On WHOLE ARROWS, Albertsons Kin, and a Shit-ton of Monopoly Pieces

This blog is a continuation of my Facebook post from Monday, April 27th. Today's post will only make sense if you read what I shared yesterday. And finally, if you are offended by profanity, you may want to close up this page and carry on with your day. 

Ok, so I should probably be as transparent as possible because I really want to make sure you all can visualize my complete anxiety during yesterday’s grocery shopping trip. Juan separated from me so we could make the trip go faster. If you have never been shopping with my husband, I will take this opportunity to tell you that he will analyze the price of every item I send him to look for—you can take this as my way of sending him on a wild goose hunt so I can be alone, or you can believe I am a benevolent woman who loves to watch her husband engage in the art of grocery shopping…your choice.

By the second aisle I knew that social contracts were being broken all around me. One going north while the arrow pointed south. Down one aisle, it looked like two friends used Albertsons as a meeting destination sans kids and spouses. I could have sworn I saw them pass a flask back and forth. Yes, friends, this is the stage we have reached in these #RonaTimes where we have exchanged our local watering hole for grocery stores.

I had one last thing on my list: chocolate baking chips. I think they were on aisle 3a, but I was on aisle 4b and the arrows were pointing the opposite direction of the baking section. Did I break protocol? No, your girl decided to keep going in the direction that management determined would keep me disease-free during my shopping trip. It gets better from here, I promise!

In the next aisle I see that an employee is stocking shelves in the pasta section. He was stocking from a large cart and his body was fully in the aisle. There was no way around him without being within a foot of his neck hairs. I patiently stood about 10 feet away waiting for him to finish up. Two minutes later he completely stopped and asked, “Is everything ok? Do you need help finding anything?” He had kind eyes. I could tell he was likely in his late 20s and his mama taught him to be respectful to older women in the wild who had lost their wits. I took a deep breath before responding, because I needed to remind myself that it was not his fault that I was losing my marbles over arrows and chocolate baking chips. It also wasn’t his fault for what was about to come out of my mouth.

“Nothing is ok. Can you just please tell me how to get to the chocolate baking chips from here?” I spit out, all in one breath. I felt accomplished. The outside corners of his eyes began to lift, and if it wasn’t for the mask across his mouth and nose, I bet his smile would have been a contender for a Colgate commercial. He said, “Yeah, ok, it’s in the next aisle over, right over there,” and pointed to the aisle on his left. “Ok, and do you need me to wait until you are done here for me to walk by you?” I asked him, hoping he wasn’t going to make me wait.

“Nah, man, you don’t need to wait. You can just go get those chocolate chips,” was his reply. 

We became kin with that one sentence. He said, “Nah, man” in the same way my little brother does, so my social inhibitions completely left the building and I responded, “Thank you, man, and fuck your arrows” as I walked by him. He doubled over in laughter and replied, “Yeah, fuck those arrows!” just in the nick of time to catch another Albertsons employee passing by. This one was wearing a safety vest and asked me if everything was ok. I said, “Yeah, fuck your arrows. Everything is going to be ok.” To which he replied, “Yeah, fuck the arrows!” I imagined that scene in Les Mis when ‘Do You Hear the People Sing’ comes on and instead of opposing armies waving flags, every shopper emerges from the aisles with their “Fuck your arrows” flag flowing in the air. I digress…

I kept on walking until I found the chocolate baking chips and Juan all in one aisle—It was like lightning striking twice in the same spot, because (back to the topic of grocery shopping with Juan) he always manages to lose himself in the aisles and I have to pry him back to the real world when it is time to leave. I quickly explain my emotional outburst and why we needed to get back home as quickly as possible. He knew the exit route as though he had created it himself, so I willingly followed him through the rest of the store following the directional arrows. 

When we get to the cash register, I was pleased to see my favorite cashier was going to ring me up. “Act right, Lorena. Don’t talk about the fucking arrows to this child who is working the frontlines of the grocery industry,” was my inner monologue. All I wanted was to smile dutifully, ask her how she was doing, and get my Monopoly pieces at the end of my transaction.

When I was done paying and she handed me my receipt, I must have had a worried look on my face because she asked me if everything was alright. “Don’t break. Don’t break!” I told myself as I squeezed out, “Oh yes, can I get my monopoly pieces?”

She

Did

Not

Disappoint

The highlight of my trip was watching her give absolutely no fucks when using her two hands to grab my Monopoly pieces. And that, my friends, is the whole story on the whole arrows that threw my whole day off. Cheers!

On Thriving Through Chaos and the Sweetness of My Amá's Prayers

Am I allowed to say that I'm thriving when there is so much chaos in the world right now? 

A little over two weeks ago I stopped posting my daily #quarantinemeals posts on both my instagram and Facebook because I had a fleeting moment of guilt. I was participating in a local community forum in a daily post where we are encouraged to post what we made for dinner. On that day, I had a particularly hard day at work and I went home to cook the three different meals for the family (we all have different likes/needs) as my form of self-care. The girls were excited to eat their spaghetti with meat sauce, Juan loved his mash potatoes with white rice, and the Wolf and I enjoyed our chickpea and quinoa tacos. After dinner I went into the forum to post my photos and the list of ingredients I used and I was immediately met with a comment that said, "It must be nice to have so much food that you can prepare three different meals. Why not just give everyone spaghetti?"

This person wasn't wrong. They had every right to call me out for having more than they did. They had every right to feel whatever they were feeling in that moment because the posting of my food, or my ingredients, or the amount of meals I made triggered something within them and made them feel less than. Instead of commenting, I put my phone down and enjoyed the rest of the evening with the kids and Juan. I wasn't going to let that person yuck my yum simply because my needs were different than theirs. But that feeling was temporary.

I went to bed that night with a really uneasy feeling in my heart. I began to think about all the times I had gotten asked how I was doing or how the kids were doing and I would respond with, "I'm doing great." or "The kids are thriving learning at home." And I wondered who I had offended with my responses, or if the state of my happiness caused someone to be unhappy. Some major mental inventory went on before I went to bed and the dream that happened that night had me talking to my amà about guilt. In my dream I sat down with her and began telling her about the guilt that I was feeling with having enough food to feed my family while so many others don't have enough. If any of you have ever heard my amà's sarcastic laugh, insert that sound here. 

In my dream she asked me, "¿Realmente te importa lo que la gente piense de ti?" I guess she found it odd that I would worry what people thought about me. 

I replied, "No quiero que la gente piense que estoy presumiendo que mi familia está muy bien. Temo que parece insensible para aquellos que están luchando en este momento." I admitted to her that I didn't want to come across as boastful or insensitive to those families who were struggling to put food on the table. I started crying in my dream. It wasn't one of those cries where there are slow tears coming down my cheeks; it was a deep sobbing cry that is typically reserved for intense emotional pain. The final words I remembered when I woke up was her telling me the famous words she would always share with us when we were little, "Llora cuando tu madre muera, pero no por algo tan pequeño como esto." Growing up, that statement was my amà's passive-aggressive way of telling me I was being a crybaby, and the same way it got me to stop crying when I was a child, I also stopped crying in my dream. 

While I was at work later in the day, I called my mom to let her know that I had the bag of rice she had asked me to pick up on my next shopping trip. Porch drop-offs and multiple phone calls a day is our new normal because of this pandemic. I haven't hugged her or been inside her home for five weeks now, but between my four siblings and my family, we always make sure she has everything she needs so she doesn't leave her home. She was excited that I was stopping by and let me know that she was making chicken and rice that day and would make an extra batch for me to take home. 

The porch exchange was successful.

When I arrived to her home, I approached her front door whistling and I could hear the 5:00 news blasting in her kitchen. I let her know I was there after placing her things down on the bench outside. She must have heard me whistling because she met me at her door and asked me to sit down outside because she wanted me to taste the rice. I told her I couldn't eat it because it was cooked with chicken stock, but that I would take it home to the family. She said, "No te preocupes. Te tengo un plato especial para ti." My amà made me my own serving without using chicken stock and invited me to sit 6 feet away from her. 

My amà's instincts immediately kicked in and she asked me about the kids, Juanito, and myself. I told her everyone was doing great and the kids were loving being at home. She asked how the three of them were doing in school and if they were struggling because she was hearing people on the news complain that it is really hard to have schooling happen at home. I was happy to tell her that her grandkids were thriving, that they were successful in distance learning and thriving academically. She pointed to her chest with both thumbs and proclaimed, "¡Bueno, es porque ellos son Ramírez!" There she was again, always taking the credit for the family's intelligence! 

I began to tell her about my dream and how I went to bed sad the night before. I explained how the whole #quarantinemeals posts began as a way to connect with folks from my theater community who were sharing the meals they would make for their families. I shared with her how I was discovering new Peruvian dishes by following Rosa Navarrete and I was learning how to blend more vegetables into my dishes by following Roberta H. Martinez. I told her that Claudia Elizabeth Duran was teaching her little sister to cook during this pandemic. And I even told her about the time Elvia Susana Rubalcava made nopales for the first time, from scratch! I didn't realize I had tears in my eyes when I was sharing this with her. She asked me, "¿Entonces, cuál es el problema?" That's when I blurted what my problem was, choking on my own tears. 

She let me sit there for a few minutes as I shoved the rice in my mouth. I ate so I wouldn't have to speak anymore. I ate because my mom makes her food with love and I needed to feel that love in that moment. After all, food is also her love language. 

Tasting my amá's special batch of rice she made me. 

My amá asked me the following questions:

"¿Lora, sigues trabajando?" = am I still working? To which I shook my head up and down. 
"¿Estás cocinando por tu propia familia o alguien viene a tu casa a cocinar?" = are you cooking for your own family or is someone coming to your house to cook? To which I responded that I wished someone would come to my house to cook. 
"¿Te han dicho que estás ofendiendo a alguien cuando pones tu comida en las ventanitas?" = has someone told you that you have offended them when you share your food in the "little windows" (Facebook) I responded that I have received positive feedback, both publicly and privately, that my posts were fun to interact with. 

She paused a few moments before saying that if it is not my intention to offend anyone, and if it is also not my intention to be boastful, then I should continue to post my meals if it brings me joy. She said she would continue to pray for all of her children, grandchildren, and for everyone to have enough food on their tables and good health. Can I tell you how hard it was to fight back my instinct to hug her? She delivered the right dosage of love and emotional support to carry me through the rest of the day.

A few days later we drove back over to her house to drop off groceries. As we drove through her neighborhood, I said to Juan, "Stop, I think that's my mom walking over there." We slowed down as we approached her and I rolled the window down. I asked her what she was doing alone walking so far from home (for the record, she was halfway around the block, which is hardly far lol). I could tell she was smiling with the way her cheeks pushed up her mask higher on her face. She held up her gloved hand with a rosary hanging from it and said, "Estoy rezando por la familia y por el mundo, como te dije el otro dia. Te doy mis bendiciones."

From my amá to you, sending you all the blessings.

My amà walking around the block while praying the
rosary for all of us, praying we all have enough.

On Thanking Woflie's Teacher and Remembering to 'Just Breathe, Ma'

A public letter to my Wolf's 4th grade teacher, who was also Azcal's 4th grade teacher, who is also my friend.

Dear Mrs. M,

I wasn't expecting to hear from you this morning, but what a lovely surprise it was to see your message come across my screen. You were checking in to make sure we were all doing well because you hadn't heard back from any of the emails you sent to me. I quickly replied back to you with the explanation that every email I replied to was kicked back by the system. I didn't tell you that so you wouldn't blame Wolfie for it, I explained this to you so you wouldn't think that I was the parent who didn't care about school success.

I remember that first email you sent to us. In it, you told us to do what was best for our family. You told us that lessons would be available in the Google Classroom and that students were able to log in and keep up with the schedules that had been put up, but that they may do so at the time of day that most suited them. Well, for that first week there was no time in the day that suited the Wolf. To be completely honest with you, I never told him about the email. I never went home from work to say, "Hey, Wolf, Mrs. M sent an email that your Google Classroom is ready for you and you should log in and begin doing work." I say this to you now because I don't want you to think that I didn't respect the time you put into getting curriculum together. Or the time and frustration it must have caused you to suddenly lean into online instruction. And let's not even get into your perfected method of delivering differentiated curriculum to every scholar in your classroom! I didn't want you to think I didn't honor you as his educator and my academic partner.

Last week Wolfie logged into his Google Classroom and noticed he had an assignment to create a self portrait in Google Draw. I was able to work from home that day and watched as his anxiety shot through the roof in 2.5 minutes because he could not figure out how to draw long hair on his head and fill it in, all the while keeping the face white. I held him by his shoulders, took off his glasses, and then hugged him as tightly as I could without squishing him. I whispered in his ear, "If you were in Mrs. M's class right now, what would she tell you to do?" I relaxed my hug and watched as the tears ran down his face. He responded, his words cracking, "She would probably tell me to breathe." I let go of him completely so he could breathe. When I did not know how to bring my son down from the ledge, I had to ask him what YOU would do for him because you spend more waking hours with my Wolf, our Wolf. My son knew you would tell him to breathe, and so he breathed deeply in the same way he would have had he been sitting in your 4th grade classroom. Thank you.

Where do you get your super powers from? Were you born with them? Maybe you woke up one day and said, 'M, you're not only going to be a teacher, but you're going to be compassionate, equitable, emotionally intelligent, and above all--empathetic. You're going to teach learners with every imaginable ability and you're going to be thrown through the ringer by some of their parents, but you are still going to show up every day for these students because they each have the ability to change the world.' Did you say that to yourself? This is exactly the way your students and their parents see you. I also see this vision of you wearing an emerald cape with cute cougar paw prints all over it, but I digress.

I'm going to finish this letter with a quick story: On Monday evening after I took a shower, I began to prepare dinner for the evening. I looked in the refrigerator for the vegetables I roasted the night before. When he heard me moving things around in the kitchen, Wolfie walked in and asked, "Whatcha looking for, ma?" I replied, "I'm looking for the vegetables I told you we would share today." He motioned to the sink where the empty container was waiting to be washed. Before I could consider being angry with him, he reached out his hands to me and said, "C'mon, ma, let's dance." He whispered to me as we danced, my anger quickly dissipating, "You just need to remember to breathe, ma."

Mrs. M, I don't know how to thank you for all you have done for my Wolf. You have shown him (and our family) calmness in a time of tempest, kindness in a time of chaos, and above all, you have proven to be one of Wolfie's greatest guides. And I thank you. And I thank you. And I thank you.

May Creator continue to provide you and your family with all you need to get through this pandemic. We will see you on the other side of this. Until then, we will remember to breathe deeply.

Your friend and academic partner,

Lorena M. Ortega

PS. In case you were missing Wolfie's unruly braids, here is a photo I took after he burrowed himself in my blankets this morning.

On Anxiety, Angel(a)s and the Magical, Mystical Healing Power of Community Theater

This morning I was driving my mom on an errand and she asked me, "Escuchaste mi mensaje que te deje el viernes?" I replied to her, "No, amá, no lo he escuchado por que ni cuenta me di que me dejo un mensaje," letting her know that I had not listened to the message because I was unaware she had left me one. But she wasn't going to let it go. She explained to me that she was watching a local Los Angeles station (she wanted me to know it wasn't a cable channel because no one has taught her how to use the cable remote control in her living room) and a man who owns a theater in DTLA was celebrating World Theater Day. She called me to congratulate me because in some part of my mom's beautiful and smart brain, she is convinced that I'm an actor. 

In the interest of full transparency, I am not an actor. I will likely reiterate this point several times throughout this blog post, but I really need to get this out in the beginning so it may help you understand what happened to me on Saturday, March 14th. 

Our children had just gotten word the day before that the school year had come to a halt while our nation's leader tried to figure out the COVID-19 pandemict. Since Saturday mornings were already reserved for the youth acting classes at CASA 0101 theater, we decided to take the littles to class so we could discuss concerns and the future of the classes with the rest of the parents. The adults stood around in a circle while the youth went to begin their rehearsal in the big theater. We collectively made the decision to keep bringing our children to classes until it wasn't safe to do so, and continued our discussion by talking about our fears, anxieties, and hopes. I really think a lot of us needed this; we listened as each parent took a turn talking about the measures they were already taking to keep their families safe and take tips from each other. We needed each other in that moment and in that space to stave off anxiety and it was the most beautiful talking circle I had been part of in a long time. 

Parents from the Saturday morning theater class at CASA 0101 Theater,
along with our facilitator, Maria G. Martinez. 

Talking circle for parents to provide support for each other.
Each parent had the opportunity for their voice to be heard in this circle. 

The time came for our break and I walked over to the counter of the theater as Maria was listening to her voicemail message. I watched her face go from confused to more confused, and when she put her phone down, I asked her if she was ok. She said, "One of my actors backed out the Metcalf because of the scare." I understood her look of concern, because the big day of her staged reading of her full-length play had arrived and she was short one actor. 

Now, I am a solution-driven person. I know that when you ask someone what they are going to do in a situation like this, the first solution they throw out is going to be the most viable one. I said to Maria, "Ok, well, now you know. What are you going to do about this?" In that moment I wished it was anyone other than me who asked her that question. She replied, "Well, do you think you can do the reading?" And with that, friends, I signed myself up to be a character in a staged reading of a script I had never laid eyes on...it gets better from here!

Maria handed me a script right after class and I panicked when I saw how thick it was. I asked her which character I was assigned, and she said, "Tia Sol, you're going to be replacing Tia Sol." I grabbed my highlighter I always carry in my bag and began looking through the first few pages for Tia Sol's lines. I was so excited to see that Tia Sol wasn't even listed in the first few pages. I don't know when the shift in realization occurred, but a light bulb went off in my head when I saw the name SOLEDAD written on one of the pages. 

Sol is short for Tia Sol. It was this precise moment I lost my mind while driving to Teatro Frida Kahlo for rehearsals. Each time I scraped my highlighter across SOLEDAD, page after page, added to the uncertainty and anxiety that was building up. 

Why did I agree to do this? 

Who do I have to warn that I'm a fraud? 

Am I going to let down Maria? 

How badly will it hurt if I just jump out of the car?

What should I eat to suddenly get food poisoning?

We arrived to the theater and my legs were wobbly. There were other actors already there going through lines in the dressing room. I wanted to cry...and throw up...and run away. I saw a familiar face in Angela Estela Moore. She took one look at me and said, "I knew you were going to be here! I had a feeling you would be the one to stand in after I read your Facebook post that you were on your way to CASA this morning." We couldn't hug each other because of the social distancing rules, but we elbow bumped and she told me to go ahead and go to the dressing room to get ready.  

Get ready for what? I'm not an actor. Remember I stated that up above, well not only am I not an actor, but now I was in a position where I had to act like an actor and I had to convince the rest of the actors that I wasn't there to let them down. 

I met the rest of the cast (Maricella Ibarra, Angela Estela Moore, Aracely Barreno, Josh Duron, Estefania Bautista, Nathanael Martinez, and Director Minerva Garcia Ortega--no relation to me) and we went right to work on the stage running through our lines. I had no idea what to expect, because the last time I was part of a staged reading was when I read stage direction while sitting in a dark corner of the Curtis Theater stage. We ran lines, movement, and emotions for three hours. The director, Minerva, would say to me, "Ok, so this line you are feeling ______," and I would respond with, "Thank you. So what does that sound like?" That should have been the first hint for everyone that I really had no idea what I was doing. 

When we finished going through the entire script, we took a break to eat before the live audience arrived. When Minerva sat down next to me with her lunch, I swiftly apologized to her for any mishaps and said to her, "I just really want to be transparent here and let you know that I am not an actor. I have never done this before and I will do my best to capture the emotions on the stage and honor Maria's writing." She gave me this look that gave me the impression she didn't believe me. She followed with, "I had no idea, but you have a great stage presence." I smiled for the first time in 4 hours haha. 

The next thing I know I'm in the fitting room putting on lipstick and taking my hair out of the bun. Then it began--that feeling that my world around me was going to come crashing down. You know that feeling, don't you? Like when you're about to jump off the high dive and you're afraid of heights. Or like when you're about to take your driving test and you still haven't mastered merging lanes on the highway. Or wait, wait, here's a better one--like that feeling when you're about to go onstage with seasoned actors and everyone in the audience is going to think YOU'RE A FRAUD! 

That final thought took over all rational thoughts in my brain. I had hit the point of no return and when I looked over at Angela, I blurted out, "I can't do this. I am not going to do this." Have you ever seen an earth angel? Without skipping a beat, Angela told the rest of the actors to circle up and asked us to close our eyes: she began to guide us through a meditation that took us through the practice of seeking the energy underneath our feet and the power of the sun above our head. She asked us to call on our ancestors for their strength and reminded us that we were exactly where we were called to be. Every single doubt, feeling of imposter syndrome, and ounce of anxiety washed away as I slowly opened my eyes to see that I was still in the circle in the dressing room of Teatro Frida Kahlo. 

What happened next was one of the greatest experiences of my adult life. I lifted SOLEDAD's voice off the page. I stood when it was time to stand, walked to hit my non-existent floor markers, and sang when it was time for me to sing. And I didn't die on that stage. I did quite the opposite...I FELT ALIVE! I felt healed from my fear and my anxiety and remain grateful for the opportunity I was given to act like an actor, even if it was for just that afternoon on March 14th. 

There is a list of people to thank for that most wonderful day, but the one I owe the most gratitude to is Angela. I don't know how she did it, or how she just knew that without her intervention, the show would not go on. Thank you, my friend, for being there when I needed you most. I promise to return the favor, tenfold!

Life is good. Find yourself an Angel(a), or become one for someone who needs one. 

Angela Estela Moore, Josh Duran, and Aracely Barreno. PC Manuel Santiago

The magical director, Minerva Garcia Ortega. PC Manuel Santiago

Maricella Ibarra, Josh Duran, and yours truly. PC Manuel Santiago

Aracely Barreno and Estefania Bautista. PC Manuel Santiago

Me, acting like an actor. PC Manuel Santiago

Nathanael Martinez, Aracely Barreno, Maricella Ibarra (kneeling), Maria G. Martinez (writer), Minerva Garcia Ortega (director), Lorena M. Ortega, and Angela Estela Moore. (missing, Estefania Bautista)
PC Emmanuel Deleage

On Pan Dulce, Puerquitos, and the Shape of My Daddy's Eyes

When you look at the title of the blog post it may leave you wondering how any of these things are connected or related to each other. Well, puerquitos are a type of pan dulce, so that's how those two are related...but the shape of my daddy's eyes, well, that will come later.

A few weeks ago it was tech weekend at CASA 0101. It was the final weekend before our plays hit the stage and we ran through all technical aspects until they were perfect. There is a lot of shouting, a ton of revising, and enough food to feed a group of hungry actors and writers. I had signed up to be in charge of pan dulce for Sunday morning because I didn't want to cook or worry about cleaning up. I thought it was the smartest thing to sign up for, until I realized I didn't know the area and had no idea where to buy pan dulce in Boyle Heights.

After getting tips and directions from our EP, Claudia Elizabeth Duran, I made my way to La Favorita Panaderia to get everything I needed. One of our actors, Lorena Rubio, was outside and asked if she could go with me to pass the time before rehearsals. I am so glad that she went because I can't parallel park my car if my life depended on it. It was so embarrassing to even attempt it, so the third time I failed she offered to jump in and do it for me haha #shestherealMVP.

When we arrived to the front door, a kind older señor held the door open for us. He was wearing a navy puffer vest with a blue and white checkered button-down shirt underneath. His outfit stuck out to me because this was part of my daddy's uniform when leaving the house. I could tell that this man was familiar with the women who worked in the bakery because he began greeting them by first name. It was nice to watch the women's smiles begin to form as they responded to him with "buenos dias" and "que bonito verlo por aca."

My Daddy in all the iterations of his blue and white checkered shirts, plus his navy puffer vest. 

After I grabbed a pair of tongs and a tray to start piling on the pan dulce (I won't even share how it smelled in there because I will make myself hungry and I am trying to act right with my nutrition #RonaDiet2020), I heard the señor shout to the women behind the counter, "Que paso, ya no hay pequitos?" To those who know the Spanish name of this bread, it is obviously "puerquitos," or little pig, but this pronunciation of the word without the 'u' and the 'r' is one that is used to make the sound of the word even more diminutive, or childish--almost as a term of endearment.

The puerquito pan dulce at La Favorita Panaderia (taken on a return visit)

The way he pronounced it stopped me in my tracks. The way he pronounced this word is the exact same way my daddy used to pronounce it when playing with the toes of my children. He would pretend to eat their toes, the little piggies, to make them giggle and he would say, "Me voy a comer este pequito." I looked at Lorena for a sign that I wasn't losing my mind, that I was still in the same panaderia and not in some weird daydream session. She looked at me standing there with my empty tray and asked me what was wrong. Without the ability to explain to her what was going through my head and heart, I told her that they were out of the mini conchas and I would have to get another type of pan dulce. That became my new mission so I could ignore the feelings that were going to cause me to break down crying on Fourth Street at a random panaderia.

After filling up my tray with warm and delicious pan dulce I wasn't even going to be able to enjoy, I stood in line for my bread to be priced and bagged. The older señor took his place in line behind me.

I froze up. I was afraid to look at him so I looked around to see where Lorena was and hoped she would come stand with me. I heard a voice from behind me say, "Tu no eres de por aqui." I wanted to ignore it, but I wondered how he knew that I wasn't from around there, that I wasn't a true Angelena. I answered, "Si, si soy de aqui," I figured that I could tell him that I was from around there because even though Boyle Heights wasn't my hometown, it was the place that held the biggest piece of my heart.

I could tell he wasn't buying into my stretched truth, so he replied with, "Sabes como se que no eres de por aqui?" I didn't know how to answer him when he asked me if I knew why he questioned that I was from around there. I just shook my head left and right, which gave him the go-ahead to tell me his opinion. He said, "Se que no eres de por aqui por que tu eres muy bonita para ser de aqui." It wasn't what he said that threw me off, although I didn't believe that I was too "bonita" to be from around the block. It was his eyes. The almond shape of his eyes and that faraway look as though he was thinking of someone from long, long ago. His bushy black eyebrows contrasted the silver strands of wisdom he had atop his head and it was in that moment, the moment I saw my reflection in his eyes that I pictured myself at El Toro Panaderia in Santa Ana throughout my childhood.

His eyes were the shape of my daddy's and I was momentarily thrown off by the fact that my heart suddenly shattered from nostalgia; his voice is what brought me back to the present. He asked me what I was doing in that area because he visited the panaderia almost every morning and had never seen me. I briefly told him about Chicanas, Cholas, y Chisme and my play. I told him that I spent a lot of time at CASA 0101 Theater and he knew exactly where it was because his pharmacy shares a wall with the theater. After inviting him to watch the plays, I quickly paid the woman behind the counter, found Lorena, and began walking out of the panaderia.

I have returned several times to La Favorita hoping to find the señor with my daddy's eyes, but I haven't had any luck. I believe that when I stop looking for him I just may run into him somewhere else. Until our paths cross again, I hope that the señor finds his "pequitos" every time he's at La Favorita.

Life is good, even when I'm missing my daddy.

On Kindness Amidst the Chaos: We Need to do Better

Yesterday I spent the better part of my evening going from one store to another to buy some basic staples for the house. We have about 9 rolls of toilet paper left between both bathrooms, and although that doesn't constitute an emergency situation, I wanted to prevent running out and not being able to find any. 

Before leaving the house I sat down with my amazing and falsely calm husband to make a list of the things we really need. We didn't want to buy more than we needed because we simply don't have the space in our home to store a year's worth of toilet paper--we just needed enough to get through the next two weeks. 

I started the conversation by asking him, "Is my fear a legitimate fear?" I know what you may be thinking--all fears are legitimate because fear is subjective. Well, although this may be true on the surface, folks who have anxiety (points at self) and/or depression or are not neurotypical often experience fear(s) that can be quelled by kind and rational logic (points at husband). He responded to me, "It's ok to be afraid, but we are going to be just fine. But we may need toilet paper." So toilet paper became the first item on my list. 

As we began to start building our shopping list, we realized it was going to be short because we have the privilege of being able to keep a well-stocked pantry. We had what we needed in our basic staples of beans and rice, pastas and sauces, grains, spices, condiments, and paper products. What we did not have an abundance of was dishwashing liquid, laundry detergent, and bleach. So those also went on the list. But then the realization hit us that they may shut down schools in our area and our kids will then be home while the two of us are at work. 

This is when my panic began. I took a mental inventory of what I thought was in the refrigerator and what we had in the freezer. My mind shifted into quarantine mode and wondered what we would do if we were stuck together in a house for a week, two weeks, a month, even. For the record, nobody in our house is sick. No one has a sniffle. Not a single member of my family has any symptoms of any illness or pain, not even a stubbed toe. I, a rational 48-year-old woman with an advanced degree in education, temporarily lost my mind and visualized the apocalypse. I felt the onset of tears coming on and when I turned to look at my husband, he was casually scrolling through his phone--a clear indication that my vision of the apocalypse was not a legitimate fear. I quickly gathered my mental marbles and returned to my list. 

"Bleach? Do we need bleach?" I asked, hoping my voice would bring him back to MY reality. 

"I guess we can use a few bottles," he casually responded, as though he had been in the stores and somehow knew "a few bottles" would just be sitting on the shelves. 

"But what happens if I don't find bleach on the shelves? What are we going to do?" I asked him, knowing full well that my fear wasn't about bleach not being on the shelves, but really it was about finding a myriad of empty shelves. 

"We're still going to be ok. Babe, we have most everything we need. Just get basic stuff and then we will go and find other stuff another time," and with that sentence I left the house on a mission to check off everything on my short list. 

The first store I arrived at was Target on Seal Beach Blvd., where I found parking pretty quickly. I grabbed a wipe from the dispenser and quickly cleaned my shopping cart before making my way to the paper goods department. 

EMPTY SHELVES

I had been to stores in the last week where there are shelves that are sparse, but I have never in my life seen four aisles of shelves bare in an otherwise full store. I inched closer to two people who were talking to each other in the empty aisle and they were arguing. One lady who was probably in her late 60s was saying that all she wanted was toilet paper and she couldn't understand why she can't just go to her local store to buy what she needs. The man who was arguing with her, presumably in his late 30s early 40s, was telling her that people are losing their minds over fake news. "Everyone is overreacting. No one is going to die of this in the U.S. and this is just far-left propaganda." 

I WAS HOOKED AND COULDN'T WALK AWAY

They went back and forth on who was allowed to be concerned enough to buy out all the shelves. She became so flustered with his apathy that she finally said, "I live in Leisure World. I can't take this lightly because I'm not as young as you." That's when my breath stopped. The fact that this man was deliberately being unkind to an elder because he could not empathize with her LEGITIMATE fear broke me. I could not understand how a grown-ass man-child could think it was acceptable to look a distressed human in the eye and tell her that she was overreacting. What a huge privilege to be so untouched, unphased, and out-of-touch with the reality some folks are facing. 

I walked over to him and asked him to please leave her alone. He looked at me strangely as though I had spoken in a language foreign to him and that's when I realized that I said, "Dejala en paz," which translates to 'leave her in peace.' I was projecting. I imagined that the woman was my own mother and my brain automatically code switched to Spanish. When I realized this I corrected myself and said, "Her worries are different than yours." Six simple words. True words. That's all it took for him to be broken from his neanderthal spell and walk away from her. 

I watched him walk away shaking his head. The woman stood there looking at me and said, "I wonder if he knows his mom or his grandma may have the same worries I do." I had no words to help her other than apologizing for her experience and telling her that I hope she found what she needed soon. 

I continued shopping the almost-empty shelves for things I still had on my list and left 30 minutes later. 

Next stop, Big Lots. The store was relatively uninhabited compared to Target, but still the shelves were empty. I was able to pick up a few snacks that weren't available at Target in anticipation of the children being out of school for the next few weeks. (At the writing of this post, we have not been given word that our schools are releasing students.) 

Next stop, Target in north Westminster, where shelves were just as bare but the store was bustling with folks buying up all the canned food from the shelves. My first stop was to the feminine hygiene section to stock up on supplies for the family. The Target in Seal Beach had very limited supplies left but the Westminster Target looked as though it had just been replenished with pads and tampons--lucky us!

I made my way over to the meat section to buy lunch meat and packaged meats for the omnivores, and tempeh and tofu for the Wolf. There was plenty to buy there to get us through the next week and I put just enough in my cart to complete the meal calendar I quickly came up with. I bought a few more cans of chickpeas before heading to the cash register. I chose the only human cashier available downstairs even though the person in front of me had a whole cart full of groceries and I only had about 15 items. 

The gentleman continued unloading his groceries while he uncomfortably explained that his wife had given him a list of items that they "absolutely needed to get through the next two weeks of quarantine" in their household. The cashier asked him if they had tested positive for the flu and when he said that they were all healthy, she chuckled and asked him why he was overreacting. HERE WE GO AGAIN. 

I listened as he explained to her that they had an infant at home and his wife really did not want to take any chances because it was their first baby. It meant that he would need to be doing all the shopping because he did not want to take the chance of his wife and child becoming exposed to illness unnecessarily. She said to him, "I think people are overreacting. They don't need to do so much. Again, that's just my opinion, but I really think everyone is overreacting." 

This man just spent seven minutes justifying his purchases. He didn't have to give any reason why he was SPENDING MONEY in Target, as he wasn't asking for a handout. He did not need to be told that his wife's concerns were insignificant. All she needed to do was smile and take his money. 

I was next...she began to ring up my canned chickpeas, pork chops, tempeh, tofu, lentils, and trail mix. She asked me if I was buying for the apocalypse and before I could even answer what I was doing at my third store of the evening, she said, "You know this is all a big conspiracy. People are overreacting and making it worse for everyone. Everyone needs to relax." My mama taught me to be kind. My mama taught me to keep my mouth shut and stay classy in times of adversity. In other words, my mama prepared me to prevent becoming a tempest in register aisle 6 of Target. I simply thanked her with a smile and said, "Your worries are different than mine."

I didn't find toilet paper or paper towels last night or today. I went to a total of 9 stores in 24 hours and I did not find a single roll. What I did find was folks who were willfully unkind who chose to belittle others while they were at their lowest. We share the same space, air, natural and community resources, and yet some still need to be reminded that just because something is not of concern to them does not mean that it is not a concern to someone else. 

I hope you all find what you're looking for on those shelves: I hope you find kindness, empathy, and a few spare rolls of toilet paper to get your family through this period of social distancing. And for those of you with school-aged children, I wish you much success in navigating childcare, school-time meals, and the social needs of your children while school days are suspended. 

For those who have found it easy or fun or natural to be unkind to those who find themselves worried amidst this Covid-19 chaos, be mindful--their worries are different than yours.

On Hurt Humans Hurting Other Humans

Yesterday night I sat down and began to type out a public letter to all the parents of the 4th grade children in Wolfie's school. I typed the post out in anger, got everything out I needed to process, and then deleted the whole letter. Here's why: humans who are hurt tend to turn around and hurt other humans. What would have been the point of using my anger in this way? Who stood to gain from my words?

On Monday night I asked the Wolf to please take a shower so I could brush out his hair really well. On good days, it takes me 30 minutes to brush it out. It can take as long as an hour on other days when he doesn't let me put it up in braids and decides to wear it free. But that night was different, I brushed it out section by section and asked him how many braids he wanted--he typically chooses either one thick one in the back or one braid on each side of his head. I ended up doing four braids on his head to keep it all out of his face and manageable.

Here is Wolfie with his four braids on Wednesday night. 

On Wednesday night before I left for the theater, I stopped in his room to ask him how his day went. He told me everything was fine. He said, "Everything's good, Ma." This is code for, 'I survived another day of elementary school in Huntington Beach and one day I will write a book about my experiences and make millions.'

I responded with, "I'm glad you had a great day at school. I bet the kids loved your braids." He looked me in the eyes for a few seconds before his composure cracked and he said, "Well, they didn't really like my hair. Some of the kids were telling me that I look like a girl." I kept my cool while we began to discuss how he handled the situation and I was so proud when he told me he didn't punch anyone, but that he did respond that there is nothing wrong with being a girl. I asked him if he told his teacher about the behavior (he never does) and he responded that teachers are busy and it wasn't a really big deal. I believed him, but I still cried all the way to the theater (30 miles away) because I wished he didn't have to continually defend his choice to keep his hair long.

The following morning I woke him up early to take his braids out and brush through his hair before taking him to school. He was excited to get the braids out and let his hair go free for the day. He did warn me that he would need to wash it again in the evening because it was a day he would be doing PE. I sent him off to school with the hope and prayer that the kids would be kinder today. I shouldn't ask so much of the universe, or of fourth grade kids, when Mercury is in retrograde.

Wolfie with his hair free and not in braids.

Thursday evening comes around and it was time to get the Wolf into the shower. I asked him how his day went. He said, "Well, I guess it was ok but the kids won't stop running their hands through my hair. They just want to touch it and I have to keep running away." I don't know if I was effective in hiding my emotions in the moment, but I asked him if he could please tell me who was doing this to him so I could address it at school myself. He would not tell me because he didn't want the children to get in trouble. So I asked, "Did this happen in your classroom?" He replied that it was during PE, which meant that it could have been any of the 4th graders at his school. I wanted to SCREAM! I again apologized to him that kids are this way with him and we continued our evening with his shower and a good brush-out.

A little background on the Wolf's hair and his sensitivity to anyone touching his hair: HE HATES IT. There are only three people in the world who are allowed to touch his hair on a regular basis--me, his father, and his sister Azcal. He allows us to brush, braid, or set loose his hair without feeling some sort of anxiety or like he is not in control of his head. If anyone else touches his hair, he feels as though he doesn't have control or agency and the results of that are not fun for anyone. Wolfie feels all of his power through his head/hair, and he knows who he feels trust with in order to allow them to touch it. It's as simple as this and shouldn't require constant reminders to the kids at school. Right? What happened to using "keep your hands to yourself" as a general rule?

Azcal brushing out Wolfie's hair in preparation of braiding it.

So now that I have discussed what has happened to the Wolf this week and why kids shouldn't touch his hair, I want to touch on the topic of hurt humans hurting other humans. 

On the way to run an errand today I called Lola (our 21-year-old) to ask her how her day was going. During our discussion she told me that the Wolf was being bratty with her this week and mean in the way he would speak to her. When I asked her to give me examples so that we could address it with him, she told me that he made some unkind references to her appearance--he said them in jest (her interpretation), but even though they were delivered in jest she was still shocked he would speak to her like that. 

My initial response addressed her pain. I apologized that she was feeling this way and that of all people the Wolf would do this to, she should have never been the recipient of his jerk behavior. She was as shocked as I was. I then said to her, "I am not saying this to you to justify his behavior. I want you to know that I will 100% address this and he will come to you afterwards. I also want you to know what has been going on with him in school this week," and I explained the above. I then went on to say, "he is using you as his scapegoat for the pain that others have inflicted on him this week. He is not justified and he is terribly wrong and unkind in doing this to you, but I want you to understand that he is not doing this because he loves you less, ok? He is doing this because hurt humans hurt other humans." 

Root

Cause

Analysis

The Wolf saying goodbye to the sun. 

I am going to end this post today with a huge ask: if you have children who do not live in a bubble, please talk to them about agency over their bodies and explain to them that putting their hands on someone else when not invited to do so is harmful. It may cause trauma and that trauma starts a domino effect. Please tell your children to be kind to other humans (and animals!) and to start by not making fun of other children because they don't fit the gender mold you have brought them up to believe--or that the media has had them believe. 

Life is difficult enough as a 10-year-old native boy growing up in Huntington Beach. TRUST ME ON THIS. He has enough challenges without your kids acting like their opinions of his hair are more valuable than his right to wear it long. 

Just do better. And ask your kids to do the same. 

Signed, 

One exhausted momma

On My Love Letter to Eva, La Malentendida...

One day I will post on all the reasons why I write about women who are misunderstood, but this blog post will focus on my performance last night.

I am part of a group of female writers who form the collective, Chicanas, Cholas, y Chisme. We are based out of Boyle Heights, California, and housed in the beautiful CASA 0101 Theater. In its 8th year of production, Latinas from the area come together to write stories, our stories, so that others (like Jeanine Cummins) don't do it for us. Once the plays have been written, we cast local actors, produce, direct, promote, and fundraise ourselves. To say we are a group of mujeres who do it all is an understatement!

Speaking of fundraisers, we had an event last night called Love, Lust, and Locuras. I participated in it last year and wrote "Food is my Love Language" while driving to the event. This year I signed up to perform a piece and I wanted to make sure to write a piece that would give a little bit of context as to why I wrote about Biblical Eve for this year's new works festival. I told Claudia, Elvia, and Mariana that I would be reading aloud a love letter to Eve--what I should have specified was that I still HAD TO WRITE this piece and it was already Monday night!

On Tuesday night I still didn't have anything written.

On Wednesday night I said to my husband, "I don't think I am going to follow-through on my performance this year. I feel like I'm under this cloud of grief and I can't get motivated to write it. But I will still take the potluck food and support the writers. Plus, there will be other opportunities for me to write to Eve." I was half-expecting him to push me to write and perform, but he said, "Ok, babe, you've had so many great opportunities to perform your work in other spaces. It's ok if you can't do it this week." Those words were magic to my ears: the pressure to write a piece and perform it, all while balancing life and grief, was removed from my shoulders instantly. I told him that when we got home I would send a message to the producers of the fundraiser that I was giving my spot up.

I obviously never got around to sending out the e-mail...

Fast forward to yesterday morning when I'm sitting in a conference room in Escondido. I was early to a work meeting and was thinking about how I was going to arrive to the fundraiser with my famous vegan chili and a steaming pot of jasmine rice. That feeling of confidence that it would be enough started to wane very quickly. I looked over at my colleague's daily planner and noticed he had a lined pad that still had some blank pages in it, so I asked him if I could have a sheet of paper. It was 9:57 am and our meeting wasn't scheduled to begin until 10:30.

I began writing "A Love Letter to Biblical Eve" while waiting for more of my colleagues to arrive for our meeting. And I kept going until the meeting began and I felt I was in a good place to stop.

When the meeting was over and we were going to begin the drive back to Fountain Valley, I asked my colleague (he was driving) if he would mind if I kept writing. I had written a page and a half and still had many more things I needed to write to Eve. As he didn't mind, I kept writing and writing, and after running out of space on the lined paper, I turned over the agenda from the meeting and began writing on the back of that...

It felt like we flew back to our office and I didn't have the slightest idea how to finish Eve's letter. All I knew was that I had to hurry to my computer so I could get it typed up in time to perform at Love, Lust, and Locuras.

I didn't really have an ending thought out yet, and I had 11 minutes before I had to leave to grab a change of clothes and the food for the event, so I wrote what felt the most natural: invite Eva, La Malentendida, to come watch the play I had written about her.

I printed it...gave it a final blessing...and packed it up in my Happy Planner.

This is the result:

A Love Letter to Biblical Eve

I don't know if you have ever performed in a theater full of allies and accomplices, but I received so much positive energy and love from everyone in the theater. In the interest of full disclosure, I black/blank out when I perform: I do not like the anticipation of performing, but somehow manage to thrive when sharing my voice with the world.

I hope you enjoyed my love letter, and I hope to see you in the theater! "Di que si, di que si, DI QUE SI!"

Until next time...

-LorenaMorena, una Malentendida