And then. . .

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 ...