si la muerte

i took the title here from a diamanda galas song. it literally translates to yes (the) death. it was the first thing that came to my mind, to acknowledge that eventually we all come to an end.

i got up this morning with no particular plan. go check out poor honey's used furniture in east oakland, maybe skit over to alameda.  i checked my phone and got a message from a woman named beverly about ma. i thought, well she's probably taken a turn.

about eight months ago ma had been diagnosed with bladder cancer and after that she was on chemo, then after that on pain meds. the last time i spoke to my sister, she was supposed to transition to hospice in the next several months, but that all came suddenly to a halt.

' i'm so sorry,' beverly said. ' but your mom passed away last night.'

'what?! oh no!!!! ma!!'

everything's coming to a grinding halt. 

beverly said she and another neighbor were there with her and anointed her oil. what that a catholic thing?, i thought. probably. this ritual is mentioned in psalms, which i came across in ma's notes. she said some other things, but i was struck, suspended. you see, i hadn't talked to ma in at least a year. we had issues, busted things between us. our disagreements would become meltdowns no matter how chill i was or if i walked away.  screaming through closed doors. over the years i made numerous edits, tried every strategy to maintain our relationship; no more holiday trips, fewer visits, fewer phone calls, fewer still. i tried patience, compassion, and pleading and nothing worked. she would lament about the past, about my grandfather, or my father, or how hard it was raising my sister and i alone. ' in my family you make your bed you lie in it.'  she said once. this is italian for suck it up and suffer. talk to the priest, talk to god. carry on even in your misery.

so she did just that. she stayed in california with two black kids, adrift, and went to work. she did the best she could with little support and a modest income. she lost one job because she had mixed kids and her boss was a racist (she told me about this years later). after she left pop, she moved us into a tiny flat in the mission, across the hall from a psychotic hippie. he nearly burned the place down during a heroin induced satanic ritual. i have a hard time hearing anything by uriah heep since then.

that was that. a friend of ma's in berkeley was moving to hawaii and offered to have to take over her lease. in 1977 we packed up and left the city for what was to me another world. i was a city kid, a hood kid. i was going to school in the bayview and we lived in the upper mission past what was army st. back then. i started 5th grade at longfellow and. i wasn't used to all the white kids.  most of the kids at burnett were black, latino, or filipino. sure ma was white, but white kids were the brady bunch.

we adapted and soldiered on. we moved from one flat on grant st. to another past channing in 1978-79. that was our neighborhood for the next 17 years. by the early 1980s i discovered punk which drove ma bonkers. my style was not aligned with her 1950s-60s sensibility. it's not like that for a girl! to her the music was unadulterated garbage. i grew up listening to in her words, real music like the beatles, joan baez, and janis joplin. the motherfucking eagles. punk was my salvation from my parents at the time.

'turn that down! what are they even saying?'

'uh...time enough for us to die?'

' what does that even mean?.' 

ma rolled with it though and i appreciated her for that. she realized i had zero aspirations to be a cosby kid or anybody's prom queen. i was a rude girl. we had one big row around 1986 when i decided to get my nose pierced.

' don't you dare!' she said. ' i'll feel like i'm sitting across the table with an african.'

i paused, ' but ma i am african.'  a friend pierced my nose in the bathroom of a punk house with an ice cube. i was nothing if not a defiant adolescent.

growing up in the east bay, i had a fear, an apprehension of my black life coming for me. the displaced, the drama, the side chick with a buster, the broke down cars, and broke down souls. i had relatives and friends going through it and knew what all that looked like. i had a schizophrenic father who had abused ma and neglected his kids. i wasn't going to start out the gate doomed. america wasn't gonna get me. i never talked to ma about the hardcore black things, but these are real and they exist. songs of the dispossessed, negro spirituals. black people are innately hardcore because we are descendants of the hardcore. our experience and condition in america is tough at all times. ma came from a generation and background that was 'pull yourself up by the bootstraps.' an italian sensibility that was rooted in hard work and that hard work reaped reward. slaves worked hard and reaped no reward; only profound suffering and death. how could she know that the same rules just don't apply to black folks? i learned early on that i had to fight in order to accomplish anything. no matter how well i spoke, worldly or sophisticated i may become, i am still a direct descendant of slave carriage born in america.

ma knew she couldn't understand, but she tried. she paid attention. she gave me clippings of interviews with nzotake shange and articles about lorraine hansberry, both of whom inspired me.   i was also into science fiction, dystopian horrorcore, epic novels about love, ghosts, and war. the scarlet letter, red badge of courage, amityville horror, the jungle, 1984. it wasn't until my early 20s that i went deeper into black writers and black thought. by then i was living in new york, where i fell in love with black people and hip hop. there were more black punks at shows than i'd ever seen back home in berkeley. a brave, new world. 

poor death

i had recently read an interesting, beautifully written article by ruth margalit in the new yorker about the death of her mother.  i had been preparing for the inevitability of it, the finality of it. ma's prognosis wasn't good and she had just turned 79.  then it came out in therapy : i want to be there to say goodbye, to let her know i loved her even if we hadn't spoken in awhile. in recent years i had to estrange myself from the madness. the last time we were all together, around christmas 2012,  my sister and ma had become so enmeshed with another - a co-dependent relationship where there was always a jockeying for power between them. it was terribly sad and unhealthy.  it made me lament for when we were kids with ma. those days were at times hard, but our relationship to one another was better. i suppose because we were the mother and her kids and not the damaged adults (to one degree or another) we'd all become.

ma grew up in duchess county, a few hours north of new york city. dover was a small town which had been largely settled by italians and several wasp families. one visit in my 20s i met the kellers, a family that grew corn for kellogg's corn flakes. the kellers had a portrait of themselves done sometime in the 1970s, hanging in the foyer of their home. when we were kids, we visited when nonno (my grandfather) was still alive. he and ma always spoke italian to one another. i remember the scent of homemade ravioli and marinara in the house. once we took an excursion to an apple orchard outside of town. it was charmingly northeastern to me. were we in a buick? i remember sitting next to my sister in the back seat of a big car, ma driving, and nonno beside her in his fedora hat. he liked red wine with a 2 minute boiled egg in the morning and smoked cigars. angelo was from another world and smelled like soap.

sister to sister 

after that chat with the beverly lady, i called my sister.

'so, i guess we have to figure out what to do about ma.'

' well, i know more than you do...,' she said.

 what a callous thing to say. she started talking over me and i over her. 'fuck this!!!" i shouted. ' goddammit!!" click. crickets. just like that we cancel one another out.  my sister and i are wired differently. i can run my mouth, but i've de-programmed myself to be more present and listen, even if i start to get bored with redundant statements and innocuous details. i never dealt with the stresses of life effectively because i had no one to model that for me growing up. it's been an arduous process of trial and error.

listening is love, a friend said to me once. so i listen as my sister processes things out; the unknown, the speculative, variables, the plan A, B, and C. i sat in the car talking to the coroner for an hour. she said.

okay. i'm not sure what that meant. that she was dealing with it? she was getting right to it? 

after awhile i got my shit together and called her back. she derailed at first something about telling her therapist i don't listen. baffling. she would say the same about ma. one would think no one ever listens to her based on the frequency of that complaint. i wasn't going to quibble. i never hear her say, i don't know when she in fact doesn't. sometimes we don't know - what to say or do or how to handle a thing. we're human.

' do you want me to meet you out there and help? you can't do everything on your own. that's not healthy.'

she paused, ' yes. i think it would be helpful if you were there.'

' okay, cool.' 

 booda talks in a lot of metaphysical platitudes (my authentic self, my truth, et al).  i say fuck that (indigitation) and what the fuck (exasperated) a lot.

the busted things

in the end, ma died of a broken heart. she was always very guarded, a keeper of secrets. she had a breakdown when i was 12 and my sister was about 11. she went off to hospital for a few weeks then. this was a very hard time of uncertainty. we were children barely able to care for ourselves.  a neighbor called child services to check on us, but i felt at the time like that was a betrayal. that's when i got really scared.  a few friends checked in from time to time, but we were mostly on our own. eventually she came home, but she never talked about it. she would only make references in the years since, ' i cracked up.' or ' ...when i lost my marbles.'  she never expanded on it or opened up. during that time, pop never called to check on us or showed up.  i think he was back home in michigan at the time, living with grandma and going through the social services system until she put him out.

saturday

text: just checking in. do you want to skype later today or tomorrow?

text: tomorrow

text: are you okay? your text was strange.

she called me back.

' what did you mean my text was strange? how exactly? what did i text?'

' uh...i just wanted to see how you're doing.'

' well, the place was horrible when i got here. there was piles of stuff everywhere. beverly, you know her neighbor that found her body, said ma didn't want any help cleaning. she insisted on doing it herself, but she couldn't - she was on meds and used a walker. i'm exhausted - i haven't stopped since i got here. i just took a break for 10 minutes.' she spoke quickly and without a breath.

' i was talking to beverly, ' she continued. ' and i told her about the conversation with zia, how cold she was and she said. oh yeah, there's something i should tell you,'  she said. ' ma told the zias that i said it was inconvenient for me to come out here sooner than i planned. that i couldn't afford it. i was shocked...i was ready to...',

' booda, that was a lie....,' i said.  then i felt the anger come up and out. ' what the fuck? dammit, ma!!' tears. 'i'm so sorry about that.' i said finally.

' but wait....what i don't understand is why the zias believed her?''

' babe, i don't think you see how deep the rabbit hole goes here. you had her move out because you sold your house. that was strike one. then you decide to come back to california and leave alone in her old age out there - strike two.' 

'but i was there for her for so many years. i took care of her...i...'

' you have be at ease with knowing that you did that. in the end it didn't matter. ma had mental and emotional issues. narcissists create their own reality and their own narrative. you're either an ally or an enemy. she was a keeper of secrets and i'm sure did not paint an honest picture of herself - the gambling, the meltdowns - to her sisters.'

' well, you were very attacking when you visited that time. if you understand a narcissistic personality then you shouldn't have done that.' 

'yes, i damn well should have. i would do it again. you were in bad shape living with her and dealing with her issues. she was yelling and screaming, making threats, and calling me names - of course i was going to defend myself. no one was going to treat me that way, not even ma. every time you and i went out on our excursions you vented about her. ' 

'no. you were the one who brought her up, not me.'

' alright. fine.' 

' i...i can't i can't talk about this anymore. i'm exhausted. ' 

text: girl! are you free? my sister is driving me bonkers.

text: ' yes, call me.'

regine (swiss-german accent) : girl, i know this is fucked up but you have to go through it. this is how families are. obviously your sister is confused and dealing with a lot of shit. don't get worked up about it. it doesn't matter now, the past.

'it just breaks my heart that ma was lying and creating this drama with the zias.'

' well, but your mother's heart broke a long time ago. she was mentally ill, girl. yeah sure, therapy and working shit out you wanted - she couldn't do it, lisa. she tried to keep it together and she couldn't do it anymore. life beat her down, but you know she loved you both, no matter vhat. you see?'

' fuck.' 

i don't think i'm handling this well at all. it's this big vast black hole of grief, anger, and drama.  denver is going to be a drag, but i said i would help and i keep my word.

i thought it would be nice to have the memorial back in NY with family, but my sister is resistant to the idea. all kinds of excuses. i think she's afraid of being rejected there; feels more in control in denver. i see her in my mind talking to beverly and somewhat of a dupe; not getting how damaged ma was, even in death, when she hears a disturbing truth outside of her reality :

i hear her saying : but i did so  much to support and help her over the years. lisa did nothing but fight with her. i was the good daughter. i did everything right...how can the zias treat me like this? 

email: 

booda, i'm so sorry about all of this.  i have a weird mix of anger and anguish. i mean, i knew i would be a pariah by not having spoken to her. i expected this, but you don't deserve it. you were very kind and supportive of her over the years. please know i appreciate all that you did. 

 ma was deeply, irreparably damaged. this happened a long time ago and became amplified over the years. it's  quite sad and tragic, but it's the truth. i am so very sorry. just know that you were very dear and good to her. you don't have to explain yourself to anyone.

 xo 

*e* 

she chilled a bit after i sent that. she asked me to write an obituary for ma so i sat down this morning and wrote it. in the end, it was quite lovely and in a way cathartic in dealing with all this.

before i sent it, i asked booda not to make any changes to it. she balked :

' but i wanted to add to it, ' she said. ' it was my idea to put in an obituary.'

' let me do this, booda. you can do whatever you want for a memorial. i'll support whatever you decide.'

' it's not about compensation, but whatever. i'll write my own thing and share it with whoever i want. just say you're sorry.'

' i'm sorry.' (sigh...fuuuuck).

why just can't she be cool about it? i thought.

' beverly said the zias are mad at all of us.'

i didn't respond to that because...wait for it..i didn't give a fuck. what did any of that even matter now? that statement told me booda was more focused on being singled out in some way, of being wronged, rather than the bigger context of the damage ma had done in her narcissism and anguish. i suppose she was having a hard time reconciling her heartbreak and disappointment over it.

post

'oh, you were about 2 and nina was just a baby. when was that? 1969, i think. that's when we lived on shrader street. they were playing in golden gate park. i thought they were great. well, things got kinda dicey and the hippies started rioting. i was holding nina and this kid helped me carry you out on his shoulders.'

jefferson airplane, white rabbit


' nonno and nonna took me on a cruise to italy to visit the family. i was about 19. i met this guy vinny on the ship. he was born in sicilia and worked as a numbers runner for the mob. very handsome and sharply dressed. he wore this beautiful gold pinky ring.  he was going from sicilia to egypt and asked if i would meet him in cairo. could you imagine? i wanted to go, but nonno absolutely forbade that idea. che pazzo! he said. in my day you obeyed your parents. period.'  xo

o sole mio (enrico caruso)

' when i was a kid i remember the first time i ever saw a black child. i thought she was the most beautiful little girl i'd ever seen. i told nonna i wanted one when i grew up.  it sure worked out that way, didn't it? my rainbow bambinas.' ' ma that is so friggin corny. ' oh, basta.'

miriam makeba - pata pata

post

ma was a huge fan of his. i had to come to grips with the fact that ma liked country music. as a kid to me it was hee-haw status (laugh). kristofferson, kenny rogers, john denver, merle hagard - all those cats. my pop as well liked the film deliverance and its soundtrack, so there was that. i was exposed to a lot of music between my folks. i'm a walking encyclopedia of it, really. italian folk and opera, jazz, soul and funk, calypso, african, r&b, blues, rock n roll, country. it's a beautiful thing coming from two cultures.' xo

kenny rogers - the gambler

girl, what?


' i'm very aware. i've studied metaphysics and psychology.' booda said.

(dude. not really. if you'd been clear you would not have been a co-dependent to ma).

'the zias always used to call and chit chat. love ya, hon! ' 

'when did that stop?  when you sold the house and ma moved out?' 

' wait...it did stop around that time.' 

' well, you went against the narrative. ma didn't want you to sell the house and move out, and ma certainly didn't want you to leave her alone out there. ' 

' but i can't make my own decisions?' 

' it had nothing to do with what you wanted, love.'  


thursday (denver) 

i've worked steadily since i got here. bagging clothes for donation, emptying cupboards, boxes and bins of collected and forgotten things. i made a mix tape of songs that remind me of her - italian songs, corny romantic pop, rock, and country.  booda had done so much and she was overwhelmed with details.  she was leaving mid-morning to deal with closing her accounts. i went to give her her bag and keys.

' lisa put it down. i can get my own stuff.'

'i'm just trying to help.' 

'why are you pushing me out the door?' 

' that's what you think i'm doing?....dude.'  i shuffled away.

text: e, i'm sorry i snapped. i'm just really mad at ma. i love you.

text: i understand. you two were very close. this is all so fucked up. love you, too.

i noticed she started referring her to as 'ma' again which she hasn't done in years. she always gave some metaphysical woo woo of practicing detachment for calling her 'mother' or 'norma'. i never liked either. it sounded condescending and disrespectful.  after we took a load of things for donation we talked about the memorial her neighbors had planned.

i think it's a lovely gesture i said. ' but i can't do it. i want to grieve with family, not strangers. this is about family.  i don't want to go.' 

this gave booda pause. i could see she's confused, stressed out, and being polite (as ma raised us to be). she was into it; researching projectors, and discussing details and cake with beverly and the building manager.

i think the last straw for me was being approached by a woman named emma earlier today

' are you norma's daughter lisa?'

'i am.' 

' oh! i'm so sorry your mom passed. this must be hard for you not having talked to her. hey whatever happens behind closed doors, right? god bless you.' 

(excuse me? who the fuck are you? what do you even know about me and ma?)

'thank you.'  i said.

booda nattered on about social security something and the remainder of her medical bill, which could easily be forgiven or charged off.

three words, i said no - four! i don't give a fuck. try it. it's liberating

right, but what i'm saying is.....

(that cheeky aside just flew right on by my girl there).

some moments have been touching. remembering ma's phrases and corny dance moves, finding a sterling corno for booda.

what's it called? she asked

a corno. it's an old italian pagan symbol. i've worn one for years.

i noticed that. what do you mean 'pagan'?

' yes, as in the time before christ. it protects you from evil.' 

she put it on.

there you go! 'i said, now you look like a proper italian woman. wear it with pride.' 

booda was stressed out. we're sisters, but her issues can be difficult to navigate. she talked incessantly, even about personal family stuff to ma's neighbors and friends. please dial it down, i said. these people aren't family. she said nothing; went in ma's room and slammed the door.

dinner with miss beverly was terribly awkward, i didn't have much of an appetite, but had to eat something.  i told a ma story, nina had to beat it with more detail.

thanks for telling the same story, i said.

then she was getting a bit too personal and i shook my head no. stop. 

what i was going to say was...!!! she huffed. she finished her anecdote, but not before chucking a piece of bread down on her plate. she looked undone sitting there, hunched over, and ready to go off, but still stuffing her face. in an odd way she reminded me of ma in that moment; of being on the verge of a meltdown. i resolved to shut up after that.

some moments with her were odd. when going through ma's things there was one photo we came across. 'i want this one and i really don't want you to have it.'  she said. 

(uh...okay.) 

another comment when talking about the possibility of reserving a lyft or uber to the airport.

can you give me the 30 bucks for it? she asked, in an almost pleading tone. it was weird. i ignored that and moved on to something else.

then friday, she retracted that entirely. get your own car or shuttle! i'm not getting you a lyft or giving you a ride. you did it to me!

booda, i picked you up from the airport. you had to figure out your your own way back. i did that because you have dependency issues. i said. i'm not an asshole. 

she piped down after that. what is up with her and the petty tit for tat? after all these years she still seems to keep score on this and that like a child. did she stop developing somewhere when we were kids?

' ma left me as the beneficiary of her accounts. i chose to give you half. ' 

(girl, what?) 

 this morning she was on one about probate and ma's remaining medical bill. sign your check over to me and mail it to my house. whatever is left over i'll send back to you. thank you for attending to this legal matter.   she has such a strange hang-up and tone around money.

another incident happened when i was looking at one of ma's passports from the early 60s. booda was chatting away to miss beverly who had stopped by.

don't steal it, booda said. i'm watching you. 

(again. girl, what?)

we're planning to visit over thanksgiving. honestly i was a bit reticent, but i'm worried about her and think it will be good for us to spend some time, but i'm not having any crazy. i told her before i left that she can reach out any time, but i'm not doing dependency or replacing her relationship to ma.

in a moment of vulnerability in the car we went to the store. she referred to her 'ho-hum' life.

' i haven't done anything or been anywhere.' she said.

' booda, your life is your life. if you want to do something - decide to do it. you often put your own obstacles up - bills, expenses, whatever. you could spend your whole life being tethered to that way of thinking. '

after visiting her in LA last christmas, she mentioned that my ' presence was good for her.'  my hope is that she figures out how to be good to herself. i always say she's a sweetheart, a good woman person and thoughtful.

i got home saturday and took BART into the east bay. i was on the verge of tears most of the time. i had to transfer at macarthur, but decided to walk and be heartbroken in my head. i got as far as ashby but then cramps overtook me. my girl julie came and picked me up. such an awesome friend she is.

i spent the rest of the day and into the night with horrible cramps, unable to eat. i took two pain meds  and slept off and on until early sunday.  i barfed a few times, but nothing came up. i hadn't eaten a thing since a banana on the flight. (i call this stress starving). intermittently, i cried uncontrollably. i have never felt such overwhelming sadness in my life.

monday

still working it out if i can mange being at work tomorrow. the term is over so i expect it to be very quiet, which is what i need right now.

i've resolved to hang in there with booda as best i can. she's damaged and confused. she loved ma dearly and she herself needed to be loved, to be parented when we were kids. i had mentioned to her once that we had been neglected, but not by ma. we were neglected by the circumstance we were in with ma. it was overwhelming for her raising two kids on her own, trying to hold it down after leaving an abusive relationship.

i looked at old pictures of us as kids, photos i hadn't seen in many years. how cramped that apartment on grant st. was. as a kid you adapt, i guess. i couldn't deal with pictures of me at middle school age. i was so fat and awkward. it was years before i came into my bones and smile. i must have blossomed somewhere - maybe after leaving home? after getting away and getting my life.

i wonder if we were always doomed to a life of suffering and poverty? to trauma and poor ma's grave misfortune? why? i don't get it.  i remember those times fleeing from my dad to stay with friends and once to a catholic shelter south of market. i remember seeing the animated snow queen there and eating porridge one morning. i looked out the window of our small cramped room to the rainy street below. in my childish mind i treated it all like an adventure, a day off from school. i can't imagine how desperate ma was at the time.

tuesday

back at work. it's nice to be around my colleagues here. everyone has been so kind. booda is being an ass about detail in the memorial video. everything is a competition with her and her insecurity issues. the grandparents came to the US in 1931. piccola is not spelled picolla. she chose not to mention joe, who ma was married to for at least 6 years and moved cross-country with him from NY to SF?

WTFM...so she wants to write her own version of ma's story, of the truth? she asks for feedback and when i give it (facts!), she becomes defensive. she said she made edits, but i'm not watching that video again. the truth just is.

i'm sitting on that check for now. there's a finality to depositing it, i guess. the end of the end. 

booda has not mentioned probate or ma's remaining bills. no news is good news, i suppose. i'm going to leave it alone. my sense is that all of her wig-out on not knowing what the process entailed, the possible abstract expense - had her worked up. particularly the fear of being stuck with any financial responsilbility.  those irrational causal questions keep coming up in my mind :  were we cursed in some way; doomed to lives of struggle. why did pop turn abusive and mentally unhinged? why was nina always spinning round and round looking for a parent? dabbling obsessively from one thing to next until she burned out? becoming so dependent? why did ma fall apart? why did she start gambling compulsively and become so abusive and narcissistic in recent years?  why have i gone through such struggles with men, poverty, and at one time even homelessness? my life is chill now and i feel quite content, but why have i had to solider through such a wilderness to get here?

(i wonder, do i sound alright? is the expression on my face giving me away?  maybe death makes people uncomfortable. like it's a disease that one can catch).


thursday

i was having a weird dream last night involving the zias. i woke up nauseous and shortly thereafter threw up. stress? hormones? boh. i finally went back to bed and slept in a bit.  i think the whole situation, her death, the zias, booda's state of mind, and behavior - it's all such a shitshow.  i wish we'd been more solvent, that ma hadn't come undone with the gambling and rages, that she and booda didn't have such an unhealthy co-dependent relationship, that pop had done more to help ma out when we were kids, that i myself wasn't so damaged from all that drama growing up, but i'm healthier now and i'm here.

friday 5/27

i am irreparably, profoundly changed since ma's death; suspended, altered, but i can't figure out how yet.  there's a void of sadness and confusion.

why couldn't i take it anymore and finally distance myself?  i suppose it was for my own survival. families can be complex systems and dysfunctional families can become toxic and chaotic, even if love is there. well into my 40s i realized that every interaction with my parents was a trainwreck.  i would either shut down or fight back.  i had found the only solution for me was to live. stil, in the end with regard to ma, i feel like i betrayed her.

i was telling a friend recently, one can spend their whole life in the mix of madness; wasting energy and sanity.  i chose to look up and out into the world. it started with leaving berkeley and moving to NYC. it continued with traveling around the country, lone road trips through the west and south, and traveling abroad.  i learned how to get lost.  going into the unknown has saved me. i experienced awe and wonder, sometimes even danger. it is to me to be wide awake.

ma's death has only strengthened my resolve to leave the states. to be anonymous somewhere else; to speak another language, to reconstruct my existence.  i'm stable in my life here, but not inspired. each time public space is put up for sale or rent, or i see nothing but black and brown faces in service jobs. it only stokes my indignation and my frustration.  america is a lie that will kill me if i stay.

text: ...what do they mean attitude in my text? i'm stumped. i was asking for clarification to a question. people suck sometimes. 

think, tap...delete.  she texted me something apparently about someone else. i don't want to know, i don't care to know. she's got to work things out (with others, within herself), one step at a time, love.

chain smoking. calm, but confused. why did she have to go before pop? why was she in such pain and anguish in recent years?  why is my immediate family wrought with mental illness?

mekela called today to see how i was doing. meh. quiet, sad, and contemplative, but not the bawling mess i was. she said to focus on the good things - the happy memories of childhood, of being loved, of ma not giving up on us no matter how hard it got. the camping trips to shasta and tahoe and pizza at woolworth's on saturday.

i've been watching film adaptations of dysfunctional families. i pulled up august : osage county about a family in oklahoma. an abusive drug-addicted mother and alcoholic father who drowns himself. battle of wills between mother and daughter. fun stuff.

i'm more drawn to my friends who've lost a parent. they seem to understand. i've decided to get lost for a few weeks in july. i thought of cuba but it's a myriad of hoops to travel there legally. you can volunteer with a program and pay the program's fee, have a full itinerary of activities and cultural programs. you can't just go and get lost.

so i looked into haiti, which was my scheme several years ago. i was driven by love of lois mallou-jones work and her time there in the 1940s. ubi girl from tai is one of my favorite pieces of hers.  haiti it is! cheap and unusual. i need to sit on a veranda and look out onto the sea, to get lost in the citadelle laferriere . to figure out how to be in the world now. left with sadness, and wreckage


thursday

it's stressful trying to make things happen. my head spins on details to travel, but i have to do it.  moving money around, getting the rent paid, airbnb guests, bills, paying booda for some of ma's expenses. ack! i know rationally this is american life, but it sucks not being able to just sit on money and not spend.  i know booda is stressing because she had so much stored at ma's place that she had to ship home and probably didn't expect to do that suddenly.

why didn't she think to have the rent reduced for the month? she was spun out on things and didn't think about it i guess. neither did i? no. it never occurred to me in the midst of grief. we were both a mess.

monday

fucked up dream trying to escape denver with my cat (an orange tabby that looked like baji, a cat we had as kids)  big balloon machine mechanisms part chitty chitty bang bang, part nick cave performance artist. , UPS trucks and 747s, a flight attendant in a striped jump suit (she looked like naomi watts), fighting with booda, a video montage of a dude i was seeing several years ago. why him? maybe because he was sweet and caring unlike the few busters who followed. he gave me a copy of gimme something better about the bay area punk scene from the 1970s - 90s.

friday

my friend and colleague kyle (my secret gay love) shared this with me : romans 5:3-5
 Not only so, but we also glory in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope. And hope does not put us to shame, because God’s love has been poured out into our hearts through the Holy Spirit, who has been given to us.

i guess....

saturday 

it's been a month since she passed. i've been listening to a lot of vintage reggae and dub;  the upsetters and king tubby and the like. it's soothing and chill to me.  i'm slowly learning to accept ma's death, to walk with it. in the end, we loved one another dearly.  i can see that in my art she kept for many years, letters written during my new york days, postcards from my travel abroad. it was touching to know she still had these things. so i go on, differently. i'm not very social these days; more quiet and introspective. i look forward to going to haiti. i imagine i'll find a skiff somewhere and float along and think about my time with her, all the love, and support i had as a kid. the cuddles. i realize now in retrospect my sister and i did have that growing up and for that i am grateful to ma.

take me to the river, drop me in the water. 


friday

i got home today and depression hit me like a wave. i was overwhelmingly sad about ma passing, stressed about my health, the chaos the world is in, and the hardships i've been through with family
and life. i sat and thought about my childhood and adolescence; moments and memories with ma.  after her breakdown, i remember having a holiday dinner with her, kenny, and nina. ma seemed so vulnerable and fragile at the time. kenny was very kind to her. i think nina and i tried to cook that evening so ma could take it easy.

i zig zag to thoughts of booda and her sad life. all those years living with either pop or ma into her adulthood, never having a relationship, her obsesssive approach to things until she burns out. when i was last in denver that christmas, myself adrift after giving up my place, i didn't know what to expect really. they are family and i had no place else to go. i was making things up as i went along.

but i couldn't stay around ma and booda. it was a crazy and sad scene in that house. as i reflect now (and i mentioned this in therapy) i've been more willing to go into the unknown than be in the same house with my immediate family.  i can cope better with myself alone. i think that was a motivator in moving to NYC all those years ago.

sometimes i feel angry at ma; the damaged she caused with the lies and embellishments to the zias. the insanity of creating derision and antagonizing our own family.  like being her mixed kids wasn't odd out enough. it's tragic, really.

after finding that note and realizing the pain of her depth and despair, i forgive her. i'm working on forgiving myself because i didn't call even after booda told me she was sick. i just couldn't do it anymore; the fights, the meltdowns, the gambling. i was burned out from years of dysfunction and drama. i wasn't going to enable her madness or her addiction.

it was heartbreaking to know she was still gambling, as recently as a few months ago.  in the end, she kept that, but lost her own daughter.  the last time i saw ma, after the farm internship, before i was heading back to cali, we were sitting at the table in nina's kitchen.  ma kept fidgeting with at face; drawing her finger across and underneath her eyes. it was a nervous tick. she looked tired and distraught; like a person not at peace.  i was kind and chill and tried to make conversation.

' do you have a computer?' she asked.

' no,' i said. ' i just use my phone for now, but i'll get one when i get back home.'

i don't remember what else we talked about. maybe she asked why i don't stay in colorado (maybe her way of asking me not to leave or stay closer). i had to get on the road that day. i hugged her goodbye. i don't remember if we said we loved each other then. we must have. i wonder now after i left if she cried? because our time together wasn't as i had hoped, except that day we went out for lunch. maybe she felt bad about the meltdowns and fighting; the state of mind she was in that had created such a fracture in our relationship. she just couldn't say the words, i suppose.

i know that in my heart for years i tried to hang in there with her; begged her to get help and that we could do therapy together. we'd been through a lot; the dark days with pop and all that shit.
i noticed as i was sorting through her things with booda she kept that letter i asked pop to write her, to be honest, to ask for forgiveness, to thank her for keeping us together. she kept that letter; even though when i asked her about it she said, ' that's all water under the bridge.'  and wouldn't discuss him or the letter further. apparently it meant something somewhere in her heart.

december

well, months have passed. i experience moments, thoughts from time to time. i was going through old letters and cards she kept today. i found one where i pleaded with ma to get help; that she seemed embedded in complaint and distress. i don't remember when i sent that to her. it seems she kept things she couldn't respond to or engage an invitation at reconciliation. i came across a photo of the two of us taken in napa around 2007. then i thought of the two of us long before then; the young italian woman with her little black baby girl in a stroller in san francisco.

je t'aime haiti

Port au Prince

The first days here have been amazing.  Even getting around is a challenge, which I seem to thrive on. I found the most inspiration in my long walks around Delmas; studying the beautiful African faces, women toting bins and baskets on their heads. I blend here (at least until I speak). The only functioning cafe is Epi d'Or, a casual sandwich cafe and bakery chain. I tried the macepi today, which reminded me of the cafeteria hamburgers in 5th grade.

After I walked down to an intersection of Rue Delmas, I turned into a long market of street vendors, mostly women. They were selling everything from soap to onions and bananas. I passed a few slums along the way. The poverty here is deep and overwhelming. My host in Delmas, Madame Marie, and her husband are more middle class. If I walk just a few blocks, conditions get worse.  The streets are gapped and rubbled, broken houses and still in disrepair since the earthquake.

My favorite moment today as I turned back onto Autoroute Delmas, I stopped and chilled outside the parking lot of the Delimart. I watched as a woman pay a young man 100 goude for toting a big bin of shoes to sell. He haggled with her as sweat trickled down his face. She refused to give him more. After he left, she spit shine the shoes and hung several pairs up by their heels on the fence behind her. I realized I blended in and my Americaness was invisible to them. Freedom! 

Tuesday, Gonaives

At the rest stop. It is insanely hot here. There's a cafe which seems like a long process of nothing. People pay, take their ticket, and crowd around the lunch counter trying to get their order in. With all that going on, I decided to take a pass and ate the banana I had saved from breakfast.

Haitians are much more polite than Black Americans. We must be more stressed out and impatient with one another.  It seems as though Haitians are forever waiting, while we're forever rushing around.  An old woman was getting on the wrong bus. ' Madame!' I said. 'L'autobus est la!' pointing to our coach. I took her hand to help her step down and she thanked me in kreyol. 

I never just take anyone's photo without asking and I will usually give a bit of cash. Black folks everywhere are private, except maybe thugs and heaux. 

Cap Haitien

Sressed out, but exciting not knowing what the fuck or where. i arrived in cap haitien around 2:30pm and starving. i met a young man on the bus who recommended Tibukan cafe next to the sans souci bus station. there was a lot of activity and hustle getting off the bus. a handsome taxi driver and i bantered briefly, but he wanted to too much to get to Ruelle Nazon.

i had a nice lunch at tibukan with rum punch. by then it was getting close to 4:30pm and i still had to figure out where rouelle nazon was. i hopped a tap tap, which seemed to go quite a way into town. everyone was so cool, even with my basic french. i got off and the street wasn't marked with signs or numbers, i walked up, realizing that the neighborhood was a favela that spiraled up into the hillside. i stopped at N226 (a building with a number) and messaged my host sherry.

sherry was an iranina-medical student, i learned. who had lived in cap haitient for a year working as a midwife. she was engaged to a young haitian, joz. they rented out his small flat in nazon to tourists. this gave travellers cheap accomodation and joz a source of income. the thing was. nazon was a ghetto. 

that explained why sherry was a bit earnest in her communication. sherry was preparing white travellers

for a haitian ghetto experience. 

by 6pm was getting into twilight. i was getting agita that if i was lost i needed to figure out a plan b. think in french! find a hotel? fuck! i sat there wringing my hands as i heard a motorcycle approach. a strikingly handsome young man stopped in front of me. 

he held out a piece of paper with my name on it, 'mslisa?' he asked,

'what the fuck?!' i responded, with my american coming out. i was so relieved. ' joz?'

' no, je suis johny.' he said.

' man, black people.' i shook my head. 

' uh,...no english.' he said.

' 'd'accord, mon cher. je parle un peu francais,' i said. 

we rode up into the favela and he carried my suitcase. we walked up to the little flat and edelin, another host and local guide, was sitting outside on the balcony. he was a bit struck when he saw me. joz showed up shortly thereafter.

' we didn't know you were a black woman!' joz said. ' we are so happy to see you!'

we are so happy to see you. 

by now was a hot sweaty mess, but we hung out for awhile talking and made plans for edelin to take me to the citadelle the next day, i kept calling him izzy and he never corrected me. johny eventually had to leave. they said he's also a moto driver and guide if i need one.

awake! i can't sleep, but i'm tired. the people here are lovely, but it is a rough place, especially the mosquitoes. zika mosquitoes! i don't see them, but they see me. i'm probably wound up from the long bus ride, trying to connect with jose, and being a stranger here. my mind is spinning with thoughts and impressions of the day of how to make my money stretch or something i may have missed in port au prince. i think part of why benito was anxious to head back to delmas that afternoon making an excursion to the palace was that we were in the area of cite soleil, the largest and most violent ghetto in haiti. (i came to figure this out later). 

sometimes i feel like i'm navigating a dream in a black universe. 

citadelle
i woke up with a better attitude. the electricity was out. i learned that poor people don't have to pay for electricity, so the government conserves energy with rolling blackouts in the morning and evening.

edelin came by around 6:30am and we rode a moto off to breakfast. i had chicken with red sauce which was the best dish i've had here yet. from the restaurant we took a tap tap to milot about 30 minutes away. once there were got mobbed by a group young moto drivers, all jockeying for a customer. the amusing part was how they responded to me. 

' they think you're a beautiful woman. they all want to take you,' edelin said with a laugh.

' that's cute.' i said. ' i'm old enough to be their mother.'

i took a bathroom break. as my luck would have it my period had started. edelin worked it out with a good looking kid who smelled really nice. we rode 3 up on the moto, 30 minutes up to the visitor center. it was a stunning landscape of hillside jungle, coconut trees, the road dotted with shantys and small villages. from the visitor center we were greeted by more young men offering donkey rides, vendors (mostly women) selling handmade mortar and pestles and souvenirs. edelin worked it out with two young boys with a donkey, one to guide and one to lead. i rode while edelin followed behind on foot.

it was hot and i offered water to the boys guiding the donkey. the ride was cool, but i have a hard time being served when i travel. there is a kind of colonial mentality here of catering to anyone with a bit of money. i could have any child fetch me this or that for a dollar.

once to the top, i was hustled by the guides, a friend of edelin's, and the young boy who guided us through the citadelle. his english was modest, but i got the gist. he explained to edelin in kreyol that bricks used to build the structure were stained with cow's blood. the boy had the most stunning african face, but seemed profoundly sad and burdened. i asked edelin about that.

' poverty.' he said, a bit annoyed. ' struggle.' as if, you know in your heart what that is and how to endure it. 

the citadelle was vast with spiraling levels, an underground jail, canon rooms, and catacombs. other than  tikal it was one of the most extraordinary places i've ever seen. we were 900 meters up with spectacular views of the mountains and countryside. i could have stayed longer in wonder and meditation of the place, but it felt like i wasn't alone for a moment.

i decided to walk down and encouraged edelin to ride the donkey. he had a bit of a challenge trying to mount him, but he seemed to enjoy himself. the boys kept close to me; constantly watching my bag or my hands. (i realized that my day pack was conspicuous after that  and i've never used it again). they're hovering became tedious until i told them to move ahead of me.

 it would have been nice to walk alone in silence for awhile.

last night rosita plaited my hair. she had to comb my naps out, which are a problem because my hair is so long now. she took her time and i felt quite relaxed until a roach came flying at my face before disappearing into the sewer. i freaked out, although more surprise than fear. cholera! vermin death! i ran into the flat and put alcohol on a tissue and wiped my face. i sat back down and jokingly looked up as if to check for other flying vermin. rosita and i had a good laugh. haiti is exquisite, but i am fucking cool with the roaches.

johny walter

i hired johny, jose's neighbor, as my moto rider to cormier. it was a bout 30 minutes away over the hills of cap haitien. we hung out for a good while. talking in my broken french and he in his broken english. he needed to text his wife that he would be home soon, but his phone was dead. i offered to text her for him.

' j'taime!' i showed him.

he laughed awkwardly and shook his head. i asked him if everything was okay.

'it...it is difficult.' he said. i thought maybe he's alluding to the poverty they live in with four children. he told me a sad story about how his wife got pregnant with their first child when he was 24 and he didn't want the child in the streets without a father. so they got married, they stayed, and they had deborah and the twins. his parents didn't approve of his wife and rejected him for a long time.

' i needed the patience,' he said.

i went to the beach for a bit and when i came back he was gone. this concerned me a bit because jose mentioned he had done that to tourists before. so, i went looking for him and found him talking to a man that worked security. (in haiti security usually carry a rifle - in hotels, markets, and digicel shops).

' always tell a woman where you're going,' i said. 'i'm a foreigner here, yes but you must have  consideration.'

' i am sorry,' he said. ' this will not happen again.'

later i got him lunch and we left around 4:00pm and headed back to cap haitien. i paid him $20.00 for the day when we got back to nazon. i went into the courtyard of his house down the street, we were greeted by the children who by their reaction one would think i was michael jackson. i was  such a fascination to them. his wife said in kreyol that i looked tired and hungry. she was right. she was fussing at johny about his phone not working. he was holding one of the twins, gael, and for a moment he looked quite troubled; as though he was trying to figure something out. i took a beautiful shot of him and gael in that moment.

don't forget me.

at dinner he said he found me so interesting and thought of me all the time.

' do you think of me?'

'yes,' i said. ' i think you're interesting.'

'i knew that.'  he said. ' me too.'

' but you have a wife and children.'  i said.

we came back to rouelle nazon and we planned to go back to cormier. that's all i wanted to do - be in solitude and contemplation by the sea. in the morning i would get up early and sit on the platform of the house across the street. it was cooler there and i could see out onto nazon; houses and shantys stacked up into the hill. i would listen to the language and the women and occasionally someone would pass, 'bonjou.' they would say. one morning a couple was on their way to the church across from jose's place.

' bonjou, blanc. dominicaine?' the man asked.

'non,' i said. ' ma maman est blanc, je suis mulatte.'

johny and i did another excursion to cormier then another to san michel, which the boys told me about. that was an hour from cap haitien; a breathtaking ride through the valley surrounded by hills and through small \villages. we kissed for the first time there.  it was terribly sweet and awkward. we had to pay a small entrance fee and then went to look for a snack or drinks in the cafe near the beach. the man behind the counter had fruit juice which i sampled and could tell it had turned bad.

i gave johny some cash and he went to the street vendors. i sat and watched and listened for awhile. i saw him walking back; so tall and a bit awkward. he seems so gentle to me even from a distance. we sat and talked for hours as he ate a small container of lamdie.

' dave is cool.' he said, referring to his oldest son. ' sweet boy.'

he never spoke much about deborah; mostly the boys. that must be a cultural thing; that he knows what her fate will be in haiti.

' you have amazing eyes. light brown like mine.' i said. ' extraordinare.'

 it was getting close to 5:00pm when we left and we went back to rouelle nazon. i showered and chilled out on the balcony with rosita and the baby for awhile.  jose and edelin came by that evening as i had to pay jose for another few nights.

' so what is going with you and johny?' jose asked.

' yeah!' edelin said with a smile. ' you spend lot of time.'

'mmm, well he is a handsome man, very sweet...maybe in the next life. he has a wife.'

'maybe she is so not good for him,' edelin said. ' you are better.'

' i don't know about that, edelin. i'm different, just not haitian. i said i would help with the school fee for the babies because i can't pay him every day for the transport.'

' you would do that?' jose asked. ' that is so nice of you, lisa. wow.'

' i can try. he's a good man.'

'  i think maybe he is for you.'

i think maybe he is for you?  haitians make these allusions in their speech that sound poetic and almost like proverbs.  as i learn kreyol statements are full of aliterations : si m ta di kijan m santi m chak fwa m konnen m pral rankontre w. if i say how i feel every time, i know i'll meet you again.


johny + lisa (bonbagay)

one night after dinner at hotel picoulet, johny came back to the tiny flat with me. i was reluctant. then at one point he said to me, ' i am here.'  he was incredibly vulnerable and open in that moment. i closed the front door.

we went in the shower together. it was sweet and sensual. then just as we went for the bed, i heard his wife hollering outside the bathroom window in the alley adjacent to jose's place. all i heard was johny this and johny that and the hand-clapping of a black woman scorned.

we stopped. i scrambled to get my clothes on. ' you have to leave!' i said. 'go!'

' don't be afraid,' he said. 'she don't mean nothing.'

' no. you have to go!'

he got dressed and i scrambled to get my things together. as he went out, neighbors were already in the street and harriet, his wife was right outside the flat at the little gate, looking enraged and stressed out. rosita had by now posted up out on the balcony gate. she gestured for me to go inside and lock the door.

i stood there in the front room alone and for a moment very scared. i calmed myself down to get it together and think straight : the embassy is not in cap haitien. tell rosita to call jose and edelin right now. 

i opened the door. 'rosita!' i gasped. 'edelin and jose! telefon!' 

rosita sent each of them a text. she came inside and closed the door, ' c'est finis pour toi ici.' she said with a sigh.

i started to cry, but she calmed me down and told me not to worry, that there had been problems between them for a long time. (i could determine this by her tone and gesture).

jose and edelin arrived shortly after they got the call, they ran over from edelin's place. i was still rattled, but relieved they came.  even as they sat with me,  harriet continued carrying on down the street.

'she is a stupid woman.' edelin said. ' he took her because she got the baby. she was girl from the street. his parents did not approve of this thing. they say he can have the house, but they are finish with him.'

'yeah,' i said. ' he told me about that, but she's still his wife.'

' don't worry, lisa.' jose said. ' she always cause problem for him.'

edelin left to check on johny. i went outside and sat down. when he came back, he sat up on the balcony railing and chatted with rosita for awhile, listening to her retell what happened. 

' lisa, what go with you?' he asked finally. ' you are so quiet?'

' because i feel very bad.'

' don't worry, cherie.' he said. ' johny said to tell you he not himself right now. he so sad. he say to me he's going to stay with his neighbor and get drunk.'

i looked down the way and saw johny fussing with the gate to his neighbor's house. he looked beautiful in the dim light of the street. he said nothing and i said nothing.  at that point, i only wanted to be near jose and edelin.

it occurred to me later that in the chaos of that night the trajectory of my life had shifted.

i'm just getting this out in order to figure my shit out. today i was in love and feeling connected to johny. after having brunch with kamala i went to the market and got some insense. still high! at one point i sat in the car listening to ho hay. i belong to you, you belong to me my sweetheart...

when i got home i had a message from johny. we texted in french and he was having a problem with his voicemail not downloading. he mentioned recet and i told him to turn his phone and back on.

did he not understand reset?

at one point he went into a diabtribe that friends ask him when he will join me in the US. he doesn't brag, he said, but what should he tell them? he's only told jose and edelin.

this gave me pause. it's not up to me, i said. it depends on when you get your his visa and come here. i can't control the process in haiti or his own determination. i also think this was an indirect way of asking me when i'll bring him to the states. it was a bit strange; almost like a manipulation.

when i said it's up to him and his choice, he changed the subject.

what are you doing right now? 

at times i get this sense that he knows how to work me; that i like to talk and express feeling. i asked about the beautiful nadege story. he was with her for several years and before met harriet (he never mentioned harriet by name, only as the wife).  nadege was young, but harriet had the capacity for caring for the children. so he chose.

 i felt like i was hearing part of a story, not its entirety.

later during an exchange with edelin he said johny sometimes forwards my messages to either him or jose to help translate what i'm saying. the cat was out of the bag with that. first of all, i could be saying something private, that also feels like some corny haitian conspiracy to help johny keep me entangled. after learning about this, my love mania took a dip.

i found this out after telling edelin if johny isn't in miami by december i'll come back to cap haitien during my holiday break.

he said once that he watched me sleep at laurier one night. i was struck because i had watched him sleep. i wonder if he knew i did that and spun it to appeal to me? again to manipulate my affection for him? he is very sharp.

when i ask about lauren, he said simply 'i forget lauren'. which in his english means, ' i don't remember lauren.'

last sunday i heard him in my dream; running out of patience and asking for money. i also heard him with his wife; scheming ways to hustle the tourist women who find him attractive. i had two moments where i thought this was all bullshit : that the night of harriet's freak-out was a set-up and another at laurier, i felt my stomach turn as if to warn me about something.

but i went on, even with some degree of detachment. i wanted him. i had been on a high for days until sunday; everything came to a halt. some things he said didn't add up or i caught things in his messages.

' i understand you, fuck.....,' (running out of patience).

(translated from french). ' the young boys at picoulet ask me where is your wife? i say you went back to US. they said i should be with you, but i don't want to brag. what should i tell them?'

' what do you think?'

' lisa, i told you i don't want to brag. i haven't said anything to anyone except edelin and joz.'

'well, i hope you get your visa and get to miami by december. but anything you say is your choice.'

pause.

'what are you doing right now?'

it felt like a game, a manipulation. what was he trying to get at? i wonder if he's just desperate on some level.

but the dream revealed what i have been resistant to accept. it's all been a scam to help his family survive. there was a moment at laurier where i referred to harriet as the big woman, 

' who said that?' he asked.

'can you give me the 250 for the children? he asked as we laid in bed one night.  'this is important.'

'no i can't, mon cher. i have to things to take care of. i need a new car.'

maybe he prostitutes himself out when he can other than being a moto driver, to help support the family. from what edelin told me harriet was a prostitute herself at one time and he often uses the word 'bitch'. which in kreyol means woman.

'i've had many bitch here,.' then he catches himself. ' you too...many, many, but now only one.' ( so what are you saying? i'm a bitch as well?').

' you be a bitch for me....me too, for you.' (what the fuck is talking about? submission? who wants that?) 

i came to realise his statements were a mix of immaturity and street life filtered through broken english. he he couldn't express himself in a more articulate way. 

the haitian continues. he never gives up, he never backs down. we are destiny. we are the same. we are like a garden and our communication is like the rain. dude, what? who even talks like that?

i had a very hard day at work yesterday. i was so stressed out. i got home and chatted with edelin, then copied my messages to johny.

hello, ma belle. i was happy to get news from you, but stressed that you cry about job. 

mesi anpil, mon amour. don't worry. je suis une fanm tres forte. how are you?

i'm good, but i miss you alot. please don't cry. 

he can be sweet and compassionate of me. there are moments when i feel he is absolutely my person in the world. then i step back. it's a continuum. i am curious to go back during winter break and see what's up.

today edelin told me he spent most of the day with johny. he said he laments for me all the time. edelin drank with him a bit, but johny got a bit fucked up. where is my lisa?

i tell johny, just be cool man. she's coming back december for holidays. it's only a few months.

wednesday

at times i feel as if things are fucked. i meet this lovely man who understands me, but he's in haiti and i'm here in cali; a shithole of stress, privilege, and hypocrisy.  i get so bored with nichols, particularly busy-body lynn, and emails targeting those of us who smoke. go here, no go there, no go here. really what they want is for us to not smoke anywhere around the building.

lynn is a drag. she's asked me twice now about when julie is coming back; fishing to see if there's some conspiracy we're up to. i jokingly call her the nichols police. she seems to have two switches : her health or in other people's business. her second query today about julie i ignored and went on chatting with sarah.

then there's stress around work, particularly working with christopher.  i  can't get anything done and he volleys everything back to me - even my words. in the time he wastes with his nit-pickery, he should just do the shit himself. it's becoming tedious to me and i doubt i can continue on like this.

alas, i need my fucking job to live. i have to save money to go back to haiti over winter break. that's my biggest goal right now.

i finally connected with sherry. jose was stressed out and missing her. i think, some days are overwhelmingly hard and he wonders if it will work, if he will be with her again. she's a medical student without a steady income so this makes petitioning for him difficult. she mentioned she's not in the best living situation but has to stay so that she has a fixed address.

she said airbnb has suspended them hosting travelers.  she wasn't suprised really; she received complaints about the water situation and communication issues with edelin and his english. she said he was stubborn and not open to learning to improve it (true).  sherry was sad about the whole thing because this allowed jose to make some money.

' americans are so high maintenance,' she said.

' i know. i could tell by how you wrote to me.'

' i love jose, but there are moments when i think the whole thing is a scam. you know, logic is rational. love is irrational.'

' girl, i've had the same thought about johny.'

' this whole thing has made my life harder, but also better.'

'yes!'

les raisins de la raison

johny and i continue, through fits and starts, unstable wifi connection, and blackouts. we chat every morning and evening during the week. weekends as well, if his phone is charged and when he has downtime from running the moto taxi.

at this point the plan is for his sister milande to petition for his visa. i had been anxious to start looking for a job in miami after j-term, but realized this was impetuous. i have no idea how long his visa process will take. there are many variables to consider and i need to maintain my stability. i want to stay with PLTS through one more academic year.

i've been also struggling with the black dog. some days are better than others. i think it's a combination of stress around work, the uncertainty of what lay ahead - with the seminary, with johny. i panicked a bit last week because i was getting less email than usual.  i'm feeling quite vulnerable these days.

i didn't have a good  session last week. a new clinical student kept bringing up my fee, when i needed to sort things out. she added to my stress. i wrote to the clinic about the issue, but haven't heard back. do i go to session tomorrow? i need to maintain therapy for my own well-being, it's been hard reconciling ma's death, demands around work, and the situation with johny.  i always seem to choose the hard way through and to things.

of course i get a message from carl on fB. i messaged him that i met a man in haiti. i don't know why he still pops up - 12 years later. i suspect with his hand out, which was usually the case. maybe he senses something. when i see pictures of him now he looks small, tattered, and beat. as though in all these years he has not grown at all.

tired. sometimes i feel like i can't catch up. work is one continuous, fascinating process of figuring shit out and making it happen either on my own or helping someone else.  today i was in a meeting and caught myself deep in thought about johny and smiled. it was as though my spirit was someplace else.

' last tuesday....a woman call me for moto taxi. after, she say me -' johny i love you'. i do nothing. no! baton chocolat dead because i only see you. your spirit like the police with the control. only for you, bb. mwen renmen ou.' 

he cracked me up with that. i mean, okay - sure.  i'm not there, his actions are his decision. maybe he's all for real? it could be.

i don't want you bring the big bag - no. come back, please. i need your presense. to see you, to touch you, spend all time. just to come back, bb. 


i'm feeling burned out and hope i can make it to winter break. my work seems like all the endless catching up to people who constantly change shit up then being held accountable to catching each change trying to make everyone happy. never let a detail fall through the crack, even when i don't know what that detail is.  wait...what?  i suppose it's the nature of academic administration.

i sleep alright these days. i still wake up in the middle of the night with dust allergies. grrr! but i solider on. this weekend was hard because i was feeling mad stress around work, planning this trip to haiti (cost, flights, otome), getting my errands done, and cleaning the apt (julie doesn't do this because she can't manage to get off her ass and clean the kitchen and bath and yet she's home all the time. i'm starting to resent this paying her equal rent, but in the end got over it. a clean space trumps equity).  i was also feeling anxious about johny and the wife. eek! everything it seems is on me and i don't have the capacity for it.

it's clear to me something is underlying their ridiculous pandering to CLU. i suspect they're probably insecure about their own positions. 30 days to improve when I'm doing a kick-ass job? i wanted to leave well; to stay consistent and stable into the move and complete another academic year. i've been giving consideration to those where none is given in return.

it's really a no-win situation. going on and on about 2s when i go above and beyond to bring order to chaos and make them look good to CLU.  the timing is perfect after planning my trip back to haiti over winter break. great! well, it is what it is.  my disposition will now change.

i got home and chatted with julie, but she has little capacity for real-life, work-related stress. she was as supportive as she could be. she lapsed into her own frustrations about school and switching majors, which at times she appears almost on the verge of tears. i try to listen and support, but she gets stuck in her loop. everyone is in collusion against her to make her own decisions, which have no guarantees. sooner or later this all ends and she has to get a job.

she mentioned taking a holiday job at the lego store in SF, but i highly doubt she'll follow-through. still, i offered to help with her CV and resume if she needed.

i was feeling uncertain about johny cakes after sending him money to help with moto taxi maintenance.  i've sent him $ 200.00 within 4 months. the back-up was supposed to help with the phone situation, which is somewhat better. i told him i was counting on him to find a good price on a guesthouse. he messaged me today that the owner of one place told him to wait and that he knows the haitian system and doesn't want him to ask for more.

yeah, well. she didn't respond to my last message. i'll try to book with her later, but i doubt she'll accept it because of johny being haitian.  as always it's all on me to make shit happen. i'm burned out with that, but i made a choice to go back.

i've been having weird dreams. i had one where i was back at laurier with johny and i felt that same sinking sense in the pit of my stomach i had one night. i was baffled as to what that was about. i was safe and he was sweet. i had another where my face was covered with what looked like bruises.

maximum bad, some well

i haven't written here in a long time. i've been putting maximum energy into work, to improve the situation with christopher only to have leslie flip and nick-pick. i've come to see the bigger picture that i'm simply caught in the cross-hairs of behind-the-scenes corporate institutional politics and uncertainties about the seminary move to downtown berkeley.

things just don't jive despite my best efforts and good works; going above and beyond to transition to webex, to improve processes. i come out of one meeting, beat down by christopher or another only to be blind-sided by leslie. it's a no-win situation. after that i decided i can only control my attitude and how i deal with it. that was it. i started applying to positions in the southeast. what am i fighting for?
i don't want to stay at PLTS through this move or even in the bay area with its soul-crushing cost of living. for what?

sunday

well, monday evening and i'm off. i'm feeling alright, if at times mad doubt crowds my mind. what am i doing? what am i going into? is this relationship even sustainable? senay contacted me to hang out and i obliged. he's cool people. be social, i thought. keep connections. we went to an arcade in alameda then talked over margaritas and tortilla chips.

i told him about johny. i need to go back and find out more about this man. senay was cool and respectful. a grown ass dude.

then today, after not hearing from johny for a few days he messaged me, please love tell me only you and i. whaaaat? extraordinary. he must have sensed another man had appeared. the dude is connected in some way.

i still experience doubts and apprehension. the asking for money during sexy time, the next morning i ventured out on my own headed to picoulet and he came up on the road on his moto. he had a look on his face: less an expression of affection than concern i had figured him out. then at picoulet he wanted to have a important conversation.

i think you question to continue with me. he said,

how do you know that? i asked. well, that was wrong what you did. i think this is all a line.

he rubbed his face, it seemed out of frustration. ' forgive me.' he said finally.

later he messaged me to forget about money and only focus on the love.

then another time, when talking about his children and the possibility of bringing them to the states when they are older. he gave me a vauge response; his english wavering about how they have an advantage in haiti. i think about that conversation and how much time he hangs out in the street away from home. then i reflect on the night precious tripped out, carrying on about he's never home or doesn't spend time with her anymore (as edelin translated for me). this gives me pause that he simply is looking for a way out and to find a black american woman like me is a rare chance.

i care for him and i'm deeply attracted to him, but i'm cautious. i expressed my doubts in therapy and that i approach the move to florida as a change primarily for myself. a new chapter. whether johny gets his visa together, has the support of his father and sister, i have no control over the outcome of that. if he makes it, we'll figure it out. if not, i go on.

i'm always looking for clues it seems, i told sandra in session, to confirm my doubts. i came across a forum on marriage fraud. an american woman had married a haitian in haiti. his papers were sent to her sister in chicago. when they reached miami, he flipped. it was all a scam to be reunited with his girlfriend there. the wife was devastated, then it got worse. he got arrested on a misdemeanor and still she bailed him out. he's been trying to fight being deported saying that his wife has his papers. it was a sad story.

i haven't spoken to sherry in a month. i don't want to stress her out after the fiasco with jose's visa interview (all the bureaucracy and planning and the young dude forgot his passport). her flight wasted, his time wasted. they have to start over and wait for another interview between march - may. he was upset with himself, but i thought really mature. i know sherry struggles with her own doubts and that probably shook her resolve. i have a soft spot for young love. in some ways i'm more optimistic about them than my situation with johny. they're young, they have time. i'm going to be 50 and johny has four children.


i hink perhaps i've cracked the puzzle. johny said, after my visit, that his father was going to FL first to visit murlande, then he would come maybe september. when i  asked about this recently his voice went up and i heard the ' i only have one way. i don't give people the line.'

he plans to stay in haiti and have access to his father's land and property for financial gain and for hid children. this is likely why he never pursued coming to the US before. i suppose i was the perfect ploy to get back into his father's good graces - an educated, american sister.