Remember,
when we watched the sun
skinny dip off the tip
of the earth?
You could’ve sworn you heard
the splash of colors
hit the sky and drip
beautiful
back into your eyes.
Remember,
the amber,
the embers we tempered,
we tampered to glow
as we smoldered our souls
to burn
just as slowly,
wholly for one another?
Remember,
the eve when our atoms
first met,
our tainted genesis
we could never forget.
When “I miss you”
felt crippled and maimed,
weak and estranged
escaping our tongues,
hollow as breath
evading our lungs;
when our essence,
our electrons thirsted,
pined,
yearned for the valence
of each others.
No one dared
to skin our proximity,
our affinity,
closer than milliseconds.
We addressed each other
in first person
as if our genes
were stitched at the seams,
an affixed eclipse
of identities.
Remember,
when our infinity,
“forever and a day” was once…
The following link is an interesting post from a person with Autism, addressing self-stimulatory behaviors. I remember in the early days of DS’s diagnosis being really concerned about stims. His stims are large, gross motor stims that get more noticeable as his body grows larger (he is now taller than I am). But you know what? He processes thoughts while he is stimming. And he comes to conclusions while he is stimming. Much like I do, when I twirl a strand of hair around my finger tip and flick it against my ear, or my lip. This is a stim. Many people have them. Get over it.
I am sitting at my computer. We have had a meal of takeaway (the local “Chippy”, for my American followers). The presents are (mostly) wrapped, and hidden in the bathtub in my room. Stranger things have happened.
I am not a Christian. I do not believe that Christ is the son of God. I don’t believe in God as some omnipotent anthropomorphized entity that throws arbitrary blessings and punishments at human beings. Christmas for me is much like the other holidays (holy days) that my eclectic family observes; we observe Chanukah in reverence and respect for the members of our family who hold the traditions and faiths of Judaism. We observe Yule out of respect for the history and traditions of Nature worship. We celebrate Christmas out of love, respect, and tradition for the great majority of our family who are Christians, who believe in Christ according to their denominations and observances, and because of the social and cultural associations we have with the joys of Christmas.
As a result of that love, respect, and tradition, it won’t surprise any of you who know me to know that so much of my love for this season is about my Mom.
Mom loved all things Christmas. In fact, from the middle of November until after the New Year, Mom was in her happy place. She was so amazingly quirky about how she went about things – Thanksgiving and then Christmas and then the sad putting away of the time. She would bustle around the house, not making everything perfect for everyone else, but making everything just the way she liked it. Our tree covered in aluminum icicles, so thick that you couldn’t see the ornaments hidden behind the silvery curtains. The bowls of ribbon candies and mixed nuts set out on every table, as if we were having company at any moment. The music – this might be my most heartrending memory – the music playing loudly throughout the house, on the stereo equipment that my father saved up to buy for a very long time, and Mom’s incredibly sweet, if untrained, voice singing along as she bustled about hanging mistletoe, or making candies.
Here in the UK, I am surrounded by people who love me. I have made incredible friendships with people who are selfless and loving and giving to their core. They are not my family, though. I sit here, healing, not having much energy to bustle about hanging mistletoe and icicles and lights. And I listen to Nat King Cole singing his Christmas Song, and I can hear every single note in my Mom’s voice. Every. Single. Note. I feel both her presence and her absence sharply.
I struggle to make these connections for my children. I want them to feel the joy of tradition, the joy of family in these times. I want them to feel this intensity of emotion when they are reminded of me in years to come. I think these types of memories are the sweetest gifts I have from my Mom. Her pure joy. Her love of us and for the season. I never wanted for that.
Maybe not the singing, though. My children will thank me if they don’t hear my voice in every Note of the Christmas Song. But I can teach them the Christmas Song in Nat’s voice. And I can share with them, every time we hear it, my memories of Mom.
This was published for the Northeastern University Political Review, a political magazine I write for. I’m going to put up the entire article here but I deeply suggest you go check out the website – amazing articles by amazing writers (I made the front page as a Freshman, I think this bodes well for the future).
I recall casually browsing Tumblr one day and coming upon a picture of an extremely pretty black woman, button-nosed and petite, with the most fabulously coiffed pompadour afro, rocking a sharp tux and sharper cheekbones.
My interest was instantly piqued, but I never really listened to her music until someone uploaded an Mp3 track from her first concept album, titled Sincerely, Jane. I was instantly taken by her smooth voice, the orchestral quality of the music, the dramatic strings and brass instruments, and – goodness – those lyrics. Immediately, I went and got the…
I don’t know how much of this is because of the emotional associations I have with the dish, and how much of it is just because it is the most amazing food in the universe. Entirely unhealthy, entirely delicious – I can never turn lumpia down.
The first time I had lumpia, it was at my friend Lina’s house. Lina, who I’d met through my friend Rosemarie, is a beautiful Filipina woman who can cook the heck out of lumpia. I remember there was a group of us gathered at Lina’s house, some holiday or other was fast approaching, and we were there to cook lumpia so that it could be frozen and given as gifts to whomever wanted some. We all sat around the table. Rosemarie and Lina showed me how to roll the lumpia, how much of the filling to place in the wrapper, how the thinner rolls tasted different than the thick ones, what the optimal level of filling versus wrapper was. Lina had prepared the filling in advance, and she stood at the stove frying the rolls we wrapped as quickly as we were done wrapping them. The apartment was filled with amazing scents, the laughter of all of us as we worked, the amount of lumpia we ate versus what we ended up rolling – I have few memories more dear to me than this one. And I was hooked on lumpia from that day forward.
There was a funny, short lady who ran a food truck that would come to my work every day at EMWD. She would sell three rolls of lumpia for one dollar. I went every day on my break to get some of her fabulous lumpia. Then I started to get really heavy, so I stopped. 😀
When I moved away from California, and split up with my ex, my roomate Mary was Filipina as well. She didn’t make her own lumpia, but whenever she would go to Florida to visit her family, she would bring back a batch of frozen lumpia just for me. And then when I met my husband and we moved to Ohio, the fabulous Jungle Jims International Market sold frozen lumpia. I would make it a treat to buy a package – only for a holiday, or my birthday. But it was still my favorite dish. And one of my favorite memories.
Transitions 