Saturday, March 23, 2013


The first time
I saw a dead body
of a stranger
was a boy who shot himself
In a field
Through his mouth
But all I remember
was the brown rubber soles
of his shoes

Monday, December 17, 2012

In Retrospect.

"If we were logical, we would resign ourselves to the evidence that our fate is beyond knowledge, that every conjecture is arbitrary and demonstrably devoid of foundation. But men are rarely logical when their own fate is at stake; on every occasion, they prefer the extreme positions. According to our character, some of us are immediately convinced that all is lost, that one cannot live here, that the end is near and sure; others are convinced that however hard the present life may be, salvation is probable and not far off, and if we have faith and strength, we will see our houses and our dear ones again. The two classes of pessimists and optimists are not so clearly defined, however, not because there are many agnostics, but because the majority, without memory or coherence, drift between two extremes, according to the moment and the mood of the person they happen to meet."

- Primo Levi
Survival in Auschwitz

Monday, December 19, 2011

The greatest part of my younger years was the time I spent outdoors. My best friend lived next door to me and we spent all our time on my porch planning our days ahead. Back then, my porch was the central zone for hanging out. With its big gray steps, it had places for everyone to sit so we could watch the cars drive by or when my brother was out playing with his friends. It was a source of comfort for me since I knew I couldn’t get in trouble as long as I stayed near the house. We played games like who could keep their balance the longest on the bricks that lined the planter in front of the porch. I never wanted to fall in because I was allergic to the Juniper trees and if I did, I’d get red itchy bumps wherever it touched me. The porch is where I spent most of my days outside of school.

As I now walk over these steps each day, they are nothing but an extension of the door I am trying to get to. Whether it be leaving to go to school or coming home from a friend’s house, I hardly think about those two small gray steps anymore. The brick surrounding the planter are now cracked and broken; there is not much to see except the plants and welcome signs my mom leaves on the side of the porch. I know the history of those steps, the used to be my childhood. There is nothing there for me since my best friend moved away ten years ago. It has been ten years since my porch was something more than just steps to the door.

Sunday, November 6, 2011


Why would I want to be summed up in a nutshell, I’m allergic to nuts. I usually write how I want a piece to end first. I have always been one to observe, so go ahead and stare back because I am always looking. I know most of my family history; enough to refer to myself as Mexican-American. I was raised on music and that is what I know how to do, besides going to school.

The color of my skin never really mattered to me. The only time I would talk about it was during Golf season and it was mainly complaining about tan lines. Certain things did not dawn on me until I had time to reflect on what had occurred, like when I attended Catholic school. Looking back, only me and this other girl were Mexican out of the two classes in my grade. All of my classmates were either White or Asian with the exception of one boy who was half African-American and half Filipino. This wasn’t a problem until we were in Jr. High. The “cliques” started to form and our teachers called us out on it. They wanted us to mesh since the Asians only hung out with other Asians and the White girls only played with other White girls. The only other brown girl besides me actually hung out with the White girls. While our teachers were lecturing about this, they singled her out because she only played with the White girls and that teacher called it a “stretch.” Of course, after that happened, people started playing with everyone for a time being. And while I watched this, it all looked bogus to me though they probably had the best of intentions. There were just some people who I didn’t care to hang out with. So I stayed with my “clique” of friends who were, coincidentally, the only multi-cultural bunch.

Apart from those five years I spent in the school that gave me a conscience, I remember preschool being a time of more…fun. My dad picked me up at the end of the day and we always listened to Arrow 93.1, his favorite station that played ‘60’s and ‘70’s classic Rock. He would always ask me who was playing the song even though most of the time I didn’t know. Eventually, I caught on and certain songs were familiar to me and I knew their names, but I didn’t know who they were. It wasn’t until I got older when I realized the impact of The Beatles and The Stones and how Clapton used to be God. I just liked the beat of their songs. I’d memorize lyrics without really knowing what they meant, but if I could sing along, it made the song better. I remember vividly one time arguing about the lyrics of a song on the way home. It was only one word, but I insisted that he had said “blood” while my father was adamant about hearing “mud.” As it turns out, we were both right, it just depended on what verse one was listening to. I didn’t know that the lead singer had died (months after I was born) of AIDS, nor did I know how many hits they’d had. But whenever that song came on, I was sure to stomp my feet and clap my hands.

I am usually very brief when it comes to answering questions, but sometimes words just aren’t enough. I feel that even if I were to write a book on my life, no one could really understand unless they talked to me or have seen what I have seen. Or maybe they completely understand and I am just doubting the effect/affect of my writing skills. It can mean both if I think it can. I was always taught that I could achieve anything even if it is impossible, but maybe that is my second-class citizen mindset. I see things in a different way and maybe I’m right. Conceited much? Maybe. But I’m pretty sure you know how this will end.

Thursday, March 10, 2011

Why Worry?

There are only two things to worry about: either you are well or you are sick. If you are well, then there is nothing to worry about: but if you are sick; there are two things for you to worry about: either you will get well or you will die. If you get well, then there is nothing to worry about. If you die: then there are two things to worry about: either you go up or down. If you go up, then there is nothing to worry about. But if you go down you will be so busy shaking hands with old friends you won't have time to worry.

-Irish Worry Stone

Friday, October 22, 2010

People are strange...

Everyone knows you can't buy love but you can still sell your soul for less than a song, to a
stranger who will sell it to someone else for a profit
until you're owned by a company of strangers
in the city of the strange and getting stranger.

-"The Path to the Milky Way Leads through Los Angeles" by Joy Harjo

Friday, September 24, 2010