conversation.  No one else, just him and I.  Its long overdue.  Big brother can expect a call shortly as well.

Who picks up the phone, who sends the e-mail/text, or pays the first visit just doesn't matter.  Forgotten birthdays, anniversaries, and time lapses don't matter.  We're human.  Life happens.  What matters is that when we reach out, we are received...with genuine love.  THAT is the only thing that matters.

My brothers are special because they are my brothers.  We were gifted to each other and grew up together in a household that only we truly get--- because we lived it.  The good, bad, ugly, and beautiful...we shared those together.  Blood runs thick and what we have to offer each other is support...by birthright.


The pride I felt as a little girl watching my big brother play the trumpet, pitch at his numerous baseball games, or even graduate, is the same pride I feel today when he does something simple like pick me up from the airport.  He's there.  Late, on time, whatever.  I know he'll be there.  Siempre.  

My little brother can become Andre the Giant, he can learn discipline, and be a proud member of the US Air Force...but that hug, that smile, and the traditional head scratch that makes him 8 years old again, that will always be him and I.  Siempre.

These connections keep a family united.  These connections lead to cousins knowing cousins.  Family becoming friends rather than strangers.  This world is hard enough to navigate, why not face it together?

cousin love

Roots

"In all of us there is a hunger, marrow deep, to know our heritage -- to know who we are and where we came from.  Without this enriching knowledge, there is a hollow yearning.  No matter what our attainments in life, there is still a vacuum, an emptiness, the most disquieting loneliness." - Alex Haley

Pedro, Virginia, Celina and Victor

My grandmother Celina had three siblings: Pedro, Virginia, and Victor.  I grew up knowing of and seeing these three siblings pretty regularly -- even the ones, who as far back as I can remember, lived in Puerto Rico.  We were always aware of their presence and what part they played in our family construct.  Them, their children, and their children's children, for the most part, were a part of our extended, yet familiar, family.  As a kid, you don't think about "sides"-- especially not in the household I was raised in.  Family was pretty much anyone who showed up to our numerous gatherings (birthdays, holidays, or 'today is a good day for a party' parties).  I never looked at them as "Ma's side" or "Pa's side".  It wasn't until I was much older that I realized most of the "friends" were my dad's and most of the "blood" was my mom's.

My (paternal) great grandparents celebrating their 50th anniversary with (most of) their children

My grandmother Maria has twelve, yes twelve siblings.  Yes, ALL from the same mother and father.  Two years ago, this was news to me.  How I could go 29 years on this planet without knowing, speaking to, or even remember seeing one relative of my grandmother's is pretty amazing to me.  But, I've learned that in life there are many layers to a story.  One man's priority is not necessarily another's.  One man's belief could be another man's cheap joke...just as one man's treasure could be another man's trash.  My Spanish is now advanced enough that I feel confident in seeking out, talking to, and hopefully developing some sort of relationship with these siblings on my own.  Not all are still alive, but a good majority of them are.  I am seeking stories, old pictures, and clarity on the enigma that is Mama Maria.  I also know that deep down, I'm still looking for pieces of my biological grandfather through them.  Maybe one of them happens to have a story, some information or better yet - a picture of him!  Highly unlikely, and virtually impossible, but a girl could dream -- right?

Family seems to be a touchy subject with that crew.  From the limited conversations I've had with Mama Maria, I sense hurt, tension, secrets, and resentment.  Even in my limited interaction with the few members I have met thus far, well, I've never seen a family so disconnected.

5 minutes of heaven for me! Mama and some of her sisters.

There are glimmers of hope though.  Last summer I left a note in my Titi Rosa's mailbox explaining that I would love to meet her and encouraged her to call me sometime.  She did one better, she gathered two of her other sisters and a niece, and surprised Mama with a midday visit (looking for me)!  Luckily, I was able to spend a small amount of time with them on my lunch break.  But, when I later called Titi Rosa to try to setup a weekend lunch gathering with her and her sisters, she was obviously hesitant and non-commital.  Weirdness.  There is another sister that supposedly lives in the same neighborhood as Mama, yet in the year and a half that I've been here, I've NEVER seen her.  No visitations, no calls, nada.  Supposedly her daughter recently got married.  No invite.  More weirdness.  Then, there's Tio Robert, whom shortly after I returned from New York this summer, randomly reached out to Mama and expressed interest in seeing her and meeting me.  It was as if there was some divine intervention at work because upon my return to la isla, I had decided that I wanted to at least meet and take a picture with every living sibling Mama had left -- before the end of the year.  My parents happened to be in PR during this time, so we jumped in the car and headed over to Tio Roberto's --- but not before stopping to see my great grandparent's old house.

Tio Robert!

So, how are Tio Robert and his wife?  Beautiful, warm, and welcoming people!  It seems that Tio Robert has a yearning to keep in touch with his family as well.  He seems genuinely interested in doing what I'm hoping to do -- unite the siblings.  He politely admits its challenging, and obviously stifles any further commentary.  I can't help but feel that one of those challenges was sitting in the living room that day (you know, she goes by the name of Maria).

I honestly cannot wait to get him and his wife alone and comfortable.  Hopefully they will open up and layer by layer, history will unfold.  The Angela Lansbury in me is super excited, but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't just a wee bit concerned that asking too many questions may get me in hot water.  There is an obvious disparity within this bloodline and at times, it feels like even simple questions have the potential to ruffle feathers and result in a blacklist.  But, this is a risk I have to take.  This is my history and subsequently my children's history.  I cannot deny the obvious "...hunger, marrow deep, to know..."

Where Mama Maria grew up.  One of her sisters still lives here.

PS- Tio Robert and I had a lovely conversation today.  We're getting together after church tomorrow.  It is then that I will begin to ask for pictures.

PPS - We did get together after church.  Exciting stuff. The story continues later this week in my next post.