Family visits: Flies, Sighs, and Eva Mendez' Eyes

It's always great when family is over and we talk about all the funny things we've done over the years, especially as kids. Growing up I had an uncanny resemblance to the character, Piggy, from the movie, Lord of the Flies (circa 1990). We saw it on its release date when I was ten years old. Let's just say that I looked so much like Piggy that people were pointing, gawking, and whispering to one another--"that's him"--as I left the theater. Thinking it was funny, I popped the collar on my brown leather jacket and played the role of a celebrity as my family looked on (and egged me on). We relished every second of the misguided attention, barely able to hold our gut-busting laughs and smiles till we got to the car.

So as I share with you some of the following stories, it might be helpful to imagine a young boy looking very much like Piggy, walking around, getting in adventures, and ... being the fool my family loves (and groomed).

"Make a run for the border"
I'm 11 years old and visiting my Nana and my Godparents in Hemet. We're at Taco Bell grubbing on tacos. My Nina heads to the restroom and tells me to hurry up and meet her outside in a few minutes. I quickly devour my last two tacos, leave the table, and walk toward the soda machine for a refill before I head out.

Next thing she knows, I'm walking up to the car with a big grin, all happy-go-lucky like I've got a gift for her. "Nina, I got something for you. Yoooou forgoooot somethiiiing." I hold up a purse. She looks at me and screams, "What are you doing!? My purse is right here!" There's a split second when I asked myself the stupidest question--"well then who's purse is this?" Uh-oh. Then fear.

She grabbed me by the hand with her forceful stubby little fingers and we rushed back inside, heading directly to our booth. The lady hadn't even returned to the table. We put the purse back and hastily left the place ... Laughing hysterically, we're red as tomatoes. Sigh ...

"What I miss?"
It's 1988, I'm eight years old, and the movie is Rain Man. I really wanted to play a round of video games and wouldn't stop asking my mother for quarters. She finally gives in, purses her lips and says, "And that's it! Don't ask me again!" Victory! I slip out of the theater and head for Pole Position--"prepare to qualify." I went through the dollar in less than ten minutes, and didn't want to go back for the life of me.


I finally head back, but it's dark and I can't see much. Squinting, I look up the row of seats and see my empty aisle seat, my mother next to it, and her boyfriend. I sit down, take a humongous drink of our tasty beverage, and lean towards my mother to ask her, "What I miss?"

And there beside me, in the dark of the theater is this strange woman. It wasn't my seat. It wasn't my soda. It wasn't even my mom! I put the drink down in the cup holder where I found it and say, "Oh I'm sorry" to the woman, who is holding her beau's arm like its a lifesaver, and then slipped out. Seems there were two showings of Rain Man that day and I had returned to the wrong theater. "Aye Chingao!"

"Deja Vu"
So I'm 27 years old and it's sometime in October (2007). I enter the theater after getting a drink from the concession stand. The movie, We Own the Night, had just started, but the scene is poorly lit so I can barely see a few feet in front of me. My mother has this habit of sitting near the handicapped seating (she likes to put her feet up on the railing). So I look towards the railing and see this women there with her feet up, chomping away on popcorn, her purse to her side.

Now, the movie starts with Eva Mendez and Joaquin Phoenix in this pretty racy scene. They're getting down! And I think Eva Mendez is fricken GORGEOUS so I'm not really paying attention. I sit down next to the lady and I figure I'll throw out an off-the-wall comment. I get a kick out of making my mom laugh.

So I turn to the lady with her feet on the railing--which I could have swore was my mother--and tell her in this forcibly-perverted way, "Man, I'm missing the best part!." I laugh in a low tone, expecting my mother to laugh with me. Nothing. Not a peep.

Yea ... I immediately knew it wasn't her. Silence is Golden. And I didn't dare look in her direction! Once the screen lit up a bit, I slowly craned my head in an unnatural arc, trying to be all subtle and non-threatening, easing my eyes a little to the right. Confirmed. By then, I just wanted to get out of there. I stood up slowly, without looking in her direction, scanned the darkened theater, and moved to where my real mom was. I told her what happened. And we busted up for a good five minutes into the movie. (DOH!)

Humanity, Spirit, and The Divine

My aunt Julie passed away on June 16, 2007 at 5:45pm in an intensive care wing of a Hawaii-based hospital. She was 59 years old. I stood there in the room, motionless, wiped clean with shock, sterile like the room, which hinted an odor of cleansing chemicals and medicine. I've lost my voice over the last year and standing bedside with my aunt--Olympic Torch Bearer, Air Force Veteran, Lesbian Writer and Educator, believer in Light and Transcendence--as she lay on that hospital bed in a coma, just one day after speaking to her, muted my soul even further.

And I was reminded last night as I scanned Craigslist for jobs (among other things) how fortuitous it is to share with others. Sometime during the night, I began exchanging emails with a woman that wanted to share her writing and receive feedback. The exchange was liberating and therapeutic as we settled into an open and easy interaction.

Ever since returning from Hawaii, I've had an increasing desire to converse with random people in random situations, mostly to listen to and share stories of pain, our visions for life, and to connect with another human being. It seems that when someone passes, there is an opportunity to absorb some of their life force. My desire to connect with others is one of the things I picked up from my aunt as she closed her eyes and her spirit filled the room.

Dia de los Muertos (Day of the Dead)

A local non-profit based out of LA's Pico-Union area held a Day of the Dead Celebration near Lake and Colorado Blvd on Saturday night in the city of Pasadena.

I got there around 6:30pm and entered a large room filled with the scent of burning sage. The crowd of about 70 adults and children--mostly low-income immigrants--stood in a circle facing one another. One of the event participants was speaking about the sacred and ceremonious properties of sage and how it's used to connect with the dead and the earth around us. Prior to my arrival, the group shared the names of those loved ones that had passed over the years. This is the one part of the event that drove me to attend in the first place. (Lately I've been keeping the darker side of my life in the recesses of my heart marked 'Do not Disturb', so I was a little ambivalent when I heard that the opportunity to share had come and gone).


Most people don't like to talk about death. Or maybe they don't know what to say. Usually, "I'm sorry" is the typical response and then awkwardness sets in until a proper transition to another topic presents itself. If a person has lost someone (especially if it was recent or the person meant a lot to their lives), the conversation often provides a chance to share with another who the person was, and how and why they are remembered. The two of you embrace one another's humanity and tap into the spiritual energy that often feels larger than ourselves and becomes increasingly keen once one experiences the death of a loved one.


And that is how I will describe this event--intimate, a chance to share, and if not to share, to at least acknowledge those that have died in a way that honors their life. There was an altar and all. Here and there candles, teas, coffee, alcohol, cigarettes, bread, soup, flowers, rosaries, and little skeleton heads and figurines littered the tables of the makeshift altar--items placed by the living in remembrance of their loved ones' favorite items while physically alive.

The scent of burning sage filled the room the whole night long--and stayed on my jacket as a nice reminder. A prayer in the indigenous language of Nahuatl was offered to bless the Sun, the Earth, and the connection of each to the living and also to the dead. There was also a lot of dancing to popular Spanish language music, mostly during breaks to close one part of the evening and to begin another. Various flavors of tamales, special bread made during Dia de los Muertos festivities, and champurrado (a chocolate flavored drink made from corn-starch and other ingredients) was offered free to all of the attendees. I grubbed on 2 breads and 4 tamales. Unfortunately, the champurrado went fast and I only had a cup.


This was my second "Dia de los Muertos" experience. I must say that it's great to live in a city that provides even the slightest of opportunities to celebrate death and life in a way that no other traditional American holiday provides. It's a unique and special occurrence when a group of very different people can get together to honor Life and Death. The atmosphere is open to the possibility of the spiritual realm and embraces the notion that while our bodies may live and die, some deeper connection exists to the dead, the earth and the cosmos, and to our fellow human.

I said a small prayer for those people that have passed in my life, inhaled the pungent aroma of sage, and acknowledged the eternal spiritual presence of the dead.