The Time I Ate My Way Through Astoria

 

Team Victory

On June 8th, I'll be walking with family and friends in memory of my cousin Victor who passed away last month from cancer.  Even in his last days he continued to preach the value of love, friendship, and pursuing your life's passions. It's been a difficult year for the family, but we know coming together for this event to support others who are struggling with this disease is a way to keep his legacy alive. We are also walking in honor of our cousin, Thomas, who is undergoing his second round of chemo as we speak.

 

We're participating in the American Cancer Society's Relay for Life, which is a 24 hour walk around a track. The entire family (we roll deep!) is camping out and completing the race together. I know money is tight and we're not asking for a big donation, but if you could give anything, we'd really appreciate it. 

When Victor was diagnosed last August, the doctors gave him one month to live. But with the new advances in cancer research, they were able to keep him alive for eight invaluable months. We know that the more we can give to this, the closer we are to finding a cure, which can turn someone's eight months into a long and healthy life.

If you're not able to donate, forward along our team page to others and send us your positive vibes.

Here's the link: http://main.acsevents.org/site/TR/RelayForLife/RFLFY12National?px=29122239&pg=personal&fr_id=39672

Team Page: http://main.acsevents.org/site/TR/?team_id=1199373&pg=team&fr_id=39672

Much Love,
Amelia

What I Know For Sure About Time

When an educator has the guts to say, "I don't have the time to help one kid who is having a rough day," I can do nothing but write it down in my little black notebook. My arrogant self wants to say, "What the fuck is wrong with you?"

But I write his words down because in them is a truth about each of us. How often have we all felt that way? It didn't take long for me to recognize my own lack of patience these days. I've been rushing through mornings, praying for the next hour to hit, and letting my eyes glaze over as people tell me the inconsequential details of their lives.

It's hard when you're wrapped up in your own head. The worst thing about being sad is that you turned into a selfish little bitch, too. Your hurt, your fears, and your thoughts are the only things that matter. Your ears turn off before your heart does.

I was taught a lesson in compassion at our family's Sunday brunch. Nothing feels normal yet, but the sharing of stories helps.

My cousin works at a fancy hotel in Boston as a server for large functions. We've all known that she has been in close proximity to professional athletes, actors, and other very important people. It wasn't until this past Sunday that I learned that she has also served Bill Clinton. Twice.

She told me that the first time he came, his handlers had to rush him out of the hallway because all he wanted to do was talk to the servers. He asked them questions, told stories, and most of all, the former President of the United States of America, gave them his precious time. On his last visit, to prevent him from taking up too much time talking to the regular folks, they banned anyone from standing in the hallway. Imagine that? You're one of the most powerful human beings on earth, but your biggest flaw is spending too much time with the people who serve you stale chicken and potatoes.

If Bill can do it, so I can.

Last Friday, I stopped typing, shoved the papers to the side of my desk and sat in the office with a colleague and listened to his story. I wanted to tell him to be grateful for his life and to stop bickering about the tough cards he had been dealt, but I knew that was my own sadness speaking and it wasn't from a place of love. I dug deep beneath my own resentment for this unjust world and praised him for his tenacity and ability to overcome his obstacles. And while I tried to make him feel better and watched him wipe a tear from beneath his glasses, my heart opened again.

What I know for sure is that although life is short, there's always enough time to listen. All struggle and hardship is relative, but important. If we can find, better yet, make the time to hear each other's stories, we can rediscover compassion and love even in the hardest of times.

A Gift

Got this early morning gift from a friend. I can't believe I didn't own this.

I Ate Good and Wore a Decent Outfit

This hasn't happened much in the past two months, but today after a long cry and a few minutes resting in child's pose on the yoga mat, I pulled it together. I asked my food guru Nik for some advice on the arugula (evoo and freshly squeezed lemon) and went back to my favorite baked herb roasted eggs. For the outfit, I dug the thrifted polka dot dress out of the closet (it stopped fitting a few months ago), wrapped a pearl necklace around my left wrist, and finally wore the Eloquii mustard leather jacket.

And this is what it looks and tastes like to be normal again.

One Month

"You don't have to process anything now, but you do have to process it. Maybe your subconscious will do it in a dream, but at some point, in order to really move on you will have to process it."

Not today.

Mountains and Valleys

I slipped out of the terrycloth bathrobe, nude except for the underwear I kept on for false modesty and jumped underneath the sheet on the table like the masseuse had instructed. My arms dangled towards the floor, lifeless, and my head faced down with eyes closed breathing out my mouth because of the stress cold I caught the week following his death.

Her palms began at the nape of my neck, passed my shoulder blades, against my spine, into the small of my back, and to the tip of my tailbone. Over and over again she made me feel the length. She was taking a long journey through the trail of my back. And for the first time, I didn't think about the imperfect skin. The scars from teenage acne became irrelevant as I could feel the overpowering little hills and valleys that have formed from on my body from too many second servings of my mom's cooking and years of playing sports.

My body, a landscape not a canvas, built and constructed to perform and sustain.
My hips and rolls took up most of the table and left little room for my arms to lay by my side. I rested them on my belly, soft and warm like an oven underneath the sheets. I wasn't going to let insecurities and the fear of not having a perfect body keep me from enjoying the massage I paid for. If she didn't like my body, then she could be the one bold enough to refuse to serve me. I let myself experience the privilege of living in a body you love.

An Honor.

Show and Tell

I took a cab home from work, rushing to warm up leftovers in the microwave and sleep in the dent of my own bed. Before I could do any of that though, I would have to show my mother my wrists. A weekend getaway at a spa in New Hampshire started with ax-throwing and ended with black ink tattooed below my palms.

Before I sat in the chair, I kissed the blank canvas and faint blue lines goodbye. I mean, I really did kiss them. Someone told me once that a woman's wrists were the sexiest parts of her body. I think that somebody was Jamie Foxx as Ray Charles, but either way, someone said it. I tried not to think about how many men wouldn't like them anymore and came up with quick explanations for people who ask why I have the words permanently marked on my arms forever.

My mother was making her bed (don't ask, she likes to tidy up before she goes to sleep). Her right cheek swung up in the air as she said hello. I hadn't seen her since Saturday morning when she handed me a picnic basket filled with tuna empanadas for the 3 hour road trip. I dropped my backpack on the kitchen table and came back to give her kisses, a hug, and to reveal my secret(s). Her eyes darted to the left cuff of my jean jacket and as I pecked her cheeks, I could see that her eyes were still down. She said, "Okay, show me."

She knew (darn Facebook). I scrunched up the sleeve and waited for her the frown lines on her face to appear. They didn't. Her cheeks rose again and her lips parted into a smile. Her hands came up to my jaw and now she was giving me kisses. Mommy wasn't mad or disappointed.

Not only did she know about my tattoos, but she knew why I needed to get them. She told me there were pork chops on the stove and couscous and beans in the fridge. I warmed a plate and added some barbecue sauce to the side, I missed my couch and cable tv. I walked by mother's room and saw her lying in her bed, watching her recorded soap operas from the morning. I went into her room, placing my hot plate on her desk, and gave her one last kiss on her forehead for the night. "Thanks for being a good mom and not judging me," I told her. Her response? "It's not something I would do because it's not me. But that is you. You want them, that's all that matters."

Sixty one years old and born on the tiny island of Fogo on the smallest island of Cabo Verde and has unlearned everything that she was ever taught about propriety and womanhood to raise and, most importantly, love her girl child in a way that makes her feel valued and respected for all of the choices/mistakes she makes. To overuse the word some more, she is amazing.

For a moment, while I walked up the stairs and let the tears drip down my cheeks (the ones I inherited from her), I almost stopped being sad. And these days, that takes whole lot of love. Thank goodness for mommies.

A Reminder.