And then. . .

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...

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 ...

All summer long, I've been a writer. I developed a schedule where I woke up at 8am every day, went to my boxing gym, came home by 10:15, had a protein shake, and wrote. I would write until almost 5pm. Some days were more productive than others. Even when I couldn't write, I refused to leave the seat in front of my computer. This often caused the hubs to hate my writer's block because I often You Tube'd DIY home improvement projects for us to complete on the weekend. Now the summer is over. Now, I am no longer a writer. I am a professor. Repeat. I am a professor. We all play different roles. For example, I am a daughtersisterauntwifeniecefriendwomansisterinlawbestfriendcoworkerreaderelpasoan writer.  I am always all of these things. But this summer my main focus was being a writer. I've never had that opportunity before, and I liked it. It sort of made me re-remember why I wanted to be a writer in the first place. And although that isn't over, I h...

Last night after a long [insert slew of obscenities here] day, I went to yoga. I almost didn't go. The warm comfort of pets, my home, and the couch seductively called to me as I sat in a sea of red lights and traffic. They were both so tempting that I almost escaped the highway three exits sooner, but I stayed strong. I gave myself a pep talk on the benefits of losing myself in my  Utkatasana's, Virabhadrasana II,   and  Savasana's.   As I sat in the car, repeating the benefits of attending, the day kept butting in and replaying itself like a short film on a loop. I spent most it angry and/or frustrated. When I was younger, anger always served as a fuel for me, but not as I've grown older it just drains me to the points of exhaustion. I am a shell of myself even as I smile and make small talk with the people around me. Today, in fact, I am shell. I am a browned husk floating around campus berating myself for losing my temper. At moments like these, I am tha...

I should be grading, but I don't want to. Outside, the sky is varying shades of grey. The clouds are a tightly, knit sewn quilt blanketing the city. This is odd for "The Sun City", but unlike most I enjoy chilly weather, rain, and what the clouds bring. I should be grading, but I keep ignoring the digital stack of papers. The semester is at week 10 and the students who are going to "get" it have already proven themselves. The "not taking this seriously" have disappeared like the mice who inhabited my office for the first month of the semester. I'm still not sure of the "I'm gonna buckle downs". I stay hopeful, but not too much, so it won't hurt as much when they too disappear. I should be grading, but the weekend is calling. Saturday is Halloween. I always love Halloween, but this year I have less zest in my pep. Yesterday, I suggested to my husband we dress up as Kurt Cobain and Courtney Love. We just need blond wigs. He said...

When I was a senior in high school, my boyfriend worked at a 7-11.  He worked graveyard shifts,  but he wouldn't sell me beer. Instead, I went to the store after I was done with friends, buzzed, and wandered around the aisles.  I should have known then the person who constantly checks is the person with a guilty conscience.  The first time I did it, he didn't get it. I walked down aisles filled with Doritos and Lay's, my arms spread wide singing,  "I'm leavin' on a jet plane..." "What are you doing?" he asked. I kept singing, "don't know when I'll be back again. " "Are you leaving?" he asked. "It's a song." I looked at him all disheveled in his red 7-11 apron and wondered what I was doing here. It was 4am. The night was turning indigo. Maybe it was time to go.   "I don't like it." "It's just a song," I answered. "But it's late." I ...

"Isn't it pretty to think so?" She threaded her fingers into his hair. It was dark and smelled musky like it needed to be washed soon. She rested her nose on the top of his head. "Pretty to think what?" he asked. "To think that this," she gestured with a shrug "will not last." He pulled away from her,"But I wanted  it to last." He looked at her, eyes wide and clear. "This is the worst day of my life. Why do you think it's pretty?" He pulled back even further the lines of his face etched deeply between his brows. "I just thought--I mean it's pretty to think there will never be another moment like this again. Even if it's horrible, it's pretty to think you can never lose him again. The way you feel will never happen again." She looked at him and reached out again, but this time he pulled away and pressed his back firmly against the worn brown couch. "I can't believe--I m...

Recently, I was asked for the title of the post that featured my favorite books, and I realized I didn't have one. So, this week's post is going to list some of my favorite books in no particular order, but I will separate them by genre and why and...nevermind. Without further ado books that have made an impact on me.  Favorite Book as a Pre-Teen A Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L'Engle Why? Because it's amazing. It has a sprinkling of everything the mind needs at that age (or at any age). I loved Meg and her family. I loved that she was a smart/brave girl in a world before Katniss. Favorite Recent YA Read   The Smell of Old Lady Perfume by  Claudia Guadalupe Martinez It's a version of a slice of home. Although I couldn't relate to all of it, I know someone who knows someone who's experienced some of those situations. I also like supporting local authors. If you sprinkle El Paso in your book you're good in mine.  Favorite YA Anthology The Curi...

"At any rate, that is happiness; to be dissolved into something complete and great." The old woman looked down at the small brown constellations sprinkled on her hands. "But weren't you lonely?" the kid asked. She smiled, small, but it stayed in her eyes and lit them brighter than the flicker of fluorescent lights overhead. "How can you be lonely if you are a part of something bigger than yourself? Everything I've given has been for something better, greater. My acts will live longer than I ever will." This time she stayed quiet and the kid down at his hands, the skin taut and smooth. In the background he heard the garbled voice over the intercom, "Next stop Meridian Plaza". "I'm not sure what you mean, or even if I understand, but--" He looked back at her hands and reached, cradled them in his. The skin was warm. She looked up surprised. He searched the small creases lining her face, some deep and shadowed, ot...

This is a question that I'm not only being asked but a question I'm asking myself, and it's beginning to cause me a bit of anxiety. " What are you going to write next? " is causing my leg to rock back and forth more than " What have you published? " Mostly because the latter is asked by people who don't know a lot about writing. They don't know things take time. They don't understand being a writer. They only know books that are on the best sellers list. (Nothing against a best seller. Hell, I want a best seller!) They only read (whisper) genre  fiction. " What are you going to write next? " though, well that is a question. The other day I was having a conversation with D: "What if now that I have time to write, I don't have anything to say?" I asked. "You always have things to say," he replied shaking his head. I paused, "Wait, are you just saying that 'cause I talk a lot?" "...

I had to Google the word "multitasking" to double check whether it was hyphenated. At this moment I have six windows open. I will inevitably flip back to another tab to check something. I just got a text message from Sarah. Of course I will check it. A few months ago my Tio came over to help D and I with moving some things. He came in sat and started to talk to me. D sat on the other couch trying to finish some work on his Ipad. My laptop say on the coffee table. We were both facing out screens.        "So mija how is everything?" Tio asked.          "Good, Tio. Hang on. I just need to post this." I said without looking up at him.        "Man, all you guys do is stare at those screens. Why don't you put them down," he said reaching for my laptop.        Tio was demanding my attention. My work was demanding my attention. The T.V. was on in the ...

She was silent. The silence so loud it was as if the world had been put on mute. It was just them. He reached out and ran the thick pad of his thumb along her bottom lip as the other cradled her neck.                                                                                                  ***** "How was your trip?" he asked, fingering the arm rest of the chair. The rectangular shaped desk between them was more than desk. It embodied the tangible gestures as they looked away from one another and fiddled with imaginary things around them. It was the space between two people who once loved. "It was good," she said, looking down then back up at the ...

I want to lie in bed for a few days and curl into the sheets until they become arms who embrace me as I sleep.  I want to sleep in until 9am, stretch in the sunlight streaming in through my bedroom window, and just stare with blurry vision at imagined dust motes.  I want to read voraciously,  the way I did when I was younger. I'd read through the night and force myself to shut the dog-eared pages when the sky night broke into indigo.  I want to curl into his arms, not because I'm tired, but because I can't help but breathe in the smell of his his hair even when it's ripe with the scent of last night's run.  I want to write until my book is finished, until the pages I've clung to for the last year finish their fight for freedom and I've nothing left but to begin again with something new.  I want to....

1. Priorities change as you get older. 2. Family is important and although I tell myself not to take them for granted I sometimes still do, but what's important is I try. 3. Make plans, lots of plans all the time to give yourself something to laugh about later. 4. One good drink is better than ten bad ones. 5. Beer can be good. Bud Light is not one of those beers. Ever. 6.  BFF's are the ones that change/grow with you. Not every person who was a BFF will stay one. That's okay too; you were in each others lives when you needed to be. 7. Smart beats hot. Every time. 8. Being around negative people is like licking a sick person's hand. It's contagious. Stay away. 9. Patience. Patience. Patience. (I'm still learning that one). 10. Life can continue without that MarcKheil'sChanelSevenChantelleDior thing. It can. Really. 11. If you can't have a conversation. Take the hint. 12. It's okay to cry. A lot. 13. Music. Music that you love that you fee...

This is me you say, at least I say. "This is me, what you see is what you get," but there are so many sides to me, to each of us. Today I woke thinking about roles. The roles we play in our own lives as in others. I began thinking of one of those multi-faced dolls, the same face, but each is something different in a way depending on the angle. Somehow as we get older those roles begin to multiply further. More and more of our profiles appear like a flick of the finger against an endless line of dominoes with our features etched on the side in a continuous cascade.  daughter          sister granddaughter                niece                 cousin               aunt  sister-in-law                 wife    daughter-in-law           sister-in-law   ...

When I was a child, between the ages of six and eight, I remember trying to stare at the sun. My mom and  grandma Ita, told me, "Don't stare at the sun, you'll go blind!" But still, I tried to stare. I stared through warm red flesh tinted eyelids. They trembled as I tried not to open them against the sun's heat, knowing if I did I would squint and my eyes would water. I stared on cloudy days as the sun's arms poked in and around light gray puffs of teasing rain clouds. I stared as close as could on cloudless days until my eyes stung and watered from the brightness. The small muscles around my eyes contracted into one another as if hugging my eye in protection. "Mom, I can look at the sun with sunglasses on!" "No you can't! You'll go blind!" she said exasperated. I stared through tinted sunglasses but tried to look in and around the brightest spot, well, because I didn't want to go blind, but I wanted to see the sun. T...

her Voice was like a warm blanket in a cold room soothing as it surrounded me cuddling against her Voice calms me in this white, sterile, space where she comforts me even after I press buttons play  click rewind click play click on the tape with her   Voice

When I write I don't think about anything else aside from where my story is going. Where will it take me? Do I like where it's going? Does it like where I'm taking it? It's not until much later and many edited drafts past the original that I think about reading it aloud. Last, night I read two pieces I'd never read aloud before. "La Trenza" which I'm excited is about to be published in the latest edition of Cream City Review and "Dimming Lights" which is a small heavy piece I used to divide my memoir into sections of before and after my grandmother Ita's, death. Last night, I read them in front of an author who I read when first figuring out how to write my own work, Rigoberto González. I read his memoir Butterfly Boy: Memoirs of a Chicano Butterfly amongst others when I was still undecided on what shape my book was going to take. It was interesting because I felt as if I knew him, already had a relationship with him, and I wanted to ...