ME AND MY STUFF

January 23, 2015February 2, 2015 D.K. Sanz7 Comments

Well, I am moving.

Of course, this comes with high hope and unsettling realizations.

I can take a little credit for keeping everything (all my clutter) neat and clean and for giving things away when I could sell them. That is right to do if you can do it; therefore, on second thought, no brownie points for this consideration. On this matter, I am serious, but going through cabinets, drawers, closets and shelves, I had to see some humor amid the horror.

Like why are there three jugs of the same laundry detergent and three tubes of aluminum foil and two things of carpet deodorizer or whatever the hell? Did I not bother to check when I needed these things? Yes, we get busy, but that’s nuts.

I can’t count the number of books, yet they moved with me again and again, boxes full of books, and I offer no apologies about hoarding literature. I will make one adjustment. I will give away the bad books. Yes, there are bad books, much as I hate to admit it.

I can certainly throw away those books about things I wanted to do for five minutes like “Become a Personal Trainer” and “The Dumpling Cookbook.” I don’t know when I would have found time for personal training, and by the time you find all the ingredients needed for some of those dumpling recipes, yeah, no…

In my desk, I found pay stubs going back for eight years. Why? Who is going to ask me for my pay stubs from eight years ago? Nobody, that’s who… I will vow to keep a year of stubs and no more.

In the drawers, I rummaged through tops, tops, and more tops. I am talking to myself saying, oh, hey, I forgot I had this top; this is so cute. How much of a hit could it have been, really? I never missed it.

It shouldn’t matter that clothes still fit after twenty or thirty years, and my logic tells me, for that reason, I should keep it. If this is the rule, I get to keep them all.

I have a cashmere coat my mom gave me in 1992. It was hers.Who knows how long she had it, but she kept everything in great condition. It reminds me of her. How do I part with that? I can’t.

The top shelf of my closet was hilarious, even to me. I had cowboy boots, some weird white knee boots, thigh-high boots from the 90s I may have worn once or twice. I had Harley Davidson biker boots from another 90s phase, and boots I never wore that hurt when I tried them on because they obviously didn’t fit…ever. I tossed all of them in the good-bye pile along with the cowboy hats that went with the boots. I counted four cowboy hats, going back to the 80s. I know I was a fan of the TV show Dallas once, but I am a New Yorker. I doubt I’ll ever be required to don the whole cowboy get-up just to visit a ranch.

I found a bunch of hats I never wore and likely would never wear, like this pink baseball cap that somehow reminds me of Britney Spears. I remember using it for a photo once. Other than that, I have no idea how it got in my closet.

There were sweater dresses. You can wear sweater dresses and jerseys with a tiny hole for your head when you’re sixteen or twenty-two because you’re not suddenly hot out of the blue… and then cold again ten minutes later.

I have shoes, shoes, and more shoes though most of them just sit there in the dark. I wear my favorite shoes and boots all the time, and that’s that. They are comfortable. I no longer see a reason to feel uncomfortable ever. As much as I love three and four inch heels, I am tall, so they serve no purpose for me.

It was liberating to part with sacks of stuff. I was almost giddy.

My son, at a young age, told me, “When you have too much stuff, mom, you get rid of some stuff. You don’t just go out and buy more storage (dressers) for the stuff.”

You have probably seen this George Carlin video before, but if you haven’t, you must. I’ve watched it many times. He sure had me pegged.

Never fear. I am changing my ways…

My sister, Denise, recommended minimalist.com to me along with their Facebook page.

Becoming Minimalist

Becoming Minimalist on Facebook

While I see the humor in this, I also find it sad.

I realize more and more, how unimportant all this “stuff” is, and while some habits are hard to break, it weighs heavily on my conscience. We take much for granted and become accustomed to a way of life that is far out of reach for many. It can put us out of touch. I have more than enough “stuff” while some don’t even get what they need.

Nonetheless, I’m looking forward to my fresh start in another place on my journey. See you there.

Have a great weekend!

CARMEN SANCHEZ, A TRIBUTE TO MY MOTHER

January 9, 2015January 12, 2015 D.K. Sanz18 Comments

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My mother, Carmen Sanchez (or Carmelita/Carmecita/Carmita as her family often called her) was born in Havana, Cuba, the youngest of ten children. She grew up poor and fatherless, since her father passed away when she was only two.

In the photo above, we are in Cuba, and I am holding her hand. My older sister, Maria, is standing next to me and my Abuela is standing behind.

I remember a lot about that visit to Cuba.

We must have gone to some large marketplace in Havana. I imagine my mother had described Fidel Castro to me, so each time a man with a beard passed; I pulled her skirt, asking, “Mommy is that Castro?”

“Shush,” she would say, stifling laughter. “Quiet. He’s not going to be walking around here, and people can hear you.”

“They can hear you,” my older sister repeated. “Stop it!”

I quickly lost interest; for it appeared, there were baby chickens for sale on every corner.

“Those are pollitos,” my mother said.

“I want a pollito.”

She laughed, taking my hand. “Come on.”

I kept lagging and lingering. She kept urging me on.

An aunt we were about to visit had a thatched roof farmhouse with a backyard full of pollitos, and my mother knew this. I would spend the afternoon admiring pollitos and feeding them corn.

I found this video of Havana and another of the gorgeous beach she took us to during our visit, which is a nice treat on this cold winter day. If you don’t have time, skip those, as I will get back to the subject of my mother.

My mother was tiny but fierce, a force to contend with, determined to learn English and to work hard. She did that from the beginning up until the day she retired, same as my father who came to this country from Italy. They were proud to be American citizens. He fought for his new country. She felt honored to be a soldier’s wife. He worked as a butcher then meat department manager for a Grand Union supermarket in Astoria, Queens, New York. She worked as a meat wrapper then an assembly-line bench worker at Bulova Watch Company in Woodside and ultimately a salesperson for A&S.

My mother never immersed us in the Cuban culture. She was afraid of people judging her, people who perceived Cubans as freeloaders. I wish she hadn’t felt that way, and it warmed my heart to see a glimpse of pride in her heritage when she taught us Christmas songs she had learned in Cuba and talked about their traditions. I never wanted her to feel ashamed of who she was.

My fond memories of her include her love for holidays, her decorating with a giddy enthusiasm, no matter how many years had passed. She and my father made every holiday and birthday special, celebrating us along with their life together. Our lives were far from perfect, but they gave so much, with their hearts always in the right place.

In the first photo below, I am the girl on the far left with my mother standing over me. In the second photo, I am watching my mother cut the cake on my birthday.

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She taught me unconditional love because she gave it. For many, many years, it was the rarest thing to receive in an unapologetically harsh world. If I had doubts, she restored my faith in who I was, and in the dreams I cherished. She was proud of her daughters, her girls. When it came to my father, her love and devotion knew no bounds.

As an aside, she loved to shop, especially for clothes. I inherited that, along with her lack of impulse control. My sisters did, too.

In the three photos below, the first is me with my true hair color. HA! In the second, I am the blonde with my arm around my mother during one of our New Years Eve celebrations. My younger sister, Denise, is to the right of the little cousin I am holding. In the last photo, my mom is in front of her daughters. That is me on the left, my older sister in the middle and my younger sister on the right.

5Rob

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My lovely mother died of a stroke in June of 2011. That first night she was gone, I remember feeling she was frightened. In retrospect, I think I was the scared one. Despite her age, she looked beautiful in her eternal rest. I’m sure she was at peace.

Me…not so much. I had panic attacks in the months that followed. My world grew darker and colder, so much darker than those sunny days of laughter in her comforting presence. Something was gone from my soul, a part of me. I thought about all the times she called just to hear my voice, and to see if I was okay—those times I was too busy and figured I would call back later. I should have taken every call and savored every moment I could hear her, hold her, laugh with her. For the most part, I did but not enough. It is never enough. I just miss her so much.

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THE MADNESS OF POETRY

January 4, 2015January 22, 2021 D.K. Sanz16 Comments

I had sent my newly published poetry book to my friend, John, someone I have known for many years. Weeks later, I asked if he had received it, and what he thought of the book.

He responded with, “I have been rather absorbed in my own world which has been a struggle. I have been sick with walking pneumonia and yet am still working daily. I am on a bunch of medication, which doesn’t leave me with the clearest head. When not working, I am sleeping. Am slowly getting better but about four days bed rest would be ideal. I can’t afford to miss work so, you know the drill. I’m tired, sick, frustrated, but still fighting.”

He went on to explain, “Poetry has never been my strong suit. You are certainly elegant with words. I can appreciate the flowery wording but feel like I am missing something, and that applies to all poetry not just yours. I feel embarrassed to admit that it seems to have crashed over my head like a huge wave at the beach. It takes some doing to overcome the feeling that I am too dumb for this.”

John revealed more as the conversation continued. “A couple of the poems were almost frightening in their intensity. I could sense the emotion behind it, but I felt like such an outsider. Then it dawned on me; I am an outsider, but you are trying to provide a window for me. Stop feeling like a peeping tom and enjoy the view. I can so over-complicate things.”

He messaged me later with more thoughts. “I reached another realization. There was much mention of family and closeness. I realized I was somewhat jealous because my family is tiny with no closeness whatsoever. In defense against those feelings, I put up a wall against your poems. It is painful to read about something I can’t experience. I am happy you have it but sad that I don’t. As I have and accept these awakenings, I may be able to better appreciate your poetry.”

Well, here is my take on all this.

First, you learn so much from the other end of the author journey, once you have released your first book child into the world. (Yes, these books are our children. Any writer can tell you this. We give birth to them. We send them out into the world. We worry about them, protect them, defend them.)

I have had people apologize to me for not having read the book yet, although they instantly bought it to support my efforts. I get it. I buy books all the time to help the authors who wrote them, and these books sit in line for a good long time on my Kindle.

Next, you do need a clear head for reading, especially poetry. You are reading between the lines of someone else’s fleeting thoughts and trying to process their meaning.

John thought he was raining on my parade with these remarks. He wasn’t. After decades of hoarding my work, I am happy to have put myself out there. This is merely a starting point. While I have been at this long enough to feel confident that I know what I’m doing, I see no reason to expect everyone to understand and love everything I have to say. It surprises me more that so many people, including strangers, continue to tell me how much they love and enjoy the poems.

John may be someone who feels poetry is not his strong suit, yet he expressed his thoughts beautifully and while he thinks he is “too dumb,” he is rather insightful. His assessment was relevant and helpful, because he is not alone in his feelings. Most of us want to love poetry. We associate it with romance. Much of it is introspective, like glimpsing into a diary. Sometimes we get it, yes, and sometimes we don’t.

Many poets are intentionally cryptic. Others don’t intend to be vague but, as they say; poets are artists painting with words and yes, we distort everything and can make deep-wrenching heartbreak a thing of beauty.

Then there is the perception factor. This had me thinking of the time my professor in college asked our class to write an interpretation of William Butler Yeats’ The Coming of Wisdom with Time. He gave me an A on the assignment then scribbled something unsettling, in red ink, in the right margin. What he said was, “This is a wonderful explanation of what the poem meant to you, but I was asking what the poem meant to the poet.” My thought was, yeah good luck with that.

In my poetry, John got this impression of a happy family with happy memories. Others I spoke with perceived a very deep sadness. People interpret things differently. We are all in different places, consciously and subconsciously. People have misinterpreted me, just as I have misinterpreted others. The poet is not usually there to explain it to you. Poetry is about what resonates with the reader, what strikes a chord and why, be it negative or positive. It’s about stimulation of thoughts, realizations, and reflections. It is often a soul experience, triggering emotions, and it is bound to be intense.

As I stated in the book’s Preface, I wrote those poems over a few decades where my perception had gone in different directions. I wrote many of them in my twenties. I mixed the good with the bad, the light with the dark. Some things healed and resolved in the end. Some didn’t.

Shutting down is one of the responses people can have in reading (and listening). Some are discouraged by an opposing perception. It took me a long time to feel secure enough in my beliefs to listen to different opinions with an open mind, to look at things from another perspective without fear. Often I am able to understand and sometimes agree. I had to get beyond this feeling that a person could take something away from me that had no substance to begin with—or that I could be wrong. With all this progress, however, there are deal breakers. Mine include justification of rape, violence, and oppression. We all have deal breakers. We are also triggered by the memories of our life experience. Another’s opposing view, however, can take away only illusions. It cannot take away what is real.

I appreciate John’s honesty. I will take that any day over:

“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing… I love you dearly!”
Then the passive aggressive behavior continues.

No, give me honesty. When people are honest, they present us with a gift of teaching us what we need to know or reminding us of what we tend to forget.

As if we need reminding, life sucks at times, and people may be struggling to get through the moment. I have no idea what is going on with another unless I ask.

John, thank you. I hope you feel better now.