And then. . .

Cuando se van las abuelitas, se va una parte fundamental. We are pulled from the brown soil. Roots exposed. We falter, droop. How can we continue without the cariño of their warm hands to support us? Nourish us con sus caricias. Cuando se van las abuelitas, se van los almuerzos y cenas que no más ellas hacían. Las comidas that tasted of their love can no longer exist. The tacos crispy and brown, won’t taste the same. The flavor, like a duende, can’t be caught no matter how hard we try to capture it in our own kitchens. Cuando se van las abuelitas, se nos va el lenguaje, porque ellas nos hablaban en español. Nuestros apodos como Güera, Prieta, Niña, Mima, y Mija se desaparecen. We ache to hear the sounds of our names from their lips and grasp for their words. The ones we didn’t know we would miss. Cuando se van las abuelitas se nos va el amor duro. We lose the sharp tongues quick with consejos we didn’t want to hear at the time. Se nos pierden los dichos and the wisdom we...

Recently, I had a birthday. I never imagined being this age. The older I get, the less and less I have an image for what I thought I would be like. Is that normal? Even crazier, is that I don't think I could have ever imagined the life I have now, and I'm pretty imaginative. Seriously, though, I wouldn't have it any other way. Birthdays make one reflect though, and I've had this memory kicking around in my mind the last few weeks. As a kid, every year for that special day, my sister brought balloons to school. I don't remember when it started, but regrettably, I do remember how it ended. Middle school, sixth grade. I know it was this grade because it was before I went full on surly grunge angsty girl. But, it was when I had already started to learn to be embarrassed by anything that was deemed remotely uncool by my classmates. Around that time, I had stopped eating lunch. My mom and sister didn't know this. They still don't.  However, I very wisely had d...

Last week, after registering people to vote, I came home and cried. Weird things happen to your body when you decide to care about things outside of your immediate vicinity. You cry. You get angry. You pick fights with strangers online. And, if you're like me, and you're a masochist, you read comments on social media posts. Because what the hell, you aren't worried enough about the state of the fucking world, and you aren't dumbfounded enough that there are so many racists fuckheads. The thing that happens when you care, is that you can't not look at news. Whether it's online, on TV, fucking Instagram, you start to see things you missed before. Long gone are the days of watching Keeping up with the Kardashians to laugh at their rich bitch idiocy, because Kanye went and fucked that shit up, too.  My husband, he manages to turn it off. He tells me, "Yasmin, don't look. You don't need to know the news." But it's like a bite mark on m...

Tonight is my last night in Brussels. I leave early tomorrow morning and to celebrate that, I came to a nearby gastropub to have a couple Belgian beers. I didn't know from the Yelp description that it was such a happening place, but as I sit here post meal sipping on a Grimbergen, a common beer here but one I can't find stateside, typing on my phone, I know that I will miss this. Not as much as I have missed home, but I will miss this. I almost didn't come. Did you know that? For about a week, I wavered on the decision after my initial residency fell apart, and my husband couldn't join me as planned for the latter part of the trip. What was I going to do in Europe for a month by myself? Luckily, I bounce back quickly because I went into plan mode. Destleheide, a mutlidisiplinary artists residency, accepted me almost immediately. The rest also fell into place. A lovely, wonderful friend in Cardiff, Karen, opened her home to me and was the most amazing tour guide in Wa...

1. Steps walked:  87,751 2. Visited cities: 2 3. Days I've been without my dogs and husband: 10 4. Words written: 7000 5. Times I missed spicy food: 5 6. Beers: 10 7. Books read: 1 8. Tours taken: 2 9. What's App Messages: 5064 10. Stared out the window wondering what to write: unknown

Because if I do, I get angry. And not that brief wave that can be dismissed with a roll of the eye, it's that deep flash I get when someone cuts me off, and I yell from my car and wave my middle finger in the air, and suddenly feel blind with rage. I don't know what I would do if one of his racists cult followers yelled something at me. I don't think I would be able to take the high road as many of the people we see on social media videos have done.  I don't want to talk about Trump, because if I do, I start to feel like there is no goodness left in the world. Because if you see the news a 91-year-old man just got beat by a brick by a woman and was told to "go back to your country. While Trump did not make people racists, that's always been around, he gave them a disgusting platform that excuses their behavior. A black man can't wear socks to the pool without a woman calling the police. You know those sock bombs are awfully dangerous, or maybe he was goi...

On Friday, I woke up to a set of text messages in my family's What's App chat about Anthony Bourdain. I quickly Googled his name and saw a flood of information about his death. I say death because I don't want to say suicide. If I say it, the many memories of all the shows I shared with him get watery before my eyes. The ballsy man from Jersey who I wanted to be when I grew up becomes human and frail and hurt.  The days following his death, I stayed away from social media as much as I could. My habit of scrolling through Instagram was a brief reminder, then I would shake my head and close the app. Brief glimpses showed me photo after photo of him with one of his many quotes and a caption about resting in peace.  I had the similar gross feeling of disdain that starts in the back of my throat after countless thoughts, prayers, and needs for God after a school shooting flood my social media. My stomach turned. I found something vulgar in all the shares and social media se...

This summer, I am not teaching. While I love my job, I also love writing and it was time to take advantage of being able to take the summer off to return to my first love. Last week, I wasn't quite sure what to do with myself though. In fact, since the semester ended, I've been restless. I can't shake the feeling that I've forgotten to do something. I have to stop myself from checking my email several times a day. Instead, I've been reading about music, watching movies, YouTube videos, and documentaries about music. I made a questionnaire for listeners and a target one for women lead singers in bands. I am even attempting to learn the guitar. While I haven't spent a lot of "butt time" writing, my brain is churning, thinking, putting things in order, creating ideas and bridging others together. Even as I've made to do's to keep me busy, folding the-I-never-want-to-fold-laundry or cleaning out my closet, I've been thinking about music. Bu...

The first time I held a gun I was around seven-years-old. I remember the feeling of being at the outdoor gun range with my mom, which in El Paso is really just the desert with some wooden barriers put in the right places. It was bright. I squinted even wearing my mom's oversized aviators. The hot but cool heat of her .357 service revolver in my hand was heavy. I felt like Clint Eastwood's Dirty Harry and every other western I'd seen on TV with my grandma only I was wearing pink Converse. When I tell this story, I get looks. I get the pursed lipped looks. I laugh the judgement off just like I've learned to laugh off the other things on the ever growing list. It's easier to judge when someone wasn't  there. When they don't know. Their faces change dramatically when I follow up by saying my mom worked in law enforcement, and that she showed me how to use a gun so I understood what it was. Suddenly, I'm no longer some hellion from Texas who went around swin...

A few weeks ago, I went to the screening of Pulp Fiction at the Alamo Draft House.  I was excited to see the movie in the theater. To be honest, I can't remember if I saw it in the theater the first time, but even if I did, I probably didn't get the subtleties of the film and really just thought all the shooting and fucks the movie used were amazing. Because I mean, they are amazing, but I'm older now. More mature. Yeah, that's it. On an odd but serious note, I think this was apparent in the connection I felt with Samuel L. Jackson's character Jules. I know that may sound crazy. I don't shoot people for a living. Arguably, I don't cuss as much. The N word is definitely not dropped from my lips outside of singing along to Jay-Z or Kendrick alone in my car. But what rang true for me was the end. No, not the part about the bacon. While Jules makes a point that pigs are filthy animals, I can't help but turn around and eat bacon. It's too delicious t...

Number of hours spent traveling: 20 Days spent in Colombia: 29 Cazuela de frijoles comidas: 2 Tres Cordillera cervezas tomadas: 15 Shots of aguardiente shots I turned away: 6 Shots of aguardiente I couldn't turn away: 4 Veces que usé tenso equivocado en español: unknown Ceviches I ate: 6 Days at the beach: 4 Micheladas: 10 Showers taken: 58 Sunblock application: 10 Usos de la palabra chevre: 5 People asked why I was a brown gringa: 4 Times I was offended by this: 0 Times people thought I was Colombian until I spoke: unknown Apologies made on behalf of United States for Donald Trump: 1 Explanation of the El Paso/Juarez border: 5 Uso de la frase, "ese man": 20 Photos taken: 88 Veces que escuchú salsa: infinito Ramen from Formosa restaurant eaten: 3 Max number of hours of speaking only Spanish before mouth and brain hurt: 4 New tattoo: 1 Book read: 1 Books started and left unfinished: 1 Reruns of CSI: Miami watched on AXN: 20 Ubers r...

Last night, I spent the evening laughing and talking with a group of women writers I'm proud to call friends. At the table, our conversation bounced around in English and Spanish about books and shows and general gossip. As we laughed, the music, a combination of cumbias and current pop Spanish hits, at times drowned us out, so we talked louder. We ate our nachos, enchiladas, and chimichanga. I felt safe. I got to forget just for a moment about the rest of the world. As soon as I got home, my phone overflowed with notification of the president's latest blunder. The warmth I had just felt faded just a little. The reality of the hatred many feel for people of color burst my bubble. I feel the weight of it on my body. I feel it chipping away at my usual hopeful demeanor. I want to say, ' Dear People who Hate Us,  What have we done to you? Where did you learn to hate so hard? What have I done to you? Do you even know my family has probably been here longer than yours? Do ...

I've been thinking a lot about being bilingual lately. In June, my sister-in-law visited, and at the beginning of the visit I tried to speak mostly Spanish, later it was more Spanglishy-English because I was tired. My brain got tired, and also, I'm going to be honest, I got lazy. For those of you reading this who are bilingual(ish) , you know what I'm talking about. I'm grateful that my husband lets me be lazy. (Also, it's hard to talk to someone in a different language if you're used to speaking in another. Try it. It's weird.) I have a friend who is Puerto Rican, and I while I envy the ease in with he seamlessly switches back and forth between the two, accent free, I doubt my discipline in practicing enough to get there. I want to. I really want to. I promise, but it's like going to the gym or eating better, everyone is always better in the beginning.  Last week, my editor and friend in chief sent me a text with a translation project suggestion. I ...

Nine days ago I went into my first ever surgery. While minor, I was still nervous, like peed six times before they gave me the good drugs nervous. Something about losing time with anesthesia really bothered me. I'm home, mostly in my bed, for the last nine days. I'm lying. Today, I'm on my couch. The doctor told me the recovery for a tonsillectomy for an adult was rough. He definitely downplayed "rough." Last Thursday, four days after the surgery, I went back to his office convinced I'd developed an infection because my neck was so swollen my jaw line was almost gone, and the pain so bad it brought tears to my eyes. He told me I needed to be tough and this was normal. I cried in his office. Tough. I find this word interesting because for a large part of my life people around me have used this word to describe me. I'm not sure what makes someone tough. Because I often cry. In fact, I cry for almost each of my emotions. Happy cry, angry cry, sad cry, I...

I gave Everything I Never Told You by Celeste Ng four stars because it was really good. In fact, it was so good, it hurt. I don't know if I could read it again, though. I felt a lonely ache each time I read it, but I would encourage anyone to read this at least once. I didn't want to give it four stars. I wanted to give it less, because while I would devour the book in lengthy segments of time, it hurt to read it, so it took longer than usual to read. This is a testament to Ng's talent. I loved the omniscient narrator who gave readers insight into each of the characters innermost thoughts without influencing in anyway. It hurt to read because all the characters were so silently raw and unwilling to speak when needed. There were several times that I wanted to shake any one of the characters, "Say something! Say what you mean!", but I had to remind myself they were not real. Ng made them real. She made the hurt real and while reading, I became almost like the yo...

This is an odd book. At first there doesn't seem to be any link between the short stories, but then a common thread starts to show in seams of the pages. The narrators are all women who want to be brave even in the most seedy of situations. They all want to "fake it till the make it". While some of the stories are stronger than others they all have small slaps of reality that linger with you after you've put the book down. Definitely worth a read. For more book reviews check out my Goodreads 

When I was a kid, and my grandma took me shopping downtown, I used to hide in the rounders filled with clothes Now , I know they're called rounders. Then they were just a giant circle of multi-colored fabrics I could sit in the center in and feel safe. It was always cooler in that shaded center. Less fluorescent. Less department store noise. When I looked up it's center and saw the tunnel of light, I had view of the outside, but inside I was safe. What is that? As children we liked to be surrounded by over stuffed pillows or rainbow quilted forts. I wonder if it's reminiscent of the last womb we felt safe in. Today, when I got home from work, I sat on the floor outside my husband's closet saying hi to our dogs and telling him about my day while he sat at his desk. Behind me was a pile of dirty clothes, and although I knew they held his musky scent from the gym, I flopped back into the t-shirts and track shorts, jeans and colorful socks, and looked up into the row of h...

Last night, I saw Green Day live at the County Coliseum. It's the second time I've seen the band. The first time, was in the early 2000's when they toured with Blink-182, and I was too you to know all the small things really wasn't going to matter. When we got there, the place was already packed and the super fan music-heads were sprinkled in with their newer fans who sported updated 2017 grunge wear. I pointed to D and laughed. Flannel and El Paso didn't work in 90's and climate change hasn't made it any friendlier. I really didn't know what to expect from the band, though. When I tried to think back to that first concert, I didn't really remember it much. Now, I've gone to a fair amount of shows in my life, so they do start to run together, but I usually remember at least one thing, but with the 2002 show, well, I really couldn't, which in retrospect was maybe a good thing. I was going in with a clean slate. Thirty minutes in, after t...

As the world goes crazy, the essay I wrote for Entropy magazine swims in my head. The title, " All They See is Brown " is on repeat in my mind. And when I feel a panic bubble up through my chest from all the talks of Mexico and walls and anti-abortion marches and pipelines andandandand the title repeats. Alltheyseeisbrown Alltheyseeisbrown Alltheyseeisbrown Alltheyseeisbrown Alltheyseeisbrown Alltheyseeisbrown Alltheyseeisbrown Alltheyseeisbrown Alltheyseeisbrown Alltheyseeisbrown Alltheyseeisbrown Alltheyseeisbrown Alltheyseeisbrown Alltheyseeisbrown Alltheyseeisbrown Alltheyseeisbrown Alltheyseeisbrown Alltheyseeisbrown Alltheyseeisbrown Alltheyseeisbrown Alltheyseeisbrown Alltheyseeisbrown Alltheyseeisbrown Alltheyseeisbrown Alltheyseeisbrown Alltheyseeisbrown Alltheyseeisbrown Alltheyseeisbrown Alltheyseeisbrown Alltheyseeisbrown Alltheyseeisbrown Alltheyseeisbrown Alltheyseeisbrown Alltheyseeisbrown Alltheyseeisbrown Alltheyseeisbrown Alltheyseeisbrown Alltheysee...

(tapping on glass to get guests attention) Hello!Good Evening, For many of you who don't know me, I 'm Yasmin, one of Sarah's closest friends. In fact, if we had had the chance to chose siblings, I would have chosen Sarah. And, I know that if Sarah had decided to have a maid of honor, that would have been my role. And now, for the sake of sparing my feelings, I know she won't deny that. (pause for audience laughter) So, I want to say a few words about Chris and Sarah. I want to make this quick. because this night isn't about us. It's about this couple and everything they've done to organize this celebration. Many times, weddings lose focus, and I want to bring the focus back on them and the path that led them here, together, with us this evening. First, I want to thank you for having us be a part of your celebration. (Sarah and Chris nod and smile at guests) When Sarah first told me about Chris, we were sitting in my living room drinking margarit...