Climbing to the Top ... Well ... Almost

As the sun finished his climb up the sky and high noon heat hit my bared shoulders, I led my siblings and my over-excited dog into the car for a field trip to Kennesaw Mountain. While it took a while to herd my parents into the car, Phoebe rushed excitedly around the compact insides of our minivan and climbed all over my legs, leaving scratches and hair on every surface she touched. As the car started, she quieted down and sat patiently (whining) while trying to look through the window.

With ever passing car, Phoebe tried her hardest to "escape" and find new people to scratch her belly. She whined as if it was some malicious intent on our side that kept her from sniffing the blurring magnolias, oaks, birches, and pines. My mom tried to calm her, but Phoebe only took her kindness as a welcome to join my mom in the front seat.

Ignoring everything, my father kept driving and turned up the radio to drown out Phoebe's whining. Song after song, my sister and I belted the lyrics to the tunes on the radio; we shared funny faces and even cajoled our brother into an odd rendition of Carly Rae Jepsen's "Call Me Maybe," a rendition which garnered funny looks from our parents. Phoebe, on the other hand, did not care for singing as she was only trying to escape into the fields of grass just outside the parking lot of Kennesaw Mountain.

Phoebe leapt out of the car once the door opened and the leash nearly slipped out of my hands as she scrambled to sniff the feet of a toddler waddling by on the sidewalk. The toddler giggled in glee and allowed Phoebe to enthusiastically lick his face. Suddenly, both Phoebe and the toddler were shocked still as a cannon went off in the distance. It would appear that we had chosen the annual celebration of the Battle of Kennesaw as our family outing day.

Enthralled by the cannons and volunteers in Confederate uniforms, my brother veered off the trail and walked straight into a reenacted campsite where a lovely woman in a layered hoop-skirt and bonnet was washing clothes in a bucket and another hoop-skirted southern lady was cooking rice and salted pork in a big pot over a fire for the tired soldiers. Some women even offered us tea they had just brewed outside. My sister even let down her guard to enjoy looking at the lovely lace gloves and shawl a woman was wearing. My father and I were driven toward the muskets by our shared love of antique guns. My mother laughed and took pictures to commemorate the impromptu dive into history.

The Union soldiers also had a camp and showed my brother how to clean shoes properly. Their tents were cleaner and they had a small band. Two drums and a few unknown wind instruments played various songs for our enjoyment but were interrupted by their instinctive need to pet Phoebe. Soon after, the Union soldiers marched in formation and put on a brief show of marching and haphazardly throwing their muskets into the air. They needed more practice... or maybe they were trying to be historically accurate.

When the over-heated soldiers took a break from fawning over Phoebe, we finally took off in the direction of the trail to begin our much-awaited trek up to the top of the mountain. That is, we tried. Until my father's still-recovering knees began to give out, so he turned around and told us to keep walking. My mom and I walked ahead, deeper into the surrounding oaks and pines; we took comfort in the shadows of the canopy of leaves. Five minutes into our walk up to the top of the mountain, my mom's cell phone begins to ring and my father's voice booms and crackles from the little speakers. The Confederate soldiers are putting on a cannon show.

My brother had never seen cannon fire so we began to turn around in order to head to the Confederate camp. That is, we tried. Until my sister began throwing a temper tantrum about "this isn't hiking" and "exercise is supposed to be continuous and I just want to walk up the mountain" and "we never get to do what I want because no one asks for my opinion" and "we took so long to get in the car and all I want to do is hike."

So my mother offers to stay with her and hike. Which, of course, my sister defiantly turns down and decides to punish herself by saying she'll just go and watch the cannons. Having irritated every one of us with her tantrum, she huffs and tantrums her way over to the Confederate camp. Stomping on the dirt path, she created small puffy clouds around her feet and scared off a few chipmunks. We all sat on the soft grass to enjoy the history lesson and cannon show.

The Confederate soldiers line up behind their cannons and begin to prime the cannon and loading it with powder. The other soldier held the cannons to prevent some of the recoil, but, even with their help, the cannons would roll back at least six feet with every firing shot. When the "General" shouts "fire!" his soldier light their weapons and the cannons boom. The ground shakes and a cloud of smoke lingers over the air, the smell of ignited gunpowder mixes with the smell of burning coal back at the Confederate campsite. When the smoke cleared and the show was over, we all stood up to go hiking again. That is, we tried.

My sister does not want to. After her irritating tantrum, she has decided she does not feel like walking now. Of course, of course. My father talks her into walking for a little while. Smiles on every face, except for a scowl on my sister's face, we once again take comfort under a canopy shade and enjoy the beautiful trees ascending to touch the sky. My brother stomps through the woods, snickering as he breaks sticks with his feet and stopping to look at the interesting rock formations. I indulge in the simple pleasure of looking through the trees and searching for wildlife. Butterflies and chipmunks abound while a doe leaps over a fallen oak. The hole in the canopy is easy to spot as the bright blinding light shines through a large round opening.

After ten minutes of semi-peace, my brother begins to complain because his feet are tired and my sister chimes in about her aching legs. He's thirsty. She's hungry. My dad's knees aren't ready for this hike. This last one I can understand, so they begin the trek down the mountain for water and shade. My mother and I keep walking up the hill, passing tourist groups speaking a myriad of languages and serious hikers in their lycra, until we reach a beautiful lookout spot.

My camera did not do the view any justice. From this spot between the trees, we could see every building in the Atlanta skyline outlined against a clear blue sky. The King and Queen, the Bank of America Plaza and SunTrust Plaza, and the Westin Peachtree Plaza Hotel. All surrounded by lush green foliage. It's odd how man often forgets that nature was here before us and that it is all around us - even in a city like Atlanta. The city has lush green on every side and mountains are seen in the distance, but whilst in the city, one cannot help but feel that city is all there is to the world.

It had only been ten minutes and we had in no way reached the top of the mountain, but we resigned ourselves to joining the rest of the family. We didn't want to keep them waiting, so we began the trek down the path. We passed the same tourist groups, still speaking their myriad languages, and different hikers and runners, still in their tight lycra outfits. Two emperor butterflies later, we arrived at the bottom of the mountain to find that not only were the soldiers gone by so was our car.

One phone call revealed the family to be at KFC buying lunch for the hungry children. We waited for their return and I mourned the passing of a strange hiking day. My sister was in the car, in a jovial mood, and when pressed for a reason for her new mood... she replied simply and succinctly.

"Chicken."

So there we have it, folks. When your child gives you a hard time and throws at tantrum at age thirteen, all you have to do is give them some chicken.

Special Eyes

Eyes, in their mirror-like qualities and telling signals, are curious parts of the human body. Expanding or shrinking pupils in the presence or absence of light or stimuli. Widening or squinting eyelids in surprise and joy or suspicion and anger. Quickening or slowing blinks; a sudden clarification or a slow glazing over; eyes are truly amazing and curious parts of our bodies.

Some eyes are more special than others.

Some eyes are not simply brown: they are Dove dark chocolate brown. Once, they had flecks of golden honey or fool's gold. Without losing any of their sweetness, those dark chocolate eyes lost their honey flecks.

Those irises, dark and inviting, contrast the blinding white of the sclera and the creamy white skin of the eyelids and cheeks. Eyelids lined with delicate, long, ebony eyelashes that belong on a China doll.

These are the eyes of a boy.

These eyes peer inquisitively at me from behind corrective glasses, a little too early in the morning. Smiling, they ask me to play or they beg for breakfast.

Sometimes, they spy and track my movements from behind a book they should be reading. Reflected in a mirror, they squeal in joy at tickling hands or funny faces when they should be concentrating on brushing teeth.

Clear and attentive, they stare in fascination at new flora or fauna on a hike through the wilderness of our backyard. They light up when "Life Is A Highway" comes on the radio as we dance in the kitchen while making dinner.

Erratic and concentrated, they race across the screen as Mario struggles towards the finish line and (undoubtedly) fails to rescue Princess Peach yet again. They curse silently when Mario dies at the hands of a pesky red shell.

Glazed over and hazy like frosted glass, they vegetate in front of the tv and watch the black screen when it is much too early to be awake. The squint and pull a DS screen closer and closer, desperate to win.

Chocolate pebbles that sparkle and shine as they chase me around the front lawn and grin maliciously when they catch me around the back porch.

When sleepy, those usually vivacious eyes become dull. Eyelashes slow their butterfly kisses and the eyelids that seem to be perpetually widening squint as blood vessels become visible. Those tired eyes swell and close: pretending not to be sleepy, fighting their weariness. Darkened eyelids cover eyes that are finally still and doll-eyelashes finally rest motionless on smiling cheeks.

My doll, my brother - the little man.

Let's Go to the Mall (Adventures Part IV)

***names changed, you know the drill***     

  

  I rarely venture to the mall on my own because I do not have a car to drive to the mall. Because I generally do not need frivolous things that are not within walking-distance. Because it is exponentially more fun to have a friend with me. But sometimes, I venture to the mall on my own at the expense of a tired bus-driver who thinks it is dangerous for a young woman to be alone in Columbia buses.

          I tend to enter through the food court, humming made-up songs with lyrics about the people I see. It is very interesting to people-watch in solidarity, as I am prone to do when alone, and I take mental notes of the hipster lumberjacks and the grandiose air of a stylish elderly woman carrying a chihuahua in the palm on her hand. I sit alone, eyes intensely focused on the young children riding the merry-go-round as I reminisce about my childhood and wonder what grandiose dreams these children will shatter in order to “make ends meet” in their future. A few cat calls and one “go on ahead with yo’ bad self, gurl” later, I get up and enter the book store. I am lonely in my need to have stimulating conversation so I reach for the companionship of a new friend with pages of secrets unopened. Settled down in a cozy corner of the floor, I laugh or cry appropriately as my new friend divulges new stories. This might be a fleeting fling or a life-long romance, I’m never sure until I’m torn from my friend by a need to leave the book store. 

          I admit that I walk around the mall distractedly, ambling from store to store, and try on every item of clothing that catches my eye. Every fancy dress and sparkly shirt I don’t need, every pair of shoes I can’t afford, every pair of pants or shorts that I would never wear, and every skirt short enough to be a belt. I do not buy anything and instead spend half an hour playing with a baby named Cody in the pet store. Eight-month-old Cody was looking to pet the same Fox Terrier I wanted to play with and became more interested in my hair than the dog, so I spent half an hour playing peek-a-boo and I-got-your-nosey with stranger’s baby on the floor of a pet store. 

        Once Cody’s over-protective mother decided to leave the store with the “dangerous” pet dander, I wandered into David’s Bridal where Courtney, an eager consultant, helped me pick between various gown styles for my imaginary June wedding. Courtney was eager to plan a wedding and needed to fill a quota, so we lied to the system and stuck it to the man by planning an extravagant June wedding to fulfill every princess’s fantasy. Apparently, I’m going to wear a empire-waisted gown and my bridesmaids will wear aquamarine blue dresses in various styles to fit their body-types; I will also have have white lilies and aquamarine blue tulips in my bouquet and as part of the centerpieces. David’s Bridal will e-mail me every day from now on. As I leave the store and a satisfied Courtney, I wander back to the food court for a chocolate ice-cream cone - my secret indulgence.

          I wait for the bus, having bought nothing but lunch and ice-cream. I am satisfied with my day of people-watching and the new acquaintances I made, but I regret not buying the novel that was ultimately the highlight of my day because he provided better conversation than anyone I ran into at the mall. I return to my room and sit in nothing but the comfort of my robe, attempting productivity and homework until someone knocks on my door. “Who is it?” I half-yell to the shadow I see under my door. “It’s me, woman, let me in! And put some clothes on,” Elizabeth says. My robe does not count as clothes, but I open the door just the same. This is my room, my rules. No clothes.

Let's Go to the Mall (Adventures Part III)

***names changed for the purposes of super secrecy***

When I go to the mall with Amber, my daddy drives me to meet her at the mall midway between our houses. Her mother drives her and we call each other on the phone to share the car ride with each other and our parents. My dad picks on us, calls us girly, and laughs knowing he’s glad we’re not doing something stupid or dangerous. Her mom smokes silently and sings Lady Gaga’s “Love Game” in a monotone with a straight face because she doesn’t know what the song means. Our parents drop us off by the food court because it is the most recognizable place to pick up children and perfectly responsible 19-year -olds. With cars out of sight, we give each other a kiss on each cheek, hug, and squeal in our excitement to be together.

          Holding hands comfortably, we stroll leisurely through the mall. We don’t need anything in particular; Amber and I are here for time together and what better place for two non-girly girls to spend girly time together and reconnect? We stop in the accessory shops and try on funky oversized glasses, taking pictures of every moment. As we browse the “old southern lady church hat” collection, we recount our lives to each other: the play I missed, the steady boyfriend she’s never met, the various “sex-ventures” with girls (and a few boys) I never heard about, and school. While putting on elbow-length movie star white gloves, fake-pearls, and tiaras, we reminisce about our high school years: the swim meet where we met when she sat on my lap thinking I was a chair, exploring the deserted school at midnight after an all-day play rehearsal, and going to the museum of art during finals week where we met one of our teachers playing hookie. 

          As we leave the accessory shop, we drag and pull each other to the pet store, squealing at puppies and flirting with the handsome tattooed worker who thinks we’re dating. We just look sooooo much like a lesbian couple, we get that a lot when we go out together in public - but that doesn’t stop us from holding hands and skipping past the stereotypers. We find a photo-booth and squeeze into it; she sits on my lap as we display an array of funny faces followed by an ungraceful tumbling out of the booth. Amber looks at the strip of pictures and shakes her head.

          “How does your chest manage to be the focus of every picture... it’s like a plumber’s butt-crack is on your chest!”

          Holding hands and skipping, Amber and I head directly for the mattress section and pretend to be buying for our nonexistent apartment so the salesman leaves us alone. Having dismissed him and knowing we’re alone, we begin bouncing and jumping on the mattresses, giggling madly until I try to take a picture and Amber falls off of our mattress and onto the next one. Laughing as the salesman tries to reprimand us, we run away to the clothing section where glittery fashion mistakes await us. 

          Giggles and shouts of “you look so ridiculous” follow sequined shirt-dresses that jingle when we move. I get stuck in a shirt and, while trying to take it off, I flash Amber and she giggles in her attempts to help me. This isn’t the first time, but she still stares at her smaller bosom in feigned comical jealousy and giggles at our silliness while snapping pictures of me struggling like a flipped-over turtle. In sensible heels, we try on wedding gowns and prom dresses in a large dressing room, which to our delight has multiple mirrors. Amber and I are the same size so we share dresses, except for the ones that refuse to cover my chest. Those dresses are only for her and she looks like a model. Picture after picture, we strike poses like Madonna and Heidi Klum. A little bit after we begin to model Victoria’s Secret merchandise like Gisele, the pictures stop and the giggling intensifies as we realize our ridiculousness when we fail to properly put on said merchandise. Overstuffed cups and frills are not for us.

          Our parents are summoned and we wait, holding hands and doing what we do best: singing Disney songs a capella and doing all the voices (and instruments). My dad arrives first and we wait for her mom to arrive before going our separate ways for the next 4 or 5 months. Amber kisses each cheek once and then holds me at arm’s-length as if to say something very important. She clears her throat and says solemnly: “Ana, please keep your clothes on.” I laugh at her hilarious attempt at reprimanding me for my supposed nudist-tendencies. “I wear them when necessary, isn’t that enough for you?”

Let's Go to the Mall (Adventures Part II)

***names have been changed, you know the deal***

          When Becky and I go to the mall, my small Caucasian friend lets out her inner mad black woman while she drives: incompetent drivers on the road beware her temper. I laugh as she curses at a small elderly man who forgot to signal his left turn. Country music softly crooning out of the speakers, we do not dance or converse but instead take turns monologuing about what ever may have recently vexed us: her boyfriend, her mother, her job, her teachers, her father, her assignments, and my Physics homework. Mostly, I listen and we never get to my Physics homework, it’s not like I really want to talk about Physics.

          Becky parks at the nearest parking space to the entrance because she doesn’t like to walk too far. We always enter through the food court because she likes to preview her next possible meal even though she is going to order the same thing she always orders. Pizza and breadsticks with a Coke. We are here on a general quest for “something cute” because Becky’s tired of t-shirts and jeans. We browse every clothing store: JC Penney, Sears, Wet Seal, Rue 21, Forever 21, American Eagle, Aerospostale, Hollister, and Victoria’s Secret (because she’s tired of what she wears underneath her t-shirts and jeans). At the first store, Becky over-scrutinizes every shirt she comes across in her self-consciousness as I gather a stunningly large pile of possible, more mature, and stylish outfits for her - as well as outlandish glittery shirts and the prom dresses. ALL the prom dresses. We share a dressing room, past any kind of uncomfortable modesty, and try on everything, especially the things we should never buy.

          Corsets and impossible heels lead to what are supposed to be burlesque shows in the dressing room, scaring small children who poke their head under the dressing room door. Constricting contraptions with straps, zippers, buttons, and way too much glitter lead to grumbles of “help me get into this thing” which eventually lead up to shouts of “get me out of this!!!” Prom dresses make for impromptu runway shows in the dressing room area, Becky twirling like a clumsy ballerina or princess. She’ll always pretend to be mad that something she likes doesn’t fit her body but fits me well. Becky’s not actually pretending. 

        We take pictures in the dressing room, posing individually in front of the mirror and make goofy faces in our serious formal gowns. After an hour or two, we leave the first store with two shirts for her and walk to more and more stores. Never touching and with a few steps between us, we carry her new wardrobe and my new shirt to the food court in comfortable silence as we are about to feast on food court delicacies. Pizza and breadsticks with a Coke for her and Chinese for me. As we recount the shenanigans of the day, she browses through the day’s pictures and deletes the unflattering ones of her.

          As we leave the mall, we drive in near silence while country music croons softly out of the speakers, glad to not be pressured to hold up meaningless small-talk in our comfortable silence. Arriving back on campus, we walk up the stairs to her room. I’m ahead of Becky and carrying the heavy bags. She opens the door and we plop down on her bed as she rants once more about her vexing life. Thirty-minutes later, I leave her room to do homework with a brief awkward hug and a shy “bye, see you later.” Our friend Andrea has overheard the sound of doors and she flings open her door, yelling “put some clothes on!!!” I turn around in surprise and respond “I did put on clothes!”

Let's Go To The Mall (Adventures Part I)

     *** All names have been changed for protection of my friend's dignities***    

          When Elizabeth and I go to the mall, she speeds enthusiastically and we boom and bounce the music out of the speakers. We blast thumping beats and dance through the journey like the fools we are - until an attractive man drives by. Then, we stop and pretend to be normal, hoping to appear attractive. As soon as he drives off, we resume our shenanigans: fist pumping, singing the wrong lyrics, and bouncing in our seats. She likes to let me think that I’m allowed to control the music, but I let her choose because I know she likes to be in control. Besides, with our similar taste in music, she is hard-pressed to find a song I don’t like. We talk convivially on and off about relationships, music, school, and family.

          Once we arrive at the mall, we park at the closest possible spot to a street light because she likes to be able to find her car and she is a stickler for safety. We stop in the food court at least once and always for Americanized Chinese cuisine. We are at the mall for one specific item, but we browse every store that catches our fleeting attention. We arrive at Barnes and Noble and browse every shelf for 43 minutes before arriving at our destination: the little black books. Our communal small black leather journal in hand, we walk through the abandoned mall making up stories for why stores went out of business. 

        We pass an abandoned pizza shop and make our way behind the counter: I climb awkwardly over the wide counter while Elizabeth finds the swinging door and lets herself in with ease and grace only to trip over her own foot. Tip-toeing and whispering too loudly to be in any way sneaky, we slither into the dark kitchen and use our cell phones as flashlights. Elizabeth whispers “do you think it was always this dirty back here?” I laugh and I walk ahead of her, ever the adventurous one, and she takes advantage of the moment to grasp my shoulder suddenly. Two blood-curling shrieks and a “Elizabeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeth!!!!!” later, we laugh our way out of the kitchen and over the counter, humming the Mission Impossible theme as we sneak past the security guard who is now on a wild goose chase after the “hooligans.”

         Once we’re no longer at risk for being arrested for trespassing and forced into mall-jail, Elizabeth walks comfortably near me, arm brushing mine, talking excitedly and candidly. 

          We ride every elevator, pretending to get stuck and dying from loneliness and failed classes. 

          We come across a hurricane simulator and in a burst of immaturity, Elizabeth pays the $2 and we are subject to 100 mile per hour winds. Elizabeth takes a picture to commemorate the moment as our hair flails wildly and we make silly faces. Elizabeth obsessively check to see if the picture is blurry and luckily the picture receives her approval.

          “Wow, your breasts look fantastic. We are gonna crop those puppies out!”

          We come across the abandoned Belk and try on adult-sized animal-themed hooded towels clearly meant for children. More pictures are taken to be approved by Elizabeth and we amble among the knick-knacks, pretending to showcase them like Vanna White and hiding from employees behind ominous black curtains clearly marked “employees only.” In coming out from behind the curtains, Elizabeth pretends she is a model bursting through onto a catwalk. I only let my head show, pretending to be Harry Potter from that scene where he first learns about his Invisibility Cloak. We laugh and leave Belk, heading toward the car.

          We drive away, hours later, with the small black leather journal. We arrive in her room to do homework, buckling down to Organic Chemistry and Physics for me and  Human Development for her. The Lion King for the both of us. I leave her room well past my bed-time, with a hug and the daily brief but friendly (read: loud) reminder: “Put some clothes on!!!” I laugh, wondering if what I’m wearing doesn’t count as clothes, and give my usual response as I skip down the hallway: “I put them on just for you!!”

Disrobed: Decoding a Ritual. An Inside Look Into What Happens Before You Knock on the Door.

         The alarm rings at 6:30 a.m., an unwelcome disturbance into the brief respite that is my sleep. Slipping out of the warm comfort of my bed, goosebumps break out on my thighs when my bare feet hit the unexpectedly cold tile floor. I open the blinds to the first welcoming rays of a purple and orange sunrise and, as the warmth washes over my goosebump-y skin, I marvel at the joy of living alone in my room. Having slept in the nude for the past few years, I fear that a roommate who is more conservative than me would complicate matters and make me feel oddly uncomfortable for being comfortable with myself. 

          A roommate would turn the comfort and natural sensuality of nudity into the embarrassing and improper sexual side of nakedness. I am comfortable with my body, a feat that many humans never accomplish. I like my strong muscular thighs and I love my “ethnic” behind. I marvel at the strength and grace of my bare back, reminding me of a lion stalking her prey when I swim or crawl. I enjoy the way my abs look from a certain angle and it amuses me that my chest bounces when I use stairs. Is this a crime? Sometimes, society makes me think so.

          Walking to my closet, I groan and resign myself to the necessary evil that is clothes. It isn’t that I think clothes are constricting or uncomfortable. Clothes do not make me sweaty. Nor do clothes limit my mobility. I am smart enough to buy comfortable clothes that look good on me. Clothes are also a definite symbol of status, ideals, economic status, level of conservativeness, etc. Take your pick. Indeed, clothes are a terrifying societal concept but those are not my reasons for preferring a more natural state. 

         You may ask, then, "why are you naked all the time?" Well, I’m glad you ask. I choose to not wear clothes because it reflects my inner personality and freedom. Because my skin is soft and feminine - with an appealing tan tone. Because each scar and “abnormality” tells a story of how I became who I am. Because the sporty broadness of my swimmer-shoulders contradicts the feminine fragility of a bare shoulder. Because although my body may not be perfect, it is mine and this is my freedom. I am not a perfect person, but I am free and a free-spirit.

          Another groan and I choose my clothes. Red cotton underpants and a more red bra. The strap will dig into my left shoulder for the duration of the day like the strap of a heavy backpack, weighing me down with the knowledge I’m expected to retain. I love the color red because it complements my skin tone; because it is a passionate and stereotypically Latin-American color; because it makes me happy. Comfortable jeans that make my behind look better than usual and a figure-fitting red shirt. I am not uncomfortable, but I would prefer not to be wearing anything as I sojourn out of my room and traverse through a day of classes, lab, meetings, rehearsals, and meals. Walking from class to class, I shift uncomfortably under the weight of my clothes as I shift uncomfortably under the weight of the day’s responsibilities. I need to learn to say “no.” The hours crawl by and as the day passes from cool morning to sweltering afternoon of Columbia's freak weather, I lose items of clothing. Jeans become shorts and sneakers become flip flops. Baby-steps to inner comfort.

          When the clock strikes 8 p.m., I walk back into my oasis for the first time since I left in the morning. I drop my backpack and textbooks onto my bed. Flip=slops are kicked off in glee. I drop my shorts and shirt onto the floor. Freedom. The freedom to be happy, healthy, active, productive, sane, social, bold, unashamed, and alive. Freedom to speak, think, act, sing, write, and move however I want. I am not a sex-crazed megalomaniac - I am not what society portrays “nudists” to be. I am just comfortable. Sitting in my windowsill (and on top of my desk), I bask in the glow and warmth of a red sunset while the left bra strap falls off my weary shoulder. A quick snap of the wrist and a flourish of the hand - I am free of this feminine confine. The stress of the day melts off my shoulders as the last red bra strap caresses the curve of my shoulder, past the telltale Hispanic scar from a tuberculosis vaccine.The pressure to be the responsible and intelligent woman I am expected to be washed away as the red cotton glides past the warm and sensitive flesh behind my knee, touching a small scar from a soccer game in my youth. Finally comfortable in my own skin, I lay my head upon my slightly scarred knees and hug myself, enjoying the pliable softness of my cheek against the roundness of my knees. Five minutes of calm and peace, indulging in the warm caress of the sun, before attempting the looming mountain of homework.

          With the blare of a siren and the shot of a gun, I climb off my desk and settle into my seat. The soft blue cushion cradles my skin and the cotton fabric is a welcome hug. I open a textbook on my desk, feeling the sleek white pages on my forearms when I turn the page, and hold a pencil firmly in my hand as I plow through unchallenging problems. As I think, I trace my right collar bone with the tip of the pencil, enjoying the sensation of hard plastic gliding along the smooth bone towards the left collar bone. Moving on to writing in my journal, I repeat the same thinking-and-tracing movements unaware that I am marking myself with the dark blue ink that is staining my fingertips and wrists. The sun has dropped below the trees and has taken away the warmth and light. Before I shiver, I stand up to turn on the light, giggling at the unexpected cold tiles hitting my bare and sensitive feet. I walk across the floor, smiling as the silky bedsheets brush against the smooth skin of my thighs. Were I wearing clothes, I would never have felt them. 

          The light flickers on as the opening strains of a chord emanate from my computer. The initial vocalizations are lifted into the air and I snap my head toward the music. I find myself lost and twirling in small pirouettes and pas de bouree across the floor - unaware of my surroundings. I arch my back in a small chasse and turn to look at my slim left arm extending and stretching to an end - fragile and nimble fingers twirl slowly. Suddenly, as my pinky finishes that slow flicker, I twirl and extend both arms - leaning to my left with a sudden passion taking over me. Serenity in my face as I lean to my right arm, slowly, tenderly, with abandon. Until a knock is heard at the door. My peace has been breached and I am pulled back to reality. I’ve been dancing in the nude again.

          Scrambling for my plush blue robe, I fasten it quickly and hastily cover myself as I ask “who is it?” Persistent knocking and a mumbled name reveal a friend, all too familiar with my nudity. She sits on my bed and asks homework questions, never once flinching at the sight of a bare curved shoulder when my robe slips because I did not do a good job of tying it ... again. The robe-to-skin contacts is like a lover’s tender caress and with every move, there is a new and soft sensation unknown to anyone but me. When I sit on the bed next to her, she does not move away when the warm flesh of my legs peeps through the slit in the robe and touches her own cotton-polyester blend covered leg. There is no disgust or shame. She accepts me for everything that I am and she has learned that there need not be a correlation between nudity and sex, but I am glad when she leaves and I can return my robe to the closet. Where all clothes belong.

          As the stars rise and the lullaby of Columbia’s sirens sing me to sleep, I put away my school books and gladly climb into the cocoon of silk sheets. Enveloped in the ocean of blankets, I marvel at the freedom to feel the silk wrap around my legs and touch me so subtly it almost tickles. Were I wearing pajamas, this phenomenon would never occur. As I drift off to sleep in the sea of silk, I slowly extend my legs and then bring them to a fetal position. Purposefully searching for skin-to-sheet contact. My eyes close and I am happy to be free.

          To be repeated again tomorrow.

Para Mi Papi

Margarita está linda la mar, y el viento

Lleva esencia sutil de azahar; yo siento

En el alma una alondra cantar; tu acento.

Margarita, te voy a contar un cuento:

Tú me leías a mi, tu vos una canción sonora

Tan dulce; esas memorias, como un cariño 

De esos días pasados, cuando yo era chiquita,

Cuando yo cabía en un solo brazo tuyo,

Cuando tus camisas eran mis vestidos de angelita.

Am I still your little angel? 

Tu me cuidabas, me enseñastes a correr

Y cocinar cuando no alcanzaba la cocina; 

Me enseñastes a ser una rockera, 

Zombie, ratoncita, y payasa - pero no

Solamente en Halloween.

Thank you for teaching me that it's ok to be me.

Me ayudaste a ser mejor nadadora,

Ganando premios por ser la mejor - 

Porque soy la hija de el mejor.

Estuvistes a mi lado cuando quería

Nado sincronizado, teclado, o danza.

I appreciate everything you did for me.

Tu silbido, una llamada de tu corazón

Hasta el mio. Mi silbido, una respuesta.

El silbido de tu familia, una llamada

Para los hermanos y primos tremendos-

Demasiados para llamarlos por nombre. 

En las tienda, la playa, el Italo, y la casa - 

Si yo me perdía, tu silbido me salvaba.

Te fuiste por un  año. Te extrañe,

No sabia porque te fuiste, quería

Que me llevaras contigo.

Tu silbido desapareció.

Now I understand why you left us.

Una reunión dulce y rara: un silbido

En el aeropuerto, tú regresaste

Para decirnos que nos íbamos -

Todos. A los Estados Unidos, con

Maletas y cajas- ¿y pero todos mis recuerdos?

I understand now why we left.

Estábamos juntos pero trabajabas

Muchas horas: te ibas cuando yo

Aun no despertaba y regresabas

Cuando yo me había ido a dormir.

I missed you when you weren't there.

Años pasaron así - tu trabajando 

Pero siempre haciendo tiempo

Para estar con nosotros en los días

Importantes. No te vi por mucho tiempo.

I missed you when you weren't there.

¿Otra mudanza? ¿A otra ciudad extraña? 

¿Tengo que hacer nuevos amigos otra vez?

Pero este es un condado más seguro

Y tiene las escuelas mejores - yo ayude. 

I felt like a grown-up by helping to decide.

This new school was different:

I was afraid of the unfriendly white faces,

The pale demons that haunted me.

I didn't share very much with you then-

I thought I could handle it all.

I lied in English because that was all I knew.

I thought I was the top dog - the one who

Spoke the superior language and won.

But I lost so much during those years.

I thank you for never losing faith.

Then I started to work with you, side-by-side: 

A daddy-daughter team that spoke

More often in their own Spanglish

Rather than English or Spanish.

Working with you gave me the character I lacked.

Un silbido desde el burro, desde el otro lado

De la...la... fence, o una piscina - un silbido-

Ancla de la relación de padre e hija.

Un silbido preguntando por ayuda con

Las herramientas, el bicho ese, esa cosa.

Buscando, jugando, silbando.

Un silbido para montarme en el carro,

Nos vamos a "lunchear." ¿Que comemos?

¿5 Guys o Firehouse? Firehouse. Cantando

En el carro "¿tu quieres una manzana?"

Y "hey momma hey momma hey momma hey"

Nuestro mundo de piscinas y almuerzos,

De escuela, natación, y "yo quiero Taco Bell,"

De peleas  sobre falta de comunicación

Resueltas por comunicación y lágrimas -

Nuestro mundo de abrazos y cariños - 

Todo nuestro mundo anidado en los brazos

De un silbido buscando y un silbido en respuesta.

Cuando perdí mi cabeza, mi lugar en el mundo,

El silbido me ayudo a regresar a casa.

A nuestro mundo de música y amor.

Llego un muchacho a nuestro mundo,

Intruder, he worked his way into my heart

Y note que tú tenías miedo.

Nadie te remplazará en mi corazón,

Yo siempre seré tu bebe.

El muchacho es casi parte de la familia, y pronto

Dos familias van a ser una. Yo

También tengo miedo, todavía

Soy una bebe. A baby who needs

Daddy to help her grow up.

Siguieron pasando los años, 

Chipi, y me tuve que ir.

Más de doscientas millas de separación;

Demasiadas millas para un silbido

Pero tu me enseñastes a ser fuerte.

Your little girl went to college a strong woman.

Dos años son suficiente tiempo

Para que cambie el mundo

Nuestro, para que yo aprenda

Sobre el mundo que aun no conozco.

Tu me enseñastes lo que tu aprendistes,

Will I teach you what I've learned?

El tiempo nos paso, Daddy, yo crecí.
Tus camisas no pueden ser mis vestidos de angelita,

Tu silbido no me puede alcanzar todo el tiempo,

Pero tus llamadas y tu amor me alcanzan.

Chipi, Daddy, Loco, papi, I love you.

Estoy creciendo muy rápido,

Hay días que me da miedo,

No se adonde va mi futuro,

Pero tengo fe porque tú eres fuerte.

Mientras voy creciendo, no quiero y temo
Perder el poder de oír

El silbido que me mantiene

Atada a nuestro mundo y

Libre para volar con Juan Salvador.

Adulta, madura, con trabajo,

Niños, casa, y un perrito.

Un edifico no es casa sin un perro,

Tu me enseñastes, papi.

Este es el futuro que yo veo de vez en cuando.

What do you see?

El futuro en que escribo, canto,

Bailo - disfrutando la vida.

El futuro en que veo el mundo:

Los países, las personas, y sus bellezas.

Did you see, for you, what I see for me?

 El futuro como lo veo:

Abrazos, amor, felicidad,

Comida, música, y familia.

Un papi abrazando un bebe

Que cabe en un solo brazo,

Que usa camisas como vestido.

We will whistle for another little angel.

Yo silbare cuando se pierda

En la playa o en la tienda.

Cantare y bailare en el carro.

Le contare cuentos sobre Chipis y burros.

I will never forget to tell and write stories. 

Te dejo con un cuento, el cuento nuestro, 

Even if we don't read it anymore, it's ours.

Cuando lo oigo, me acuerdo de tus lecciones y tu amor.

I hope when you hear it, you know how much I love you.

Gracias por escuchar mi cuento. 

Margarita, está linda la mar, y el viento

Lleva esencia sutil de azahar: tu aliento.

Ya que lejos de mí vas a estar,

Guarda, niña, un gentil pensamiento

Al que un día te quiso contar un cuento.

Sleep Eludes Me... Thanks to My Sister

I am a writer. I cannot be anything else. How do I know? Because after being so unceremoniously awakened at 3 a.m. by my sister and becoming so alertly awake so as not to be able to sleep, I can only take solace in writing.

I tried not to but I couldn't help it. I lay in bed, intensely contemplating the swirls and tree rings of the honey brown wooden slats that hold up my sister's mattress above my head and wondering when they would cave in on me; I tried not to think of writing material or begin writing in my head, but it happened anyways.

My sister has gone back to sleep so I cannot turn on a light to use a pen and paper even though I desperately wish to stain my wrists with ink again over a new writing topic (because I am so considerate that I do not wish to wake her up as rudely as she did me); therefore I was forced to open my laptop and begin writing.

I wrote about my mother and menopause because I've wanted to for weeks and I've written about my father and my sister. It's only fair that it should be my mother's turn now. Next I shall write about my brother, my dog, my boyfriend, my friends (not in that order).... eventually about myself. But we all know that through all my other writing, I paint a portrait of myself anyways.

Now I find myself further awake to the point of being energetic. Any attempts to return to any state of slumber would be frustratingly in vain. I tried reading and exercise, which only served to further wake me up. I tried warm milk and tea, which only served to send me into the darkness of the hallway to fumble for the bathroom door.

I keep writing past 5 a.m. and wish someone else was awake. As much as I love writing, I want interaction with people. I want a conversation. Which is difficult at 5 a.m. because "decent" people are sleeping and I don't want to be that friend who wakes up with the following text: "hey, are you awake?" I can only imagine the response: "Well I (inser expletive here) am now." I am not the kind of person who thinks my friends should suffer with me through being awake. I shall enjoy my peaceful solitude and simply be awake.

So awake that I've stopped listening to music in favor of listening to the sprinkling pattern of rain against my window. Because the rain is clean and pure ... or as pure and clean as Georgia's acidic rain can get. Because the rain's song is almost as beautiful as Rufus Wainwright's "Hallelujah." I lean my head against the cool glass surface of the window, humming Mr. Wainwright's song in beat to the rain, peering into the darkness and trying to make out something. Funny how dark it is an hour before sunrise. An hour before sunset doesn't look to different than the sunset itself, in terms of brightness or darkness.

Speaking of sunrise, I believe I might just be awake to see my first sunrise of the summer. I haven't indulged in the simple pleasure of a sunrise for months or even years, because I'm normally asleep or I wake up for school or work, go shower and dress, and by the time I'm fully awake, the sun has risen. So I've decided to indulge in one of the simple pleasures of life.

"Menopause"

"The doctor put me on a hormone regimen. I'm apparently going through menopause ... or pre-menopause," my mother flatly stated.

A fact - apparently it's a fact now, she said it.

She didn't whisper its name like an unwanted disease rearing it ugly head from the shadows of an unknown future no woman desires.

She didn't force it out through clenched jaws like a threat.

She didn't disguise it with nicknames or refuse to say it like a toddler refusing to accept the truth.

No longer is that word a fear of the future, full of foreboding, no... 

No, now it's just a fact.

She is no longer the younger woman I remember, the one I left two years ago, the one who did everything in her power to keep menopause at bay: creams, serums, exercise, teas, lotions,  herbal drinks, exotic foods, etc...

No. She is older.

She is the lady who worries about coloring her graying hair because she is ashamed of the loss of pigmentation. Because it doesn't look pretty, she says.

She is the one who worries about dressing "her age" because she is worried about the "pooch" of fat over her abdomen, her diminished bosom, and the sagging muscles in her "buns and thighs." Because women my age shouldn't show too much, she says.

She is the person who frets over her slowed metabolism and the difficulty of keeping her figure that she never had before so she exercises daily (or more often) - because she finds it difficult to maintain a constant weight and a toned body. Because I need something to fill up my time at home, she says.

She is the mama who exercises, gardens, cleans, cooks, reads, and surfs the internet to fill time because her children are growing up and do not need her in the same time-consuming way. Because I like it, she says.

She is the mom who needs coffee to fully wake up and needs more coffee than she used to in order to wake her up because, like any addiction, you need more and more of the substance to get the same high as time goes on. Because I like how it tastes and it helps me wake up, she says.

She is the woman who needs reading glasses over her contacts because her eyesight is diminishing as the years go by and her contact lens prescription cannot fix her trouble reading fine print, nutrition facts on food, and books. Because I don't want to go to the doctor again, she says.

She is going to go through menopause.

She is saying the word.

She is ... older ... older than I am prepared to accommodate.