Winter Wonderland

Seeing multiple pictures of the first midwest snowfall this past week has me feeling nostalgic.  I remember my very first Iowa winter.  It was the year 2000, and I was a freshman at Central College in Pella.  Unprepared for what lay ahead, my recruitment officer (who was also from South Texas) took me and a handful of other winter newbies shopping for official gear.

I quickly learned that down feather jackets are the best for keeping warm.  Wikipedia describes them as the following, "the down of birds is a layer of fine feathers found under the tougher exterior feathers."  While they are not all aesthetically pleasing, my main concern was not freezing.  My grandmother had also knit a multicolored hat and matching scarf for me.  While experiencing my initial frosty season, I was especially thankful for her talent of making things.  The hats and scarves I found in stores simply did not compare in the warming factor.

After searching at multiple stores, I settled on a pair of blue, little boy mittens that matched my new blue, reversible coat.  Again, my objective was to maximize coziness.  I have very small hands, and I didn't think having an extra inch hanging off the tip of my fingers in lady gloves was going to do the trick.

We went shopping early in the season so we would be prepared.  To say I was a little excited about wearing my winter items would be an understatement.  I hung everything up in my closet and waited for the day that is was cold enough to make an appearance.  One blustery morning I awoke and saw that it was 40 degrees outside.  40 degrees?!  I thought.  I pressed my hand against the window and the cold sent chills down my spine.  This has to be it.

I got dressed, wrapped the scarf around my neck, pulled my hat down over my head, put on my jacket and mittens.  With an extra bounce in my step, I headed down the flight of stairs and out of the dormitory.  As I stepped outside, I looked across the street and saw my current crush (insert a towheaded Iowan) walking straight towards me wearing jeans, a long sleeved shirt and Chacos.  I don't know whether or not he saw me (perhaps I've blocked it out?), but I was mortified.  I promptly turned around, marched back upstairs, took off the heavy winter apparel and put on a lighter jacket.  I would rather suffer frostbite than make it more obvious that I was a stranger in a strange land.

Don't read too much into the aforementioned infatuation.  Nothing came of it, and they changed monthly freshman year.  Having grown up on the border of Mexico, I had never seen so many blonde haired and blue-eyed guys in my life; my senses were on exotic overload!  Thankfully, this superficial stage didn't stick around for long.

All wrapped up in my winter gear!  Friends sometimes joked that I looked like a marshmallow on a stick.

Nothing beats that first snowfall.  Everything goes quiet, as if a blanket of calm has fallen on the land.  You look out the window and see the ground and rooftops covered in white, sparkly powder.  While I would learn the ins and outs of thriving in the cold seasons, nothing was as magical (or severe) as that first one.  Memories of classmates walking me to class by hand, "so the little Texan won't blow away," bring a smile to my face.  The sound of the snow under my feet, and the surprising consistency of it falling off of me like sand I won't soon forget.

And lest you think that winter was my favorite season, let me remind you that once March arrived, I was ready for it to be gone.  And oftentimes, in Iowa, it wasn't.  It became a big pain in the butt.  Every year.  Thus, I think I'll stick to my tropical South Texas paradise for now, thank you very much.

Why I Changed My Profile Picture

At a very early age, my mom told me, "Don't discuss religion and politics with people."  She lived by this motto and up until this very day, I have yet to find out which presidential candidates she has voted for in different elections.  There were times when this would greatly frustrate me, but I have come to admire the wisdom she has exerted in withholding such information from me.

I have always had a love/hate relationship with Facebook.  I appreciate being able to keep in contact with friends and family across the miles.  But, I can barely stand scrolling through my Newsfeed during election season because half of the posts make the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.  People are so bold when they can hide behind a screen.  In the wake of last night's terrorist attacks in Paris, it didn't take long for friends to start standing and preaching from their soapboxes.

A fellow mom had posted in our local MOPS group that a UT student studying abroad in Paris had not been accounted for.  I saw the request after midnight and begin praying for this young man I had never met and his family.  I prayed for the victims of this atrocious act, their families, and those that inflicted the violence.  I couldn't sleep.

Perhaps it was because on a very small scale, I understood the fear the country of France was experiencing.  Like most others, I remember exactly where I was when 9/11 happened.  Leaving my morning education class at the college library, I noticed a group of students huddled around the television in the lounge.  Current events were constantly streaming and we seldom paid any attention to them.  It struck me as odd that so many had congregated.  When I saw the second plane hit the two towers, my heart sank.  For the very first time in my life, I questioned my safety and the safety of my country.  Though I was in Iowa, thousands of miles away from New York, the rest of my family was in Texas.  I worried for them.  Later in the day, my parents called me and simply said, "We just wanted to make sure you were okay."  And I was.

A couple of years later, I was an exchange student in Granada, Spain.  I fell in love with Western Europe and all the cultures that it is comprised of.  That spring of 2003, the United States invaded Iraq and took down the statue of Saddam Hussein.  My Spanish host family, most of my host country, and most of Europe, was completely appalled by our actions.  Shortly after, the peace corp was withdrawn from Morocco, and we were no longer allowed to visit.  I did not get to cross visiting Africa off of my bucket list.  We lived in a predominately Muslim area, and though I never feared for my wellbeing, my perspective had shifted because of the state our world was in.

When my American friends and I visited the market and vendors asked us where we were from, just to be safe, I would say, "Mexico."  And they believed me.  Obviously, this was only stretching the truth a little, since I grew up on the border and am, in fact, Mexican American.  Living among other cultures has a way of changing how you see things...which brings me to my point.

Webster's defines solidarity as unity or agreement of feeling or action, especially among individuals with a common interest, mutual support within a group.  I chose to change my profile picture because I am standing with France.  I am praying for France.  On an extremely minute level, I have felt the uncertainly some of its citizens are feeling who were not directly harmed by the terrorist attacks, but now live in a world that has been turned upside down.  This wasn't the first time this has happened in this part of the world, even this year alone.

Does this mean that I have turned a blind eye to the people of Syria, or that I think attacks in Beirut that happened just before don't matter?  Absolutely not.  Am I deaf to the cries of Mizzou and other universities in my own country?  No, I am not.

But what do we do when we're weighing in on people's posts about such events?  We give "100 likes" to those we agree with, and we have endless arguments (ahem, discussions) with others that don't see things the way we do.  We search the internet for the perfect politically correct meme or article that couldn't possibly offend anyone, and we wait...for the applause of others.  The affirmation that we're such spectacular intellectuals and exude wisdom on every occasion.  When in reality, sometimes it comes across as self-righteous whining.

On one hand, it can be argued that all I can do from my border city to combat terrorism is pray.  The way I see it, it is the best thing I can do.  So I will continue to do just that.  My prayers are by no means exclusive.  "I call on you, my God, for you will answer me; turn your ear to me and hear my prayer." -Psalm 17:6  I know I am not alone in this.

Thus, my profile picture will serve as a constant reminder to me to pray not only for France, but for victims of terrorism everywhere, and those that commit the atrocious acts.  And I will make no apologies for it.

An Evening of Poetry

Mr. Chip Dameron.  He gave me great advice.

Mr. Glen Sorestad, the first Poet Laureate
of Saskatchewan, Canada (2000-2004).

Last night, I attended a poetry reading at the Brownsville Museum of Fine Art.  The poets were Chip Dameron, a local professor emeritus of UTRGV, and Glen Sorestad, Saskatchewan, Canada's first Poet Laureate.  I walked into the room and knew I was in the presence of greatness; literary heroes, if you will.

    

Chip signs my copy of his book, Waiting for an Etcher.
He said I have a beautiful name.

I immediately zeroed in on Chip.  I wanted to soak up as much wisdom from him as I could.  From what I had heard and read about him, he was easily one of my new heroes.  With a number of published books on poetry and reputable as a professor, he represents a good portion of what I want to be when I grow up.  I picked his brain, asking about whether or not he recommended eventual grad school for writing, and how he suggested going about being published one day.  He was very personable and helpful, and provided me with good leads I would not have had otherwise.

But that was not my favorite part of the evening.  My favorite part of the evening took me by surprise, like words perfectly penned together often do.  Glen Sorestad read an entry from his collection, A Thief of Impeccable Taste, titled, Ten Years.

Ten Years

It is now ten years since you left.

After the mini-strokes, the path

your body wobbled down

as it slowed to a final stop,

after the final stroke unworded you

and shrunk your world

to the size of a hospital bed,

your heart unwound until nothing

and no one could wind it up again.

Ten years now I have missed you

daily –– the desperate reaching out

for what was so long a part of me,

belated recognition, with its constant

reminder, of how a mother is

heart and core of what a son becomes.

How I miss your easy laugh,

the gentle accord you fashioned 

with the small world you knew

and neither demeaned or questioned,

but accepted and lived with as though

it held either everything or nothing

of how life's mystery unfolds.

He read this poem with a simple and gracious ease.  And I wept.  Wept.  I didn't anticipate that I would cry when I decided to attend this poetry reading.  I didn't expect the emotion this particular poem would evoke in me.

What Mr. Sorestad didn't know was that I have a four-year old boy at home who is one of my greatest joys.  But recently, I have found myself, on occasion, growing frustrated with him.  The words in his poem, "with its constant reminder, of how a mother is heart and core of what a son becomes," cut me to the core.  And reminded me what is of utmost importance; the current stage of life my son is in is temporary, but his character will be lasting.  I am to continue the work I am doing in his life, knowing that it is not done in vain.

Glen Sorestad signs my copy of his book, A Thief of Impeccable Taste.
I thanked him for reading Ten Years.