I AM America.

I come from a long line of immigrants/refugees, artists and activists. These things are in my blood. They flow through me and bypass my brain cells, moving straight to my heart and soul. These charge my actions.

My father supported Fidel Castro and his rebels during the political uprisings in late 1950's Cuba.  He and his friends occupied a local radio station where they spoke for the people and against the abusive, dictatorial policies of the crooked and self serving Fulgencio Batista and his henchmen. In the decade that followed, when Castro's intentions to limit freedom of speech and to restrict human rights became clear, my father responded with dissidence.

When I was asked at school to wear the red kerchief of the Pioneers of the Revolution, he told me that belonging to a political group is something one chooses voluntarily, not as response to an external mandate. He further explained that before joining any group one must be informed about the beliefs, values and aims to which one is agreeing through membership. I would not be wearing the emblem of the communist youth party. I was the only girl in my class who didn't; though at the time I wished only that this small piece of cloth were not so heavy, but bore only the weight of the soft cotton from which it was sewn. I was 6 years old.

In those early years I saw very little of my father. He was jailed twice, once for buying meat on the black market, then for some other unpatriotic, irreverent act the details of which I can't now recall. I do vividly remember traveling with my family in the wee hours to visit him at the UMAP camp where he was assigned once he became labeled a counterrevolutionary "political enemy of the revolution". We brought him food, cigarettes, our love, my mother's tears and whatever news we thought he could still bear.

My father attempted to leave Castro's repressive government many times. Once he and a group of resourceful friends crafted a small raft, which they hid in the woods behind a nearby beach. The raft was soon thereafter discovered and seized by government officials, but fortunately neither my dad nor his friends were identified and they felt fortunate to have escaped being imprisoned. At another time he attempted to leave in an old fishing boat which capsized within the initial half hour of its fugitive voyage; all on deck were able swimmers and successfully made their way back to shore.

Finally in 1969 our family obtained permission to leave the country during what's been called "the largest airborne refugee operation in American history", the Freedom Flights. This was a small period of time, a hiatus if you will, during which there was some cooperation in the foreign relations between my two countries. I remember leaving behind my favorite dolls, all of my toys in fact, saying goodbye to my cousins, aunts, uncles, grandparents and friends. I would never see them again, though this was a concept too huge and complex for a small child to fathom. My mother never stopped crying. My father was stoic and attempted to distract us with a promise of giant rainbow lollipops upon arrival in our new land of opportunity, where he would be free to work again, at any job. We were now refugees.

We arrived in the U.S. with nothing but the clothes on our backs, but on this side of the ocean there were friends. They guided and supported us. They loved my father for his loyalty and integrity. People are important and they help each other; this too was an essential lesson to remember.

He put his broken heart aside and used his broken English and his business savvy to support our family, in fact, to do well for himself and make sure his children obtained an education of their choice. He did all of these things, and more.

On my first day of school in America he could sense my fear and apprehension. He reassured me with a hug and by giving me these words of empowerment to use as needed: "I don't speak English, but I want to learn." These words comprised the first sentence I learned in the English language. With this small lesson he opened my world and taught me how as an immigrant one must go forth and open each and every door. Courage, willingness, curiosity and a forever opening heart do that, as does language.

He taught me the importance of the voice, the power of the pen, of speaking up for one's beliefs and for what one believes to be correct and fair, the importance of speaking up for one's self and for those who can't or don't know how.  These are the main things he sought when he came to America. His decision to leave my country--his country, was not an easy one for him to make; migration was (is) full of pain, uncertainty and loss. Being an immigrant one must overcome all of these things and summon the courage to suffer them for the sake of one's children and one's family and for those more abstract but vital rights that make up humanity: personal safety, freedom to love whomever one chooses, to say what one wishes, and to take care of one another fiercely and fearlessly, as we must do to survive.

My father paid upfront for these freedoms.  I honor his gift.

I am an immigrant and this is my story.

The Plight Of The Urban Iguana

With an extremely critical eye on the Mayan Riviera, there I was, nevertheless, swimming in the bluest and most beautifully resplendent waters possibly anywhere in the Western Hemisphere.  Cancun has never been on my list of  "must go to" places. In fact, even now, I might accidentally forget to add it to my list of  "have been to" places. Yet, here I lay, on a broadly striped lounger at a touristy beachside resort. This was my first experience staying at a place like this and the contagion of slothfulness was apparently, not being wasted on the cynic.

I went there with my teenage daughter, in an attempt to "get away from it all". But whether anyone can ever really "get away" in Cancun,  is another question entirely. The term "getting away" is most often used to describe an escape route to somewhere--you go from where you presently are--encumbered by responsibility and pressures to a new place, a magical place defying gravity, away from all encumbrances and above and beyond the piles of unfinished business. This magical place is reputedly filled with silence, uniquely peaceful, and optimally bestowed with environmentally ideal conditions. It is beyond human touch; virginal. The promise is that upon returning home, one will walk through one's door feeling much refreshed and ready to battle those same piles which, undoubtedly will loyally await you.

I am by no means an expert on these types of vacations and the unfairness of my preconceived prejudices toward these easy "getaways" does not escape me. I confess that the option of traveling for the sake of a sedentary hiatus has never motivated me to leave the comforts of my overheated urban cave or to abandon my mornings of reliably strong lattes and cozy underground human chaos. That potential isn't what inspires me to abandon my comfort zones. I have always been biased in my belief that vacation resorts do not constitute any portion of a genuine travel experience. I've notoriously considered resorts the equivalent of transferring one's lethargic body from one comfy familiar space, across town to another pleasant, but slightly less familiar room with a few additional conveniences thrown into the mix.  It's a clever way of fooling one's self into thinking that one has had a different experience, when in reality, it is but a way of staying exactly where one is; in a state of entropy. A way of running, though not in place- and temporarily hiding, only to return to your original point of departure with unchanged perspective. The potential of participating in this little game had never before aroused the least bit of interest in me, until now. 

That the lack of challenge afforded at these places bestows not just the obvious physical comforts, but some significant psychological comforts as well, is undeniable. For one, I absolutely love the little cash card that enables one to wander about without need of actual cash. I could eat, swim, walk and run on the beach without having to worry about carrying money, losing it or being robbed. Your bill has been "prepaid", leaving no need to keep track of expenses. How liberating is that?! What wondrous denial! 

One of the saddest truths is the large number of Mayans working along the strip of the hotel zone. But without the resorts, would they be employed?
Just as it is at home, our experiences are guided by our perception; and perception is very subjectively molded by our emotional barometer.
My 14 yr. old contends that being unable to distinguish the real palapas from the ones that have been built for the sake of the tourists, is a sad predicament. I hadn't realized that she'd been registering these subtleties. Indeed. 

We venture out of the complex to catch a bus to the boat landing. The traffic is as thick and swift as in midtown Broadway. While we wait at the bus stop, we busy ourselves with watching the locals construct one more mammoth hotel along the strip. A curious iguana, now two, then another, weaves its way among the stones, weeds and debris that litter the construction sight. They are slow, fat, and not very discerning in their choice of snacks. We watch them and are filled with wonder at their perseverance and unperturbed tenaciousness toward survival.

 So many buildings, so little room to roam, yet they are resilient and will not be excluded.

Back in our room just before sundown, from our balcony we gaze upon the infinitely blue waters and blindingly resplendent sands of the Caribbean. I can't help but envision what these strips of land might have been to the native people, before the sprawling of condos and the rows of umbrellas. Now Thoreau's insightful words come to mind: "A stereotyped but unconscious despair is concealed even under what are called the games and amusements of mankind. There is no play in them, for this comes after work. But it is a characteristic of wisdom not to do desperate things."

My eyes are open. But I am feeling truly exhausted.

 

A Date In A Life ~ A little birthday dirge

Joseph Sotack was my neighbor when I lived in a 6 floor walk-up on Rivington Street, on Manhattan's Lower East Side.  Joe died on my birthday in the year 1991.
________________, was a nurse who worked at the preschool where I was employed when I became pregnant with J.T.  She became my friend.
She died on my birthday in 1998, the year J.T. was born.

The back of the remembrance card Joe's wife gave me after his funeral, read: "Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted."  Today is my birthday.

The nurse ended her life by jumping off the rooftop of her father's high rise building in Midtown Manhattan.  She was born in Brazil.  I used to know her name.

Happy Anniversary to the Big Apple of my eye.

When I was younger, I often daydreamed of moving to a farm in some remote area of the country, where I could work the land in solitude and eventually learn how to achieve total self sufficiency. In my daydreams, I would till the fields of corn and tend the cattle, weave sweaters in winter from the wool with which my sheep would willingly reward my loving care. But when time came to spread my wings, instead of settling in Vermont, I headed for Manhattan. Here, I intended to spend a year of study, research and observation and then move on. It's been thirty years since the day I stepped off a taxi in midtown, and in NYC I still remain. No one who knew me prior to those years could have predicted it. I was the down to earth, quiet girl who swooned over the countryside, the hiker, the camper, the mountain lover. But who would have known that trading in the sweltering heat of a south Florida afternoon, for the warmth of a rush hour subway train car full of fellow commuters, would be in the end, not much of a difficult choice at all? Rather, it was more like one of those "Aha!" moments that make you wonder how you could have missed the obviousness of it all, until now...Aha!  

In those years, I thought that I wanted to bond with nature, but in reality all I really wanted was to bond. My relationships nurtured the growth of my spirit and helped to form me in the vital ways that would forge my identity as an adult. It was the people I met here and the love of the things we shared and that connected us, that led me to choose NYC as my home. This is how I grew to accept my need for community. But time and time again, I ask myself what it is that cements our relationships with others. Back then, it was  our love of art, our creative collaborations, our efforts to live as newly transplanted new yorkers in a city that welcomed all, but accepted only the most obstinate. As time passed, that struggle began to include the need to synthesize creative work and family. But in spite of the difficulties of living in the city, most did not choose to leave for greener pastures--or even for better schools. 

Maybe the sharing of ideals among neighbors and friends is of more significance than we are readily willing to consciously admit. Maybe the emotional comfort we gain from the sharing of this complex community cannot be replaced by that of herding docile quadrupeds on a farm. This does not make new yorkers different, it makes us similar to every other group that ever formed and lived on this Earth. The comfort we gain from surrounding ourselves with like minded people is not unlike the feeling that there is safety in numbers. It is a basic tribal instinct. At a recent garden book club gathering, as the group ardently discussed Walden, one member-- a mother of adult children, commented that those who choose to live in cities choose Human Nature over Nature. A profound silence of recognition filled the room.  But transplanted new yorkers; we ARE different. We are a tribe woven from the threads of many tribes. We are creative, passionate re-inventors of our lives who choose to raise our children in one of the most inspired, fast paced, challenging and diverse places on the planet. Never mind the cost. Why do we do this thing?...I find the answer magically mysterious,  perhaps a bit corny, but nonetheless genuine and ultimately quite simple. It's because we love. We come to NY and we fall in love and for love we stay.
Yes, it's true. I  NY
I love the grit, the melange of foreign tongues that I can't comprehend, the noise, the attitude, the art, the music, the architecture, the eccentricity, the elegance, the irreverence. I love the accents and rainbow of ethnicities, the Romani women who tell your fortune--irregardless of whether you want to hear it-- as you turn the corner around Mama's Deli. I love the options of choices upon choices and the contradictions. I love the textures of random human contacts. More succinctly, I love the passion in which this city is doused. 

So, here's a small celebratory tribute to my favorite city in the world, in pictures as well as words. And to my Big Apple tribe, happy 30th anniversary!

From Dust to Dust in a Little Blue Box

I am not a reader of biographies. One man or woman's story is as interesting, meaningful and/or powerful as the next person's.  I have never, therefore, seen the sense in reading some famous person's life story during the time I should be focusing on living my own story. Recently, however, I made an exception to my own tenet and decided to read a biography of Spalding Gray.  Spalding, one of my favorite contemporary writers/performers, ended his life a few years back, by jumping off the Staten Island ferry. It was Spalding's gift for insight & his unabashed ability to laugh at himself that I always loved.  One of his famous monologues, Monster in a Box, is a detailed, heart wrenching account of his failed attempts to complete a 1900 page unedited novel based on his own mother's suicide. The monster is the unfinished novel he keeps in a box, and which he realizes he cannot finish because he has never been able to resolve his mother's tragic death & abandonment.  Simply put, the monster is his mother's suicide; he himself is the box, which has contained all the grief of this irrevocable loss. When he too died an equally tragic death, I felt compelled to wonder if he had ever finally come to terms with his mother's violent demise. I couldn't help but to make the assumption that he had not, and that if he had, then perhaps things might have turned out differently for him in the end. It is important to proceed with caution where the dead are concerned...to walk and not to run.
Today I unpacked the box containing my father's remains. It is fairest to say "what remains of my father's remains"-- for in the end his body was divided in more or less four equal parts and distributed among his wife and children. My father was diagnosed too late. He had little time to plan and having always been a reasonably practical man, caught unawares he did not leave instructions for the disposal of his body. There were contradictory reports among family members as to whether he had in the past ever stated a preference for being buried or cremated. The majority in preference of cremation won out in the end. While three of the four parts have been laid to rest in various parts of the globe, the fourth now sits atop my work table in the uppermost room I call a studio.
Cremation is certainly the most expedient and least costly method of disposing of a body, yet so hygienic and informal that it hurts. Significantly more painful than the other alternative; I was surprised to discover. I now clearly see why the rituals surrounding death are so devoutly observed even among the nonreligious. It is really for those left behind that they have stood the test of time and the prevailing lack of genuine religious conviction. These rituals serve the purpose of buying time needed for goodbyes. This small powder blue box I have been holding on to for the past three years is my own monster in a box. I cannot lay my father to rest until I have done all I need to do to let him go. If only I knew what that entailed, I would have purposely set on that course. But mourning is complicated and delicate business; the sometimes subtle processes not always so easy to discern.
When we love someone deeply, they are always taken from us too soon. Though we had always said so much, there was still so much to be said. My father gave me all he had to give. I never doubted that I was loved. One thing he gave me was a love of words and language and of stories. Though I have only a handful of mementos that belonged to him,  I can still hear his legendary stories told in his own melodic and emphatic voice. I feel grateful for this auditory memory I didn't know it was possible to retain. For now, his stories do outlive him and will hopefully be remembered & retold by his grandchildren. Though I fear these too will eventually fade. Already his voice is only with me and in the translation from their original language, some important kernel of his stories is sure to be lost. Time has a way of shredding everything into increasingly finer segments, making dust of it all in its wake. So as precious as words are, they too won't last. At best, the ideas and teachings carried by fading words will find their place in the deepest crevices of the hearts and minds of his descendants.

I choose to put my faith in photographs and images and in the memories and stories evoked by these. Sometimes objects and stories make mutually precious companions. Such is the case of a small pewter sculpture of the virgin of Cobre, which belonged to my father and which not unlike him, has traveled across three different countries in half a century's time, to rest in my little corner of Brooklyn. There is a story attached to this icon, a tale full of magic and superstition. It involves a soothsayer and my father as a young man learning about loyalty and responsibility, losing his innocence while his country and his own fate harshly and rapidly change. I remember the fear, awe and respect in his voice every time he confided this story. A level of fear and respect I've never had to know, but for which I'm sure there must be a very special word.

My father lived an eventful, exciting and overall, extraordinary life. Yet, his passing was excruciatingly painful, tumultuous and humbly unceremonious. I find this final lack of poetry unfathomable. It was a grand personal event, to which no one came--a last supper full of empty chairs. In the ending of Big Fish, when the main character Edward dies, all the significant people in his life and stories show up at his funeral. From the everyday family and friends to the fantastic giants and witches, they all have contributed something to the stories that make up his final story...and they are all present to see him off on his final journey. But some endings are not as just. Instead, they are cruelly dissonant. For my dad, there was no funeral, no end of life party. None of the characters show up in the final chapter. My father, having been a man of many lands, was far from home. Those who would have mattered were either already gone, or could not reach him to play their part. This is one of the tragedies of being an immigrant. In the end only I was witness to his last breath. Though for that gift I will feel forever grateful, the silent celebration of his life has been difficult to reconcile.
My intentions are to travel to India to place his ashes in the River Ganges, where souls are promised re-birth. India is a far and exotic destination, expensive to travel to and requiring sufficient journeying time. For the past three years, I have failed to make this pilgrimage, instead making my travels to other  less committing faraway places. I too need the time to say goodbye and so the blue box continues to sit atop my studio table.  Although he himself was not big on long goodbyes, I don't think my father would really mind all that much if I needed him around just a bit longer--if this were something he could grant me, which it is.  In fact, I think he'd probably be glad to stick around even in his present form, for as long as I needed him to. My dad was no hindu, but he was a deeply spiritual humanist who loved mysticism, as well as eastern philosophy and eastern religious traditions. I think that he might have appreciated the ritual of being taken thousands of miles across the oceans for the sake of symbolically being given a second chance. He would certainly understand being taken there by his first born middle age daughter who may still be learning that true stories end wherever they end, not where we think they should end. And most definitely, I do believe he'd appreciate the poetry of being laid to rest in the dirtiest and most sacred body of water in the world, where fantasy, superstition, religion and the mystery of the unknown & of the everyday, can peacefully converge.