Quinceañero

On a Tuesday at 5:30 p.m., fifteen years ago on this date, my husband and I said our wedding vows, he in Spanish, I in English, in front of about 30 of our closest relatives and friends, in the gathering room of a small resort on the southwestern coast, in the tiny town of Guánica.

That day I made the best decision I've made in my entire life: to tie my destiny to the very best of men -- a grouchy, stubborn, sometimes impossible man who is simultaneously the smartest, most generous, most admirable of men. Without a doubt, he is still the best thing that has ever happened to me.

I knew he was special when, on our first date, he asked me to tell him my story, becoming the first man I'd ever been out with who was more keenly interested in learning about me than in having me hear all about him.

He's also put up with and been through some very rough times with me, through long illnesses, several operations, and not a few trips to the emergency room, where he's had to sleep on chairs. Thankfully, those painful years are behind us, but he's earned the badge of a hero in my book for sticking with me through thick and very thin, where others would've bailed out much sooner and not without reason.

What amazes me most about our marriage is that we've become closer and better with and to each other with the passage of time, and every year brings new joys and challenges that we both gladly take on together, codo a codo as the great Benedetti said in his poem. Knowing that we're there for each other to share in our successes, to point each other in the right direction when we stray, and to support each other in difficult times is part of what makes this life a blessing.

A friend recently told me that she thinks what makes our marriage so successful is that my husband and I complement each other (because we couldn't be any different in many of our tastes and preferences!), and that he is such a nice guy, too. "They don't make them like him any more," she said a little wistfully.

My husband is ultimately right that, while we are as different as a gringo from West Virginia and an island Puerto Rican can be, ultimately it's our similar values -- the knowing, or at least striving to know, what is truly important in life -- that brings and keeps us together.

Whatever it is, fate or luck or hard work (and I think it's probably all those), I'm truly thankful that 15 years ago today this man and I chose each other to spend the rest of our lives together. Here's to our quinceañero and to the many more (hopefully) to come!

What to a Puerto Rican is this 4th of July?

In July 1852, Frederick Douglass gave a speech, titled "What to the Slave is the Fourth of July?" In that oration, Douglass, an escaped slave himself, spoke of how "your nation" celebrated its 76th anniversary, and he praised the cause of independence. But, he asked, what did that act have to do with him 76 years later?

Douglass continued:

Fellow-citizens; above your national, tumultuous joy, I hear the mournful wail of millions! whose chains, heavy and grievous yesterday, are, to-day, rendered more intolerable by the jubilee shouts that reach them. If I do forget, if I do not faithfully remember those bleeding children of sorrow this day, "may my right hand forget her cunning, and may my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth!" To forget them, to pass lightly over their wrongs, and to chime in with the popular theme, would be treason most scandalous and shocking, and would make me a reproach before God and the world. My subject, then fellow-citizens, is AMERICAN SLAVERY. I shall see, this day, and its popular characteristics, from the slave's point of view. Standing, there, identified with the American bondman, making his wrongs mine, I do not hesitate to declare, with all my soul, that the character and conduct of this nation never looked blacker to me than on this 4th of July!

Indubitably, the United States has come a long way since those terrible days in which Douglass lived, especially after electing its first African American president last year. But the road to equality is still a long one, and I'm not just speaking in racial terms.

A friend today kindly invited me to a 4th of July picnic, and I declined, explaining that I don't mark the day because as a colonial subject I am not about to celebrate U.S. independence when this nation denies my own its liberty and equality.

I can vote for president as along as I live in the U.S., but not if I live in Puerto Rico, even though Puerto Ricans have fought in every U.S. war since WWI. And, yes, Puerto Ricans don't pay federal taxes but how many senators and representatives would Puerto Rico be entitled to in Congress, if we were fully vested with our citizen and representation rights? There are 4 million U.S. citizens in Puerto Rico who have only one voice but no vote in Congress.

Now that the White House is no longer only a residence for whites, it may be that it's less acceptable among polite company to be openly racist against African Americans. But it sure feels like it's open season against Latin@s. In the main town near my small college on the hill, a young Latino kid was recently assaulted by four white kids with a noose (an African American kid was able to get away) and only one white teenager was charged and sentenced to just 10 days in jail.

While we now have a Puerto Rican woman judge nominated to the U.S. Supreme Court, she has come under fire for everything from her hair, to her taste for our African-influenced native food, to the pronunciation of her last name, which is not anglicized for easy Anglo understanding, to her absolutely true statement that a wise Latina woman might know more about discrimination than a white man.

I have heard President Obama speak of the rights of Palestinians and have been glad. But I have yet to hear him mention Puerto Rico's colonial situation. We, either as Puerto Ricans or as Latin@s, continue to be largely invisible even when Douglass' specific question appears to have been answered by history (still, as Puerto Rican stand-up comic Bill Santiago suggests, we should get 43 more African American -- or at least non-white -- presidents in a row to be near even).

On this day of parades and picnics and fireworks, I am reminded of Douglass' words and his lion-like courage in asking his mostly white audience to think of the hypocrisy implied in their celebration of freedom when millions were denied the most basic liberty at that time.

Thus, on the day when this nation paints itself in its best colors to celebrate itself, I want instead to paraphrase Douglass and ask: "What to a Puerto Rican is this 4th of July?"

Borrowed dogs

Now that I am sadly dog-less, I have found some outlet for my appreciation of dog company with Pepper, the black Labrador that belongs to a couple, who are our friends. Pepper, of course, absolutely loves to be walked, and I like to take long walks so we're well suited. Last week, I started giving her a walk almost every day, and now she jumps excitedly when she sees me approach their house.

(This photo was taken by one of my former students and now more like my "college daughter," who came to walk with me and didn't mind that I brought Pepper along. I couldn't hold onto Pepper, who weighs about 80 pounds, and take a picture at the same time!)

Poor Pepper has been rather lonely and antsy because the one-half of my couple-friends is visiting family in NYC with the kids while her husband stayed behind to work in the summer program he and I did together last year, and that I did for the first time with Dr. S in 2007. I bowed out this summer because of the uncertainty of my family's situation, so he's working with Dr. S, while I am daily grateful that I have free time to recover from that insane first year on the tenure track.

Over the weekend, my husband went to West Virginia to see his sister and nephews, who are visiting from Maine, and there he came across another "borrowed" dog, a mutt that shows up at his parents' property, apparently to eat moles (something my mother-in-law very much appreciates). I think that if, and when, we get a new dog, we might just go down to WV and get a mutt there (I already have a name: Mason, for the town and county my husband hails from). That'll be a lot more sensible and cheaper than flying a sato back from Puerto Rico, as I'd originally thought.

Here the nameless dog prepares to bark at the camera as my husband gets ready to take the picture. Apparently the otherwise extremely good-natured and friendly dog had never seen a camera before so he wasn't sure if it was going to attack or what.

While I miss Geni every day, getting another dog isn't on the list of things to do right now, not only because we need a break from all that has happened but also because, while it might be summer, I still have piles of work to attend to: the not-yet-finished article that I want to make un-rejectable so I can send out for publication in a journal; the chapter of an upcoming book whose proofs need to be reviewed and corrected before my husband and I return to Puerto Rico next week; a friend's dissertation chapter and two of my mentor's chapters that he's trimming for his upcoming book; and those are just the more immediate projects I'm working on.

I'm also in the midst of having my basement office packed up so movers can take care of transferring books and files over to the new building where many of us will be working next year. I'm really looking forward to my brand-new, first-floor office with huge windows and new office furniture, and am truly grateful that I have that to look forward to for the next year.

Next week, it's off to Puerto Rico again, but this time with my beloved husband, and in anticipation of having my whole family together for a few days, which will be a treat given that this seemed highly improbable, if not impossible, only a few months back.

My plan is to put everything on hold for that one week (I may not even take my laptop to Puerto Rico with me, which would be a first!) so that I can have a real vacation for a change. I'm going to try to learn from dogs and live in the moment. Let's see how well I do.

Twirling squirrels and cats in bags

There is something playful and laid back about this summer, an attitude that even the squirrels around here appear to share, especially one young, smallish squirrel, which I've seen doing twirls and flip backs for no apparent reason while trying to play with a stick.

It's not unusual to count seven or more squirrels on the front yard of our small apartment near the woods, including the three in this picture (the one at center, the one running away at the top and the one almost out of the frame on the right). Most of them scamper when I come outside, but a few sit and wait, especially if I'm about to put out the wildlife mix they love, because it has the whole peanuts they enjoy shelling.

Since my return last week, there's already been two birthdays to celebrate (one with ice cream and one with a surprise cake), meetings, lunches and dinners, new people to meet and greet, and even an "adopted" dog to walk. So, life at my small college on the hill takes on its own summer pace, one that is much more relaxed and mellow than the school year's, but very much still its own quirky self.

Even Magellan acts more playful, claiming as her own the Williams-Sonoma shopping bag that recently carried home some new goodies: a wood cutting board for summer vegetables; fancy cherries in a jar that will fill an upcoming pie for my husband; a pastry blender with a thumb rest; and, the best Mexican vanilla I've found.

I don't visit Williams-Sonoma very often since it's usually priced beyond my means, but the occasional splurge brings joy not only to my little kitchen but to Magellan (Darwin can't figure out all the fuzz about the big shopping bag).

Someone recently noted that summer is almost half over, and I told them that, for me, summer has only now started. It used to be that fall was my favorite season, but now that summer is the season when I'm mistress of my own time, I've quite changed my mind.

The longest day of the year

On the longest day of the year, after I bemoaned not having Geni to walk anymore, my husband persuaded me to take a short ride on the motorcycle to a nearby path, next to the river, so we could take a short walk in the nice afternoon.

The path was lovely, the weather perfect, and it gave both of us a feel for the glory and promise of summer, especially these long, warm, sunny days that bring with them this cherished privilege of leisure.

The tiny mushrooms growing on a fallen tree trunk looked like fairies poised to take flight, while a really old, gnarled and twisted tree, spoke of its indomitable will to live.

A miniature white butterfly stopped its flight momentarily to rest against the browns and greens of the forest.

And a large, red barn provided a nice contrast in the distance.

As our walk ended, the rows of corn, standing at attention like soldiers on a field, reminded us eloquently that we're in Ohio, as they looked eagerly toward the sunny skies on this, the zenith moment before the year (that only now seems to have started) begins its inevitable waning.

Home, sweet home

I made it home late last night after my husband picked me up at the airport and we stopped at the grocery store to stock up on my necessities (like lactose-free and soy milks), and about 20 minutes into being home, there was a faraway explosion and the world went dark.

The little village in the middle of nowhere had lost power when one transformer blew up for reasons unknown (probably because there are so many trees around here that anything can happen to the power lines on a windy night, and it wasn't all that windy!). The electricity wasn't restored until past 1 a.m., when I got up to turn off all the lights that had been on around 10:20 p.m., when we had just settled in to enjoy the night.

The blackout was followed this morning by my desktop computer going completely haywire, deciding to turn off on me and crash several times, giving me The Blue Screen of Death with dire messages that I couldn't read fast enough to take note of what was going on, and basically calling it quits. I delivered it this afternoon to a computer repair place and they said they were backed up and would probably have it ready late next week, at best. GaD I have my office laptop or I don't know what I would do!

So, yes, the return has been a little accident-ed, to say the least, but I'm not taking that as an omen. Regardless of the small setbacks, it's good to be home with my husband and the kitties. We all (well, I can't speak for the cats) miss Geni terribly and she's left a huge void in our lives and in our small apartment by the woods in which she was the center of everyone's attention (even Magellan got jealous if Geni received more pets than she did).

But, even if greatly reduced, our little family is once again together and we're all happy for that, as you can see from this photo of two contented cats, doing what they do best (in Darwin's case, keeping watch on the birds and squirrels outside the window, and in Magellan's, napping).

A year of losses

In a recent phone conversation with my husband, he said, in a quiet voice: "This has been a year of losses." Losses, or near losses, indeed. A year that, even before it started, was already marked by the loss of my abuelita and then of Rusty and then the news that my father might be next. And my husband has also dealt with losses and near losses in his own family.

Today, I return home to Ohio where my husband awaits so that we can try to salvage the summer now that my dad is doing so well and I'm not immediately needed here in Puerto Rico. Hopefully, and this is my fervent prayer, there will be more tranquilidad in our lives for a while. Last night, I made the pledge that I would make the most of the rest of this year. Life is short and unpredictable and every single minute counts. Nothing should be taken for granted. I already knew that but it's good to remind myself so that I don't get caught up in petty frettings that mean nothing in the larger scale of things.

On Monday, my mom and I went to my abuelita's home (pictured above) where I eventually met some mudanceros (moving men). The house has been sold, and as inheritance, my abuelita left me her bedroom set, made of Puerto Rican wood by Puerto Rican artisans more than 80 years ago, and I had to move it to a nearby storage facility until my husband and I figure out how and when to get it to Ohio once we have a home to put it in.

The bedroom set, which is in pretty good shape, includes a double bed with headboard and footboard, a chest of drawers (where my abuelo used to hide bubble gum in the very top drawer that I could never reach), an armoire (which still smells of my abuela's perfume), and a coqueta (or vanity), complete with its little bench and large, antique mirror. All of it is made of dark, lustrous wood, which hasn't lost its shine in all these years.

Precisely because this has been such a year of losses and near-losses, I didn't want to part with it, even if that would've been the most convenient thing to do. But love isn't about convenience, and my abuela wanted me to have that set and I wanted to oblige her, especially because it's part of my history, too, in more ways than one.

It was sad walking into the now near empty house, with its overgrown yard which, in life, my grandmother had always insisted on keeping pristinely manicured. Her beloved pink roses are in dire need of attention, as are her margaritas africanas, or Gerbera daisies, which were her pride and joy. Inside, the house was mostly vacant except for the bedroom set. I was thrilled when my mother found my abuela's trademark black paraguas (umbrella; or, literally, "stop-the-waters"), whose edges are trimmed with shinny, silver tips. I always remember my grandmother carrying that umbrella on her many walks to town (she never used taxi cabs, preferring to walk miles and miles to do her shopping, like the country girl that she was).

I spent many days of my life in that humble house, and many hours seated with her in that front porch, chatting about anything and everything, speaking louder and louder as she got older and deafer. On Monday, I even saw the big, brown lagartijo, or lizard, that she accused of nipping at her heels when she sat on her favorite chair. I thought she was imagining things until I sat on the same chair once, and felt a nip on my heel and there was the large, brown lagartijo eyeing me with its beady eyes, challenging me to do something about his trespass. I want to think that the big, brown lagartijo that we met when my mom and I entered the porch that day, and which didn't show signs of concern, was the very same one.

The bedroom set, along with the sewing machine my abuela also left me, was eventually secured in an excellent storage facility and in some future day will make its way to our next home, where I will find someone who can repair the cracks in the wood (there are many Amish woodworkers in Ohio so maybe one can help with this) and get the set back to its original glory, or as close as possible.

I guess that, as long as we take something, and I don't mean materially, from what we lose, or almost lose, then the loss is less absolute and devastating. Todo pasa y todo queda, said the poet, and he couldn't have been more right. Things may be lost because of the ravages of time, but, as long as we remain, what they meant and why they mattered remains with us.