I will catch up with the entries. I have an taking a television writing class. I’ve been busy writing my first pilot based on a short film I wrote. I’m contemplating a fundraising campaign to film the short hopefully by the end of the year.
Grieving Mami was more difficult than I anticipated. I had six years to prepare but I was not ready. Each day greeted me with a new reminder that my mother was dead. How many times would I dial her number before I remembered she was gone? How many times would I crave her bacalao, albondigas and carne mechada before realizing that their flavor, aroma and comfort died with her.
I planned to visit my God-mother in the Dominican Republic the summer after Mami died. Consuelo was Mami’s best friend, Papi’s sister and the one responsible for their union. The day I bought my plane ticket Papi called to tell me she was dead. Cancer got her too. The rest of my life will now be filled with the regret of unanswered questions and one sided conversations with Mami’s ghost.
My grief morphed into depression. The more I tried to stop it, the deeper down the maelstrom I went. Driving on the freeway felt like an unseen hand was squeezing my throat while another one pinched my nose. I started driving on the exit lane to not add claustrophobia to my anxiety cocktail. I self-medicated with food and Netflix binges. I lost my desire to read, to hike, to see friends. I gained fifteen pounds.
My life became robotic; get up, drive to work, eat, work, eat, drive home, eat, Netflix, eat, sleep five hour, repeat.
My worse fear was that the darkness could lead me to commit suicide or get addicted to drugs even though I’ve never had thoughts of suicide or an addictive personality. A medicine cabinet full of Vicodin that I rarely used and did not know how to properly dispose of should have assured me that I would not go there. I excel at worrying about everything including things with very little chance of happening. I asked my husband and sister to keep an eye on me just in case.
A few years earlier my therapist diagnosed me with anticipatory anxiety because I always think of the worst case scenario, I need to be prepared for it, have a plan, just in case. I thought I was ready to let Mami go while she was dying but I was not prepared for my her death or the aftermath.
I am an optimist, always finding light or a shimmer of hope to guide me through difficult times. After spending half of my adult life witnessing the strongest person I knew battle cancer, suicide and drug abuse were not options for me. I knew my mother and aunt were dead but self-awareness did not make the darkness go away. Is this what the road the Cuckoo’s Nest was like? Was I, to quote Ozzy, “on the rails of a crazy train?”
I learned to function with depression. I have a hard time asking for help, in hindsight, I should have gone back to therapy to deal with the initial grief and loss.
My friend Rachel, whose mother has been dead for over a decade, once told me that you never get over the loss of the person that loves you the most in the world. She made me realize my sorrow was normal. When “the person that loves you the most in the world” dies, you are left with an emptiness that can never be filled.
I gave birth to my daughter almost three years later. My due date was on her birthday. I know my baby is a gift from Mami. She came out of my womb with a piercing cry that rippled through me like a high voltage current. The intensity of the moment made me miss my mother more than I ever had.
It didn’t occur to me to freak out the day before when my legs were in stirrups in Dr. V’s Park Avenue office. He and Matt were discussing a New York Times article while my vagina was in front of his face. This was probably the closest I’d come to a threesome, I thought as Dr. V jammed the wand in and out trying to get a better look at the fibroids outside my uterus. He looked concerned. “It doesn’t have the round shape of normal fibroids.” He said.
“Oh my God, is it cancer?” I asked, as I squirmed almost pushing the wand out.
“No, no, it’s benign it just looks different, you need to have an MRI tomorrow so I can have the results before the surgery. They may need to come out.”
We flew all the way from Los Angeles to have a laparoscopy to see if I had endometriosis, I wasn’t expecting fibroids or an MRI.
I didn’t freak out about the MRI then, I’ve had plenty of them due to my low back issues and even a brain scan when I fainted a few years before and hit my head on the marble floor due to the stress of being in a shitty marriage with my first husband and my mother’s then recent cancer diagnosis.
I was a veteran of MRIs so I thought nothing of having one the day before the surgery until of course, I got there and saw that it was a closed MRI. What kind of uncivilized hospital was this? I started to panic when I saw the thin white tube I was going into. Maybe it would be OK, it was a pelvic scan, as long as my neck was out of the machine I’d be OK but this machine may as well have been from the middle ages or the 1980s. The technician kept sliding me in and when my chest was in the machine I started to freak out.
“OK when does it stop, it’s a pelvic exam, you don’t need to push me in all the way.”
“Yes I do” he said.
“Why’? I asked.
“Ma’am it’s just the way it is, you don’t have to do this if you don’t want to”. “Yes she does” Matt said with a force I’ve never heard in his speech before. “Lucy, you have to do this , Dr. Vidali needs to know what these fibroids are doing, you have to do this, for us.” Matt has never begged me for anything the way he did at that moment.
“Ok, Ok” I took a deep breath.
“Go ahead” I said to the technician.
When he wheeled me all the way in, my eyes and my forehead were the only things out of the machine.
“I can’t do this” I said.
He pulled me out five times and then he lost his temper.
“Ma’am, I have three MRIs scheduled in the next two hours”
“Can you give me a xanax or something?” I asked.
“No, you should have thought of that yesterday and asked your doctor for a prescription.”
“Can my husband stay with me?” I could hear the man’s impatience giving me the side eye.
“Fine” he sighed, his annoyance stunk up the room.
“Just so you know, once we start, if you make me stop, you will be billed for the whole thing. Do you understand?”
I nodded like a scolded school girl. I was going to go through with this MRI, for me, for Matt and for the stupid baby we want to have.
“Keep your arms on your side or over your chest, and don’t move” I barely fit in the machine and all I could think of was my mother’s funeral, her white casket, her white dress, her laying still with her arms over her chest.
In I went as Matt stood over me, I felt his breath and told him he was too close. I focused on his Sinatra blue eyes as his tender hands caressed my hair. Tears of terror, tears of mourning and tears of gratitude flowed freely as I tried to calm my breath. The noise cancelling ear plugs were not working. Matt’s sweet voice whispered words of encouragement as the loud beeps, clanks and bangs drowned him out. I read his lips “I Love You” “You’re doing great” “THANK YOU” it was a mantra he repeated over and over as my tears cascaded down my temple. I was glad he was there because without his support I was ready to give up and forget about wanting a baby and buy a beach house in Ventura or a cabin in Big Bear.
Dear Filmmaking Workshop for Women Selection Committee:
I was thinking about applying to your workshop a 2nd time because I am starving to make a new film but the reality is you won’t accept it. Therefore, I will save myself the $100 application fee and the anxiety of filling out another basic application. I will not be applying for your fellowship this year.
When I first applied, I made the mistake of being honest in my application. I said that Allison Anders was one of my favorite directors and that her film Gas Food Lodging is what inspired me to be a filmmaker. At your open house, someone said they loved David Lynch and the collective response from the selection committee was that David Lynch would not get accepted into your film school today. I’m sure Allison Anders would not get accepted either but I submitted my application hoping my passion and my project would be of interest to you.
I was ecstatic when my friend Laura was one of the runners up. We met for dinner after her interview to celebrate her victory. I was sure she wowed you with her knowledge of Cassavetes and French New Wave not to mention the strength of her fantastic script.
She plopped in front of me like a deflated balloon at our favorite BBQ joint.
“It’s all bullshit” she said with a disappointment I’ve never seen or heard in our ten year friendship.
“What do you mean?”
She said that everything was going well, thought she had it in the bag until one of you asked what director’s success she wanted to emulate. “Who did she want to be?” In true Laura fashion, she said she wanted to be herself and then you made her name the filmmakers she admired; “Goddard, Truffaut” but the three of you shook your heads, looked at her with pity and asked her to try again.
“Think commercial success, don’t you want to be successful?” one of you asked.
“Yes I want to be successful, like Sydney Lumet, I mean he directed Serpico and Dr. Strangelove – success for me would be to direct without being pigeonholed, work in different genres.”
That’s as far as she got because one of you cut her off. “You can’t work in different genres, you need to pick one?” She knew she wasn’t getting in so she spoke her mind.
“I don’t want to pick one, I’m currently working on a comedy but my last film was very experimental. It’s hard to pick one thing when you’re starting out.” That’s the last thing she said when one of you politely ended the interview.
Your desire to turn female directors into the next Judd Apatow, are well intentioned, I guess. But you need to try harder because the films that get made during the fellowship are not winning any awards or getting into good festivals. Speaking of festivals, maybe you should take a cue from the programming department at your Film Festival. They curate a nice mix of diverse, commercial and experimental films from all over the world.
I will apply again when your selection committee has more diversity. Why are there two men and one woman judging the application process for a workshop tailored to women filmmakers? Perhaps you can expand your selection committee to include two or three programmers from your festival and at least one filmmaker, preferable a filmmaker of color.
PS – Laura directed a feature film she co-wrote, here is a link to Rich Kids.
PPS – I am going to make another short film this year
PPPS – Laura and I have kids now but we will continue to make films
I became familiar with the name Milo Yiannopoulos when he bullied actress Leslie Jones on Twitter last summer. I had a new baby and did not pay attention to the specifics of what was said. What I did read was terrifying and I felt for her. I didn’t want to imagine what it was like to be her; a woman of color in Hollywood, not a size zero, who was somehow getting all this backlash from Yiannopoulos and his troll brigade because she was one of the new female Ghostbusters and he didn’t like the movie. I am probably one of the few people who didn’t think the first Ghostbuster was all that, it had its moments, but it didn’t do it for me. Maybe it’s the nostalgia that people crave, the film is highly overrated and I didn’t understand the excitement when the reboot was being conceived or the hate that followed when an all-female cast was revealed. Had the remake been directed by a woman, I would have made an effort to watch it on Video on Demand but as a new mother, I barely had time to brush my teeth let alone watch a movie. I wanted to support Leslie Jones and the other women in the film but it’s hard to show up when you are sleep deprived.
I was bullied in seventh grade. All the girls in my class stopped talking to me and one of the boys became physical; pinching, pulling my hair, leaving thumbtacks facing up in my chair. I hated my teacher for not stopping it. Back then I was sure she knew what was going on and didn’t care. As an adult I learned that she was going through a divorce, and maybe she was too preoccupied with whatever was going on in her life to have realized the level of bullying I was going through.
I was one of two new girls in my class, everyone else knew each other since first grade. I don’t know why but a group of girls who befriended me and the other new girl decided, three weeks into the school year to stop talking to me. Maybe I pissed one of them off but there was no explanation given, there was no gossip about it. It’s as if though they got together and decided that all the girls had to ignore me.
Luckily the bullying didn’t follow me outside of school because there was no texting or social media. It sucked to be snubbed but I wasn’t devastated, I barely knew these people and I got to spend my lunchtime reading. That’s not to say that it didn’t hurt to eat alone but I had a high opinion of myself and felt superior to these girls because they didn’t like Wham!, Duran Duran or the Pet Shop Boys.
The next time I heard Yiannopoulos’ name was sometime in December when he got a book deal with an imprint of Simon & Schuster and a group or critics and celebrities called for a boycott not just of his book but of the entire Simon & Schuster corporation. My first thought was of Lilliam Rivera, a writer I’m acquainted with on Facebook and met once at a conference. Sometime last summer she announced that her debut YA novel The Education of Margot Sanchez was going to be released by Simon & Schuster in 2017.
Lilliam is from the Bronx and currently lives in Los Angeles. I met her briefly at Bindercon in 2015 and she was lovely. She was someone I could have easily been friends with growing up. The character of her book is a girl who has to work in her father’s supermarket for using a credit card without permission. I told her that I too had worked at my father’s supermarket, we bonded over that and marveled at how cool it was to talk about where we grew up on this side of the country.
I hoped her book would find a publisher because I wanted to see her character out in the world. I would have felt less alone if I had read books with a character like Margot Sanchez when I was in seventh grade. I hoped this boycott would not affect the sales of Lilliam’s book. I’m sure that like in Hollywood, sales have a strong impact on who gets hired and I wanted this book to do well so that more women of color get signed to big publishing houses.
Earlier this month, this guy’s name was again at the center of controversy again when riots broke out at UC Berkeley. He had been invited to speak at the university but was later disinvited due to the protests against a prestigious university giving him a platform to spew his hate. I’m of the belief that I’d rather have these people on public record. It will easy to dismiss when he’s being considered for a position of power to overlook his Twitter trolling because “it’s just Twitter”. I want to know who my racists are, I want their opinions challenged by smart people from the opposite side and I want a record that’s more reliable than a tweet.
This past weekend, I sat down to watch Real Time with Bill Maher, Yiannopoulos was the front of the show guest. I got the notes on my phone ready, expecting to write down my grocery list during his interview. When he came out on the stage, I was shocked at how young, cute, English and gay he was! Maybe it’s my own prejudice but I expect twitter trolls not to look like they could be friends with Harry Potter.
During the interview I learned that he was an editor at Breitbart, is openly gay but doesn’t hire other gays “because they are too busy partying and are always late”, only dates black men but yet he is a racist troll who calls himself a free speech advocate. I am all for free speech but some people seem to think that hate speech and free speech are the same, they are not.
Within minutes of his interview he was name calling Lena Dunham but Bill was very strict with him and told him he would not tolerate him bullying a member of the HBO family. Bill was firm with him and Yiannopoulos backed down which surprised me. It reminded me of something my friend Mari, a therapist, told me to do to stop the ex from harassing and threatening to hurt me.
“Tell him let him there is a man in your life now.”
I told Mari that I felt weird saying there was “a man” around when Matt and I had just started dating.
“Just do it.” She said.
I posted a picture of me and Matt on Facebook, new at the time and on Myspace, ensuring that my ex would see. I was surprised when a few days went by, then weeks with no communication from the ex.
“Now that he knows there’s a man in your life, he’ll leave you alone, it’s typical of bullies.” She was right, the minute he got wind that there was a man in my life he stopped sending scathing emails and leaving abusive voice mails. To this day, I have not heard from him.
During the online Overtime segment of the show, Yiannopoulos joined the rest of the panel and basically called Michael Nance, a counter terrorism expert, stupid and said that transgender people were sick. I was still in shock over how a gay man could be so politically insufferable. There was something in the way he laughed when he was called out on his hypocrisy. That nervous laugh was more than self-deprecation, it was self-loathing. As someone who has been there, I was able to recognize it in this guy. It made me wonder what was done to him to make him this way. I suspected some form of abuse turned him into an abuser. The way he talked about transgender people told me he had no empathy for others, let alone himself.
Larry Wilmore held him accountable, and told him to “Go fuck yourself”. It was gratifying to see the bully put in his place but he just laughed it off.
A few days after the Real Time segment aired, Yiannopoulos resigned from his job at Breitbart, lost his book deal and a speaking engagement at The Conservative Political Action Conference. None of this happened because of his appearance on the show but from comments he made on a video defending pedophilia. Is the far right so desperate they will embrace anybody and hail them as a celebrity? Why are some liberals so easily baited into focusing on the actions of a little troll instead of paying attention to the atrocities being inflicted by the biggest troll of all?
I fear for myself and other people of color in the current social climate. Yes, I’m light-skinned and most days I pass when I’m with my white husband and even whiter baby. Other times, I don’t blend and have been asked for my nannying rates. While annoying, it’s not scary for a clueless person to ask a stupid question. It was one thing to be bullied in junior high, I grew up, I got therapy, I am fine. Hopefully my daughter will never know bullying. I’m afraid I won’t know how to protect her when meanness can go viral so quickly. How do we stop cyber bullying when the current people in power are the biggest bullies of all?
I was supposed to post this on 2/24/17 but I left my iPad at work. I had not saved the latest version of it to the cloud. Instead of beating myself up about it, I let it go, what was the big deal about posting on Friday vs. Monday? I’m already two weeks behind on the #52Essays2017 challenge, two extra days was not going to make a difference I thought, until it did.
Over the weekend a woman I respect posted a picture of an art installation in a public space in her town. The post was about gentrification and outside artists/hipster art invading her community. Most people who chimed in agreed with her comment and had harsh words about the installation, myself included. “It looks like a Sasquatch trap”, I said. It got a few “likes” but something was bothering me. I couldn’t sleep that night. The next day, a friend of the artist replied to the thread and explained what the piece meant to her friend who was born and raised in the community but had gone away to art school, moved back to the community and is enjoying some international success. I couldn’t finish reading. I made myself sick. Yes, art is subjective and I stand by my opinion but no one asked me. I became one of those people who joined the brigade without thinking.
I’m usually pretty good about checking myself before replying or posting something online, sometimes I over think it and apparently, other times, I don’t think at all. The original post was not trolling, or bullying, she had a valid point about gentrification. In my way of showing support for one person, I became an asshole to another. The woman who made the original post engaged the friend of the artist in a civilized conversation, she apologized for her initial reaction. I took the coward way out and deleted my comment. That conversation was not for me to begin with, I am not part of that community.
It was physically easy for me to delete the comment. Maybe no one noticed, maybe someone did. I am going to continue to think about this without beating myself up, and consider it a lesson in progress.
Nine years ago, I was living paycheck to paycheck in a fancy Brentwood apartment complex with a nice gym, tennis courts and a sparkling swimming pool. Our apartment was typical of West Los Angeles; ample living room with a counter separating it from the kitchen, a bedroom on each side of the living room, two bathrooms, cottage cheese ceilings, itchy beige rugs and a small balcony with sliding doors outside the living room. Ours was not remodeled like the newer units and anything visible was mostly his; Star Wars posters and memorabilia were the main source of decoration with some musical instruments neither one of us played sprinkled in for variety. My books or anything that was mine was relegated to the empty bedroom/office space.
I was the only one who paid rent because I was the only one who worked. My ex thought he was going to be a rock star and refused to get a job because it would interfere with whatever it was he did during the day.
My rent then was more than my mortgage is now, granted, I live in Long Beach, hood adjacent by about four houses but it’s affordable and I get a tax break from Uncle Sam. Unlike my ex, Matt has a good job and prefers to live within or below our means and that suits me just fine. Now, I get to live well, keep money in the bank and save for important purchases or medical treatments not covered by insurance.
I like to shop, preferably on my iPad from the comfort of my Pottery Barn sofa. It was one of the things that kept me temporarily sane during my battle with infertility.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve lusted after a 6 piece, Caribbean Blue, cast iron, LeCreuset cookware set. You can get it at the outlet for around $600 instead of the $900 it costs for the more popular colors.
During the first five Christmases of my marriage, I took selfies with the pile of money I got from my bosses and parents. I arranged the bills in the shape of a hand held folding fan and sent the photos of me and my Benjamins to my sisters so one of them can ask if this is the year I’m going to bite the bullet and buy my cookware set.
Every Christmas I drove to the outlet where I stood outside the store looking through the window, salivating over cookware like Holly Golightly outside of Tiffany’s. It caused me great anxiety that I couldn’t bring myself to spend the money on something I’ve wanted so badly. I imagined the roasts and braises I was going to make and hoped I could persuade myself to make the purchase but I always walked away before the impulse to buy it kicked in.
I know how to spend money so I don’t understand why I can’t bring myself to buy the cookware. Why am I so fickle when it comes to my pots and pans? Is it that now that I can afford it, I don’t have the need to own it? If that’s the case, why do I drive to the outlet every year expecting to make the purchase?
At first, it was because I had spent too much trying to get pregnant, then I got pregnant and it was about saving for the baby. Now the baby is here and I still want it but I would be guilty for spending so much money when I already have pots and pans. Money that can be put into her bank account. I almost sent a friend to buy it for me thinking it would ease the guilt but then my inner voice told me that the fancy cast iron cookware will not make my sancocho taste any better.
I still dream about my Caribbean Blue dutch oven set. Maybe I will buy it next time I’m at the Outlet or I’ll be happy looking at my reflection in the window seeing how far I’ve come.
My husband and I have been together almost eight years. In that time, we have not exchanged Valentines cards or any other romantic sentiment that you can purchase at your local drugstore, expensive stationery store, Hallmark etc. I gave him one birthday card when he turned the big 50 because the picture was cute; an illustration of a little boy blowing out the candles for his 5th birthday. I didn’t write anything in it.
I am of the strong belief that every day is love day in our house. My friends have made fun of me because “you sound like a guy who doesn’t want to buy his girlfriends a gift”.
I don’t want Matt spending money on roses or flowers on days when the markup is double or triple the regular price. I’m also not one to go out to dinner on said occasions either.
We are practical people who choose to show our love, respect and admiration with our daily actions.
- A good morning text letting each other know we’ve made it to work, that now includes “Bebe has been dropped off” or “Bebe has been picked up”.
- A kiss before I leave for work, a kiss when he comes home, a kiss before bed. We still text “I love you” throughout the day.
- He does the laundry, cleans the kitchen, vacuums the floors and yard work. I clean the bathrooms, living room, bedrooms and Swiffer the floors.
- He lets me sleep late most weekends.
- He takes my car to get oil changes
- I cook
Matt has always been generous with me. It was easier for him to surprise me with presents when I lived alone in a sparse apartment. Our first Christmas he spoiled me with a sound system, a television and PJ Salvage pajamas. I was pretty broke from my divorce and I didn’t have much money, I got him socks and a bike helmet.
Once we moved in together and my financial situation improved, we didn’t and still don’t do much in the way of gift giving to each other. Our idea of a perfect Valentine or birthday gift is to drive out of the city and going for a hike. This year, our Valentines present to each other is the bathrooms remodel and of course, our baby.
By the end of the relationship with the ex I had collected two banker’s boxes worth of cards. They are sorted in folders by the years we were together and organized by month in each folder. The ex gave me two sometimes three or four cards for every occasion. New Years, Valentine’s Day, St. Patrick’s Day, Easter, my birthday, Halloween & Christmas. Each card contained a manifesto of his love for me and I reciprocated in kind. At first out of giddiness and then out of obligation. He would spend hours shopping for the perfect cards and additional time writing bad poetry and long letters. Reading these love notes became exhausting because there’s only so many ways you can say I love you when you think you’re a good writer but in reality your writing is full of adverbs and words you looked up in the thesaurus. Maybe it wouldn’t have been so taxing if he had treated me better.
As the years went on, the cards were often riddled with “I’m sorry for [fill in the blank]” followed by his justification and then blaming me for his behavior. Towards the end, I stopped giving him cards and stopped reading his cards.
After the divorce, I couldn’t throw them out. The boxes are somewhere in my garage. I’ve often toyed with the idea of stringing them together and making an exhibit out of them. I have fantasized about curating other love notes from abusive relationships and sending them out on a tour; Boxes full of love letters, remains of an abusive relationship.
We will be remodeling the garage in the next year. I don’t know what I will do with the cards when I come across them. I have no interest in reading them, I don’t want my daughter to find them.
We spent Valentines Day weekend shopping for tiles and fixtures for one of the bathrooms we are remodeling. This should have been done before the job started and not in the demolition phase. Little did we know that if you want nice things you can’t just go to Lowes or Home Depot and pick out what you want and have it delivered the same day. They don’t stock the good stuff advertised on their website so you have to order it without looking at it and hope what you get is up to par with what you saw online. We took a day off from work, left the baby in daycare and went to the designer showrooms, they also don’t stock merchandise, but you can look at the floor samples and order from the manufacturer. Everything I pointed at took at least three weeks and was way over my budget. I asked for the local manufacturers, it still would take seven to ten days but the price was much cheaper and delivery was free.
Matt and I didn’t agree on a lot of things but we found a middle ground and are happy with what we purchased.
A house remodel, a move, having a baby are all things that can put stress on a relationship, especially if said relationship is rocky to begin with. I moved twice with the ex and each move nearly killed me. Matt helped me move from my first apartment post-divorce and we’ve moved twice in the time we’ve been together. While moving is stressful for me, having Matt by my side made me less anxious and it was nice to cuddle with him in our new home. We didn’t argue while we packed, our relationship didn’t suffer, unlike the moves with my ex.
The bathroom remodel came about because a local contractor we both liked became available at the last minute. The house was a mess, I was at my wit’s end trying to keep the house clean and then life threw a curb ball at me with the remodel literally taking place the day after I posted my essay about the reguero in my house. I had no time to prepare and I said “fuck it, I give up, I’m not in control. Once this remodel is done I will hire someone to clean the house.”
We are almost done with bathroom number one and will be moving on to bathroom number two sometime next week. We will be using this three day weekend to shop for bathroom fixtures, tiles and a vanity for the master bathroom. It was not an ideal way to spend Valentines Day but I’m going with the flow.
Having a supportive partner is the only way a control freak like me can function when life interferes with my plans. The best present Matt has given me is his support in everything from my writing to motherhood to a house remodel. I don’t need cards, I don’t need fancy dinners or things, I can get those myself if I want to. The security of living with someone who has your back is to me, the most generous and priceless gift one person can give to another.
To be Continued.