Name: Violeta
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Posts by Violeta:
Laughing at Culture Shocks
August 18th, 2009
One of the few times I have ever heard my mother laugh like a loca was one night when I was in my late teens. I’d just gotten her the newly-released book I’m a Stranger Here Myself, by Bill Bryson, and she was reading it in her room before bed. From the floor above her, I heard first some giggling, which seemed unusual enough, but then it was followed by laughter so rowdy it could not be ignored. I ran downstairs to find her wiping tears from her eyes and trying to catch her breath. What, I wanted to know, was so funny?
I’m a Stranger Here Myself was written by Bill Bryson upon returning to his native United States after 20 years of living abroad. My mother had returned to her native state not long before, after 20 y pico years of living in Spain. She could relate to Bryson’s hilarious writing about being mystified in a hardware store, calling a dental floss hotline, shopping at a toy store, and navigating the post office- among other things. She’d left this country in her late teens and come back as a middle-aged mother; her home was familiar, but not free of oddities to her.
As her Spanish born-and partially raised, and American-partially raised and settled daughter, I can relate. There are things both Spanish and American that I just don’t get, and that sometimes make me giggle, too. To name a couple:
· the way many Spanish names can be given nicknames which (to me) don’t remotely resemble the original. Think Chema out of Jose Maria, and Peque out of Anunciacion.
· fanny packs.
So, we at TikiTiki want to know: what aspects of both American and Latino cultures make you feel culture shock? What do you not get, even if you feel you should? What makes you giggle like a loca?
* photo by elkrusty
Prayer for Ruins
August 17th, 2009 
Sometimes instead of traditional prayers, I pray poems. One of them, en particular, me encanta and it’s became a go-to for times during which my life feels in disrepair. It’s titled “Festival of Booths” by Nan Cohen. It goes:
“Every house on earth a broken house./Every city a ruined city/Ploughed under by that slow disaster, time./If ever redeemed to us, then by the same./Your walls will fall, are falling, have fallen./Your roof is open to the countless stars.”
Pierced-ear Princesas
August 11th, 2009 
When both of our daughters were babies, we wanted their ears be pierced. I’d had my ears pierced as a toddler (and as an adult, find it nearly impossible to leave the house without earrings…I feel like I’m going out desnuda), and I wanted to keep with Latin tradition of piercing them as young as possible. Their madrina was thrilled to go with tradition, get the procedure done at the pediatrician, and get the girls their first pendientes.
After their adoptions were completed and we brought them home to Pennsylvania, we got a lot of remarks about their pierced ears. Actually, more than remarks, we just got a lot of looks. In a number of waiting rooms, I was asked with dirty looks if their ears were really pierced (no, with 3 kids, I have time to just put stickers on my seven month olds’ ears!) Around the neighborhood, a number of tween girls still without pierced ears themselves peered into our stroller and gave our girls jealous, sulky looks before launching more pointed complaining at their own mothers.
I’ve heard some non-Latinas decry baby ear piercing as cruel and vain (and even vulgar!), but to my mind, it is a safe (if done at a reputable place, and kept clean, and screwback earrings are used), beautiful way to pass along one Latina tradition, and of adorning your princesa.
I say this even after we’ve experienced a downside of ear piercing at a young age. A few weeks ago, my girls were down at bedtime when I heard from downstairs my older daughter say, “I have an idea!” At those words, I started running up the stairs. When I got to their room, I heard, “Oh, it baaaad idea.” Apparently, my older daughter asked my younger one to switch out her earrings for her (why?!) and my younger one, not being able to manage screwbacks (and that being the point), just ripped the earring out of her ear. In spite of this fiasco, there was no crying from my older daughter…not for the ripped ear lobe then, not for the four stitches put in in the E.R. later that night, not for the reconstructive ear surgery that had to be done a week later by our E.N.T. when the stitches didn’t work.
What did make her cry? When, because we have to wait a year to get her ear re-pierced, I told her we’d take the other earring out, so both ears would match. Suficiente berrinche that she’ll be rocking the one pendiente until she gets the other back.
Maybe cruel, or vain, or vulgar in the eyes of some…but the pierced-ear princesas prove to be capaz of stunning beauty and strength. At every age.
Preparing for the Tormentas
August 10th, 2009 
There’s something terrifying about tormentas, something that as a child sent me hiding into my closet, clutching my osito.Caricias
August 3rd, 2009 
In the past week, I have been to the hospital three separate times- twice for my older daughter, once for myself; all for things that ultimately ended well, gracias a Dios- and been in the position of both needing to give and to receive cariño.Incarnations of Gimnasia
July 28th, 2009 
In my grade school in Spain, gym class was an hour of briskly walking or running the perimeter of the school behind a monjita or of learning and performing a gymnastic routine in the gimnasio inside.
In my American middle school, we played games of kickball (in which I once, infamously, ran the bases backwards, having never heard of or played the game before) or handball or floor hockey for gym. In high school, it was more of the same…and once a year we added a unit on square dancing.
I hated haciendo gimnasia on two continents. When I was old enough, I squeaked through the requirement by getting easily injured and subsequently spending the periods grading papers for my gym teacher or sitting on the floor of the locker room writing poetry. I was unathletic and uninterested and unashamed.
Y, claro, equivocada. Much as I saw myself as a brain, not a body, that was neither a helpful attitude nor reality.
As an adult, I’m learning that exercise is not only about the calories I burn so I can eat more of my favorite macarrones con chorizo, but also about the health benefits (whether cardiovascular, or strength, or stretching, any exercise is better than no exercise for your heart, lungs, muscles, and mind)…and the asombro of achieving a goal (after starting to train a few months ago, I just ran in my first 5K!), or the placer (even if it is accompanied by some pain) of feeling myself in my body before or after a long day of too much screen time.
Yeah, yeah, whatever- words that will make your eyes glaze over unless you’ve found them to be true yourself. But here’s another bunch of words you might relate to: even if you’ve hated haciendo gimnasia before, try it again, try something new; you might just like it.
It turns out, I hate gyms (it’s better for me to not be around others cuando tengo hambre y calor and I hate wearing shorts in public) , kickboxing (who am I actually fighting?), most weight training (I want to throw the weights) and swimming (it feels like bathing with strangers). I can tolerate tennis. I like doing yoga and dance tapes at home and I (surprisingly) love running outdoors!
I am still reticent, and whiny, but I am trying to find the right incarnation of gimnasia for my self and my body. I have found out that I like to be alone or close-to-alone when I’m exercising, that I need to purposely build it into my day, and that I do better at sticking with things I could never have seen myself doing in the past.
Y tú? Can you relate? Do you hate exercising? Love it? And, cuéntanos, what do you do for your gimnasia?
*photo by Catwomancristi
Live Like Someone’s Watching
July 27th, 2009 
As a mami, I’ve heard the expression that “little eyes are always watching” more than once. Meaning that, even if my kids are not prestándome ni un poquito de atención, they are still watching what I’m doing and may ultimately imitate it.
But this week, I’ve been thinking about how it’s not only children that watch us. It’s other people, too. And though sometimes the glances and glares of others might feel judgy, they can have otro lado to them, too. Not only them on us, but us on them.
Imagínate, the ánimo and inspiration you might give someone who you don’t even know is watching. An exhibit- a short list of people that inspire me, who I have only ever seen through a window or at a distance: the overweight woman who exercises at dusk, even though that is when the yards and neighborhood streets can get crowded; the sixty-something man who trains for races on his lunch hour; the younger couple that walks their two huge dogs calmly, hand-in-hand; the neighbor who plays basketball with his son almost nightly, always encouraging him, even though the boy never seems to get better; the man with the whimsical bell on his bike, who rings it anytime he sees kids or animals. These illustrations of determination, vitality, tranquility, patience, and whimsy inspire me without their keepers’ ever having a clue.
What’s that other expression? ”Work like you don’t need the money, love like you’ve never been hurt, and dance as if no one is watching.” But most of the time, there are always others around. So this week, embrace life like someone’s watching; when you dance (or run, or play with your kid, or stand in line…lo que sea) work to represent a force that’s positiva and, coincidentally, contagiosa.
*photo by Michele Catania
Citas, in the Time of Recession
July 20th, 2009 
Much has been said about President Barack Obama’s date nights with his wife, first lady Michelle Obama: how they show Americans that it’s important to make one’s relationship a priority, how they model taking time for each other in times of stress and packed schedules.
I know a number of parejas who have seen the pictures and read the accounts of these citas and felt inspired. ”If they can do it, so can we.”
Me, not so much. Though I do agree it’s a nice example of togetherness from the first couple, I can’t read about their taking a jet to another city, dining in an expensive restaurant, seeing a show, flying home, and see myself and my marriage en eso.
But the other day, while I was sitting in traffic, I saw something that was, for me, much more stirring and inspiring.
Near a block of run-down, former steel mill housing that sits between the highway and the river, I saw a card table set up with a tablecloth, and a vase of wildflowers. Two chairs. A tiki torch at each corner of the small plot of dirt. The table was set up in such a place that anyone sitting there would have a lovely, and unusual view of the river and the bridge…restaurant quality, even if outdoors, in a poor part of town. I imagined the pareja that might sit there, genuinely tired, and stressed, and overworked, but holding hands across that card table.
Eso, sí me inspiró to go home, look at my husband, and feel that bolstering sense of “Sí, se puede”- no sitter, no reservations, no budget-stretching necessary. We spent a lovely evening sitting on our front porch, holding hands and talking, and looking at the gorgeous nubes wisping into the sun set. Not hard, but we needed that little nudge, that reminder.
Tonight, challenge yourself to reconnect with your pareja. Aún mejor, to find or create a free moment of romance!
* photo by donde se esconde el sol
Cultura y el Corte de Pelo
July 14th, 2009 
I often feel like I am one person, or, por lo menos, one side of my personality, in Spanish, and another one in English…and have for as long as I can remember. In Spanish, I feel more intuitive, and more relaxed, and usually come off as more divertida y cariñosa. In English, I feel more multi-tasking, high achieving, and usually come off as someone who is (lo bueno y lo malo de) a Type A personality. And though I think I’m getting much better recently with integrating the two mes, the one as yet-un-integrated frontera is style. (With the exception of my use of earrings) I have little idea how to combine the different aspects of my culturas into a look that will result in a fitting first impression.
My birthday is at the end of the month and, in addition to running in my first 5K, I’m also going to treat myself to a makeover. An attempt at stepping up my fashion, now that my kids are getting bigger and the drudgier aspects of mamihood are diminishing. A new hairstyle, some new makeup, a new outfit. Cual es el problema? Hair.
When looking at pictures of different haircuts, for example, I like completely opposing styles. Trust me, I have googled copiously for celebrity examples both Anglo and Latin. Here’s an illustration.
On the one hand, I love Shaki’s unruly curls and dark blonde highlights (see below); the long, loose, natural hair (bueno, Shaki’s may not be naturally curly, but mine is) appeals totally to my Spanish side.
On the other, I love Mandy Moore’s more polished hairstyle and rich-looking color (see below); the more managable length and the highly styled cut is totally my American side.
Que hacer? Uno o el otro? Or is there a compromise of the two I have not yet google imaged?
Over my adult years, I’ve had both of these hair colors before (my natural is smack between the two) and similar lengths, and yet I am still going back and forth constantly in the days preceeding my salon appointment. And overthinking the legacies of belleza I think so many of us Latinas grew up with and surrounded by, I’m sure.
I have already asked my husband, and each of my kids, (and they have all answered though they have not agreed with each other (2 vs. 2)!) so feel free to opinar and help me decide! Also, I’m curious, is it just me? How has your culture, or your bicultural-ness, shaped your styling decisions?
*top photo by Joe Lencioni
Receta
July 13th, 2009 
I love that the word receta in Spanish can mean both a recipe and a prescription. Whereas “comfort food” in English makes me think of eating ice cream standing over the freezer or the solitary microwave bowl of mac and cheese eaten on the couch, the word receta unites food and preparation and need and nourishment as a higher art. Not just what will drown my sorrows but qué me apetece as well as qué necesito and cómo puedo prepararlo.
The word receta helps me remember how to take care of myself and others when eating, especially under stress. Thoughtful hands, fresh ingredients, and a little bit of time. It’s why people bring homemade dishes, not junk food, to people experiencing hard times.
Today, make yourself a homemade, from-scratch, dish you’re craving. Or feed someone in need. Or both! Though I’ve often heard repeated in this country that food does not equal love (as a catchphrase for combating obesity) no me lo creo. To me homemade, healthful food is love without words; a cure (or por lo menos a balm) for whatever afflicts you.
* photo by sergis blog
