Dear Mr. President

Who are you?

Do you know who I am? I am a Cuban in exile. I have lived in this country since 1963. I was 8 1/2 years old when I arrived in Miami with my family. I remember why we came. We came to escape the dictatorship that betrayed the Cuban people and took away our rights, our freedom, our work, our land, our money. While that government still exists, pardon me if I don't feel joyous about your visit to my country.

While the media is talking up your greatness, I feel bereft. While you and your family parade around the island that is my childhood home, I am overwhelmed with emotions I don't know if I can describe. There's grief that can't be put into words. There's a wound that still hasn't healed. A wound that your ambition continues to re-open. It's not just the wound of having to leave your family and home, it's the wound of having your family suddenly and devastatingly become something radically different - father becomes bi-polar, mother works for a sweat shop, children become 'latch-key kids', I the 'mini-mom' for my two younger siblings. Nine years old, Mr. President. I was only nine years old.


This appears to be all about you. Your smile feels self-congratulatory. It doesn't matter what your
speeches tout as your humanitarian goals, to me it feels like neatly packaged political correctness. You say all the things some people want to hear. You say nothing to me.

You say nothing to us Cuban exiles who have sought refuge here, who have worked hard to rebuild their lives, who pay taxes, who have hoped for justice, who have been betrayed more than once by an American president, and yet continue to remain loyal to the system of democracy and individual rights of the United States of America. You say nothing to me and all the children who survive the exile today.

I feel ignored. I feel invisible.

Many think of you as one of the best presidents. I think of you as one of the worst. I realize I do not speak for the entire Cuban population. I also realize you're not a bad person. I don't hate you, nor do I engage in political debates with family, friends, or acquaintances over your policies. I'm simply letting whoever reads this know that I hold you accountable for ignoring a section of your constituency that lived through oppression and betrayals; endured poverty, imprisonment, torture, death; and risked everything in hopes of making a real difference in that one small section of the world only to be cast aside by political ambitions and economic greed. I hold you accountable for denying our pain, our truth, our wisdom through the inexpediency of your actions.

The Castro dictatorship may indulge your delusions, even your own personal delusion of grandeur, but I will not. I will continue to take a stand in my own way against the global theatrics of world leaders. When all is said and done, the Cuban people will not be any freer from the shadow of imperialism by this hedonistic venture than they were prior to Castro's regime. I believe that through you Cuba will once again become 'the playground' of rich, the tyrants, moguls, and the short-sighted politicians who view the island as ripe for exploitation. Money in large quantities will flood into the hands of the wheeling-and-dealing speculators and promoters...and the Castro regime.

It's sanctioned piracy - the legacy bestowed for centuries upon the people of the Caribbean. You open the door, Mr. President. And you say nothing.

For Gaia

Let’s start.

Yes, let’s start

With a murder of Crows

Picking clean the meat,

Sucking the marrow too

From the bones of our indifference.

Let’s take the next step and

Seek counsel from the parliament of Owls,

Beg that sentinel of wisdom

Sear through the cold shadows we cast

And hope for their benevolence.

Let’s find our ‘welcome home’

In the kindness of Ravens,

The soft curling edge of their wings

Wrapping around our wrath

With their impeccability.

Let’s finish the shameful dream

With an exultation of Larks,

A choir strung through the watery sky

Of well deserved tears

And merciful reclamation.

Writer 2

When you decide that this writing life is for you, you are stalked by Doubt. Now imagine Doubt as a character - a boogey man, a gangster, a pessimistic critic. Doubt is strong, powerful, and undoubtedly famous. Or think of Doubt as fear appearing like a hideous demon with fangs like a shark and carrying a megaphone. To top it off, Doubt knows more than you. In fact, Doubt knows you better than you know it.

And yet you persist.

You don't know why you persist - maybe it's because your friends and family are kind enough to encourage you. Even though deep inside you know Doubt knows best. And yet, you refuse to follow his/her advice. That in itself makes you feel kinda stupid.

And yet, you persist some more.

Something about writing sparks you. You wake up, and before you go pee, you want to write. You need to get to work, but you write a few sentences, promising, like you do your cat, you will be back soon. When it's time to make dinner, you decide to write first. You don't follow your to-do list as closely as Doubt assures you you should. And now you feel guilty.

So you stop persisting.

Doubt has won the day. Except that one day, you sneak a piece of writing on a post-it note. Actually, several post-it notes. Maybe a poem strings out of you like cheap plastic beads, some of which you suspect could be pearls.  The start of a story spins itself out, albeit with no pay off ending for the reader. Fragments of a memoir spurt forth but you can barely stand it because of the grief. The Grief. So, you cry. Memories you didn't know you had over whelm you. Then periods of being stuck without a single word leave you feeling like a zombie. Doubt scoops you up like a clump of cat-litter. "Shame on you, wasting time like that."

But...surprise...Persistence doesn't leave you.

Persistence leverages Doubt. And so you gather the courage to face this mortal enemy. But Doubt is tricky. It shape shifts from boogey man to gangster to critic disguised as friend, teacher, wise guide. This has to be the worst thing imaginable. Until your writer grows up and notices you're not that important. The boogey man is not real. The gangster's got snitches to deal with. The critic has bigger fish on his radar. And you relax. Your problems are over...ah, not so fast.

Persistance slacks off.

You start to play around with the craft. You become distracted with practicing. You become enamored with the beauty of it all. That poem was a masterpiece. If you never write another poem, it's ok. Creating dialogue for the fun of it? It's like snatches of conversations overheard. You are happy to just eavesdrop. Memories are more colorful than words - forget the memoir. Who will read it anyway?

Doubt is back.

That sneaky sonoffabitch.

Writer

There’s really nothing I can say that will convince anyone that I am a writer. To most people, it means you must be an author. Have published a book, or articles in magazines. The word author is often coupled with words like prolific, original, masterful. But the era of electronics has changed this. Anyone can write and go public. I blog, therefore I am. A writer.

Before blogging I wrote journals. I have most of them stuffed in the window seat storage space of my bedroom. I rarely go back and re-read them. It’s all in the past and no longer who I am. I started writing them when I was 14. My journals are full of rants, and self-pity. I was a writer then because I needed to befriend myself. The journal is a mirror for that part of me that needs to be assured she can live to deal with another day. When life is shitty and incomprehensible, forget shopping. I journal.

Today, why am I a writer? And particularly, why have a chosen to write by way of a blog? I sure as hell have no intention of teaching anyone or sharing information. It’s simply fun. I blog whatever comes to me. It’s all different. There’s no specific focus or intent. I have no timelines, no agenda, no editor giving me guidelines to follow. I blog to be visible to myself. To have a party with all the voices that speak to me. Journals kept in dark musty storage spaces keep me hidden, introverted.

When I write I learn self-respect and self-acceptance. It’s a way of caring for the parts of me that have been neglected. It’s showing me the way to self approval and self love. I go beyond the social world of interactions and exchanges and find a vast landscape of living things with which to commune. And these living things love me back because I pay attention to them. 

These living things - starless days, a slithering snail, a wind whipped tree shivering in the dark. Half-rotten fruit, smokey songs, a cheeky squirrel, the symbolic slap-in-face, the 89 yr old man who hoards, baby thighs. Chia seeds, coconut caramels, cat food, the heat of the crock pot, an ice cube scented with peaty scotch. The runny nose, linen sheets, carpool lanes, marble steps, wet mulch, salty water, Bob Dylan’s harmonica. Aaaah. There’s more. And more. There’s always more. More love than any heart can handle. 

Through writing I’ve learned the writer’s secret answer - I write so as to never have a reason to be hateful. If my writing hurts, I question it. It may not be writing. It may not have joyfully lived, sung, or dreamed. I throw it away. Write something real. Something someone can relate to. Or not. I just checked my trash. It's empty.

Writing can be a sword. But only those needing to be cut and healed will feel it. Writing can bring forth tears. But only those who have not crossed the sea of sadness can be ruptured by grief. Writing gifts the lonely with solitude, the harried with something worth doing, the worrier with song. Be a writer and forget why.

Prompts

One day the Lord gathered all the people unto him and said,

“Surprise me!”

And the people took him to task.

They showed him 

Holy war and nuclear war

Utopian communities and peacemaking.

They came up with 

Worm filled graves and atheism,

Eternal life and reincarnation.

They created for him

Murderers and abusers,

Lovers and saints.

They put on a show of words

With anger and hatred,

With mercy and love.

They even made themselves

Sick and diseased

So they could devise ways to be healthy and whole.

The people did everything 

They could 

To surprise him.

And one day the Lord said

“Enough!”

But no one was listening.

So he decided

To surprise them

With a visit, or two.

He came among the people

As a man, as many men. 

And he came as a woman, as many women.

And he was surprise to find

That as a man his lofty words and elaborate works were glorified.

As a woman, tortured and killed when few words were uttered and much simple work was done.

So the Lord returned

To the place from whence he came, 

To the pulsing cave of the one who birthed him.

“What must I do?, the Lord wailed.

“I expected to be pleasantly surprised,

But I am shocked.”

The pulsing One breathed on the Lord.

A tender melting 

Dissolved him.

The folly of his desire overcame him.

And the Lord surrendered the word.

“Love me!” his body pleaded.

And from the pulsing cave

An undulating wave of many colors

Gushed forth with the sound of thunder.

If magic were real

A Pisces Sun, dreaming sun. 

Receptive, embracing. 

An invitation 

To immerse in misty saline waters,

Merge into one.

A Virgo Full Moon, floating mirror 

Bright and high above,

A Sovereign Priestess. 

Silver swan sailing

The silky lap of indigo.

The North Node, Rahu.

Open window, 

Dragon's head.

If magic were real, now and forever,

With whom would you dance?

The Intentional Bully

Marcus’s pale blue eyes wander around his room. The unmade bed, heaps of rumpled clothing, the faint sour odor of a day-old half-empty glass of milk. His body shakes with a start when he hears the click of his door closing. 

“Who is there?” the question pops out unbidden and he knows it won’t be answered. His shoulders slope towards the floor when he exhales. 

His habit to stop at the door, and visually sweep the room has been going on for as long as he can remember. Well, ever since that day in kindergarten when an unwelcome intruder snuck in his closet and waited for him in ambush.There had been nothing different about that day, nothing to warn Marcus of what was to happen. 

He spent the day as most kindergarteners do - playing school. He practices cutting evenly around the edges of images and measuring glue - learning what’s too much, what’s not enough. Too little and the edges lift off the page tempting wayward fingers to snatch them off. Too much and white blobs ooze out extending past the edges of the E for Elephant or W for Wolf. Or, W for Willy.

“Hey, Willy, Willy, here’s a W for Willy, Willy, Wart-face,” he tosses the W across the table.

Willy’s nose and hands are plagued with warts, although not warts of the treatable kind. His are permanent and threaten to grow as he grows. Marcus makes fun of Willy and Willy has no recourse but to strike back. Marcus, though not completely oblivious to the pain he causes, prefers to relish the energy ratcheting up his spine, vertebra by vertebra,  and puffing his chest like a cobra. 

“Give me your sandwich!” Willy spits the words into his face.

Instead of complying, Marcus, stuffs the rest of his PB&J into his mouth.

“Willy, take your sit, please!” Mrs. Habberstock stands with hands on hips.

Marcus barely suppresses a smirk as Willy clenches his fists and sidles away.

“What does a kindergartner know of sticks and stones and names that can never hurt you?” his mother whines to the principal. 

“Markie, will you please apologize to Willy tomorrow?” his mother’s unkempt eyebrows contort into wavy lines. “And, please, promise Mr. Abercrombie you won’t do it again?” 

It should have been a command or at least a strong request, but Mrs. Nielsen was coming in to the principal’s office against her nature. She wore a threadbare brown sweater over a beige dress, her thin tresses pulled into a bun with an almost imperceptible net protecting the small wisps of pale hair. Crusty pieces of eggy flour stuck to the frontispiece of the apron covering her shallow chest.

Mr. Abercrombie fastens his lips in a flat line and clasps them there as if with little metallic snaps. His eyes, dulled with boredom, look past her eyes and fixate on her bun.

“Mr. A, I promise not to do it again,” Marcus wiggles on the chair, double crossed fingers tucked away under his scrawny thighs. 

Mr. Abercrombie unsnaps his lips. Words escape from the aphotic horizontal oval of his opened mouth. Marcus isn’t listening. Rolling his eyes towards the ceiling, he unerringly  knows when to respond to satisfy the adults. 

“Yes, Mr. A. I will Mr. A. Sorry Mr. A.”

“Thank you for coming in Mrs. Nielsen and when can we expect a check from your husband? Your tuition is past due.” A trickle of saliva escapes from the right side of his flattened lips and he wipes it quickly with the back of his hand.

“I’m sure he meant to send it…I, I, believe it’s in the mail,” she twists the frayed strap of her faux leather clutch and grabbing Marcus by the sleeve of his t-shirt scurries out the office door.

A faded metallic bronze Nova with musty houndstooth interior awaits them. Once inside, Marcus opens the window and readies his hand out the window to ride the air current. Up and down, up and down, he waves, a wingless bird.

“Whoo hoo, I can fly!” 

Mrs. Nielsen hunches over the wheel, muttering more to herself than to Marcus. His mind rides the nervous sound of her whines and moans the way his hand rides the pressure of air. His voice drowns it out with many ‘whoo hoo’s’. 

“I can fly, I can fly, I can fly.”

Mrs. Nielsen pulls into the ashy-grey asphalt driveway, maneuvering left and right to avoid potholes. Then enter the house through the side door where a vine, a wisteria or bougainvillea, withers.

Whenever he walks in the house Marcus wishes for a sibling. A baby brother would be best. Willy has a baby brother, and two older brothers as well. Marcus watches how they come to the door at daycare to walk him home. Willy walks between them, their arms around his shoulders. Marcus and his mother drive by them, his hand flying out the window as they pass the threesome. Then he screams for a candy bar and mother always complies. He begins to realize a brother will never materialize. 

On this day, though, he didn’t see them. And he forgets the candy bar. At the doorway, he drops his back back on the kitchen floor.

“Markie, will you please take the back pack to your room?” her voice rises with a whine at the end as she rubs the knee that broke her fall.

“After you make me a PB&J. Make it two. No, make it three. I’m starving and you forgot to get me a candy bar.” Leaving the back pack he saunters to his room. 

Kicking his shoes off into the air, one hits the ceiling, the other ricochets off the dresser. 

“Willy, Willy, wart-face. Willy, Willy, wart-face”, he sing-songs to himself. 

“Here’s your sandwiches, Markie.” Mrs. Nielsen sets a tall stack of PB&J triangles with trimmed crusts on top of his dresser and picks up his shoes.

“Get out! And close the door.” 

Mrs. Nielsen drops the shoes alarmed by the harsh tone of his voice and scuttles out. He sounds like his father.

“A mouse in a woman’s body”, his father always jeers. 

The door gently clicks closed. Marcus gets up and opens it.

“And stay out,” punctuating the words with a slam. Click goes the door. Click goes the lock.

Then a click again. This from the closet door, and turning around Marcus faces the sound. Standing in front of him, are Willy and his two older brothers. For a moment he feels like an infant again.

“Mommy,” the word falters and he lets out a whimper. 

The Tuppence boys signal to each other with a look. All three grab a hand full of PB&J triangles and shove them into Marcus’s mouth.

“Like how we stuff your face Markie?”

Marcus thrashes about making enough racket to alert his mother who, unable to open the door, wrings her hands.

“Markie, Markie, what’s going on? Markie, will you please open the door?”

Willy and his brothers lick the peanut butter and jelly off their fingers while Markie, on all fours, gags. 

“Apologize to Willy, Markie,” one brother hisses.

Mrs. Nielsen hearing voices goes to the kitchen and puts together a tray of assorted cookies, completing the ensemble with glasses of milk.

“Markie? Will you and your friend like some cookies and milk?” pressing an ear to the door. “Markie?”

Marcus opens the door with a sticky hand. Peanut butter and jelly lodged in his nostrils and front of his shirt. 

“Markie, that’s really creative.” She’s heard other mothers say this to their toddlers at the park. 

“Let’s see what you can do with cookies and milk, shall we?”

Marcus is speechless as she presses the tray into his belly. He grabs it reflexively to keep it from falling. With a yank, he is pulled back into the room. The door slams and door clicks, and the lock clicks.

“Whadda ya say Markie? Let’s see what you can do with cookies and milk.” The eldest Tuppence grabs the glasses and pours milk over Marcus’s head. 

“Stop. Stop. Ok, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Tears trickle down Marcus’s face finding a path along with the milk, between blobs of peanut butter and jelly. The Tuppence boys wince. 

“Nothing like a bully acting like a baby. Let’s get outta here.” The three boys head for the window, the eldest going first, Willy last. 

Willy looks back at Marcus who looks like a suet feeder. 

“Let’s not fight anymore Marcus.”

“I’m sorry Willy, I’m really sorry. I want to be friends.”

Willy grins a big toothy smile and takes a bite of a cookie. He waves his hand in the air -  up and down, up and down. Then he is gone.

Mrs. Nielsen stands at her kitchen window. Little green buds are unexpectedly mounding on the bare branches of the vine. She hears the bath water running, then slips quietly down the hall and listens. Her son is talking to himself. 

“I want to be your friend, Willy. I want to be your friend.”

She closes her eyes, clasps her hands, bows her head. 

“Good job, boys.”