How High Can Rocks Fly? (Part 1): We don’t know what to do.

I’m watching TV while grading exams.

Actually, I’m watching TV while sitting near exams that need to be graded.  It is a show about people fixing up houses and I just want to watch it all the way until the end and see if this mess becomes a home.

 It’s hard to tell if these particular people are especially stressed by logistics of demolition and construction or whether the TV cameras and production crew are making them nuts, but they are cracking under the pressure.   

They spent way too long on decorating projects and are especially stuck when trying to install a single wooden shelf in an otherwise empty room.

“Oh no! Noooooo! Wait ....no! This won’t work!” One says to the other as they almost install the shelf, measure something, then halt their efforts.  They mumble at each other, exasperated, then one turns to the camera and says, “We need a 2-foot board.  I bought one that is 30 inches. It just won’t work. We don’t have time to go buy a new one. We don’t know what to do.”   

The show cuts to commercial with a big truck landing in something and splashing water at camera and I turned the TV off.   I hope someone helped the poor people figure out how to use a saw. 

I’m ready to grade exams now.

But first I have to get the answer to a question that I don't know how to ask. 

(continued*)

Love, Money, Things to Do

My earliest memory of Abuelo is him saying “nariz!” “nose!” “ojos!” “eyes!” “cara!” “face” – I must have been all of four years old, sitting on an itchy red blanket, trying desperately to please the man who greeted me at the airport with a secret bag of M&M’s that I didn’t have to share with anybody.

His Spanish lessons didn’t fall on the most fertile soil because I also learned from his visits and from our many visits to relatives in Miami that that Spanish was the language of adults. Spanish was the language of stories “I wouldn’t understand” and things I shouldn’t interrupt.   My Spanish was (is) so atrocious (despite passing college Spanish) (despite passing PhD level reading comps in Spanish, y'all) that my Abuela – whose English was broken at best – begged me to only speak English to her.

So maybe I didn’t learn Spanish from Abuelo.

I learned other things.

I learned to be useful. 

Abuelo came from Cuba to the US in the 1930s and went to business school in New Orleans then returned to Cienfuegos to join his father in the almacen he owned. For most of my life I thought “almacen” meant store but when I returned from my first trip to Cuba with pictures and asked why his store had no windows he explained it was a warehouse. Abuelo’s father bought barrels and large lots of things like oil and flour and turned them into smaller sized offerings which they then sold to smaller rural stores out of the city.   

With their profits the family joined the Cienfuegos Yacht Club and built their dream home in Playa Alegre. With all that said, Abuelo was clearly a member of the capitalist class that Castro targeted for elimination.

 I knew when Abuelo fled from Cuba in 1960 during the time that businesses and properties were being nationalized under the reform laws. He started a small store in uptown New Orleans where the family worked and lived until the second time an armed robbery convinced them that being a small business owner right there and then, was an unacceptable risk.    Risky financial situations were not OK for a man who had in the last four years lost his father (heart attack), his business and his dream home in Playa Alegre, Cienfuegos.

Risks like “staying open after being robbed at gunpoint” were not OK for a man responsible for supporting a family in New Orleans (wife, three kids, and Cuca, who is family we can’t explain, and also cooked) and the family he left behind  which included his mother Emilia, his unwed sister Lourdes, his sister  Josefina (whose husband was in jail) and her four kids JulioJose, Teresita, Eduardo, Miriam.

When he left in 1960, everyone expected the “Castro situation” in Cuba would end quickly.

It did not. 

Abuelo worked at GE (General Electric) in the mail room for 20 solid years of his life.  I have heard family rumors that once upon a time he received mail sent slyly to GE that he brought home and was meant to forward to a friend who would whatever whatever and it had to do with the Bay of Pigs. But my young uncle, 5 or 6 at the time, opened the letter and I’m still not sure how the story ends with it being resealed or Abuelo meeting with the CIA handlers he never told me about.  

I admire that he chose to be useful, even in that small quiet way.

I don’t blame Abuelo for retiring as soon as he hit his 20 years with GE.  He lost everything twice and kept going, collected his pension, left New Orleans and moved to Pompano Beach to be closer to his daughter and his sister Josephina who escaped Cuba with three of her children.   To this day I cannot imagine the torture they faced in leaving her other son Julio Jose  -- who was of military age and couldn’t leave – behind.  He joined us after the Mariel Boatlift 1980, but that’s for another story. Stick with me here.

Even after retirement, my Abuelo could not stop working.

He had to be useful.

 He worked in our family hibiscus farm, he clipped articles and advertisements for corporations, he volunteered at hospitals and never stopped taking care of his family in Cuba.

The hardest years of his life were the ones that came after Abuela jumped into the sky in 2007.  It wasn’t unexpected but it was a shock to the root of his being and he spent the next ten years yearning for her, yearning for his mom, yearning for somehow feeling home again.

Hard times and increasing challenges didn’t stop Abuelo from working.

 In his last years he was too frail, too exhausted to continue his 40 and 50 hour week volunteering at a hospital. He could no longer safely drive, no longer safely handle getting and sorting and counting his medicine and dealing with housekeeping alone, and reluctantly moved to a gated community full of active and also much less active and quite invisible “older Americans.”

 I’m not sure but I think he might have been the first Cuban guy there. I did hear from a most reliable source that when he was served lasagna and he said it was “la mierda” and the staff giggled and thanked him for teaching him how to say lasagna in Spanish. So there’s that.

In his last years, despite degenerating eyesight and arthritic hands, Abuelo was driven to contribute, driven to make money, driven to win the lottery, driven every day to get up and do something good.   

Abuelo made pictures.

He didn’t paint them, he didn’t print them.

No. That would cost money and cut into his profit.

He was an entrepreneur, not an artist.

 For hours and hours and days and weeks and months and years, my Abuelo flipped through page after page of glossy magazines and catalogs tearing out the best pictures. 

After that he would  place the pictures in one of many assorted consignment-store-bargain frames my mom brought him.  He then sent boxes of framed pictures to nephews and daughters and friends who offered the framed picture for sale at flea markets and etc. and brought Abuelo back envelopes of cold hard cash.

I cannot tell you exactly how or where or even if the hundreds and hundreds of framed pictures sold, but I can tell you this: Abuelo never ran out of two things: love, money, and things to do – clearly a legacy worth emulating.

July 4, 1994

(Originally published July 4, 2006)

The next 4th of July that stands out in my mind was in the early 1990s, before I got married.

I was home from gradschool in Tallahassee, but it wasn't a real vacation because was completely paralyzed with with heartbreak.

It had gone on for about six weeks, and my parents had no reason to believe this holiday would get me out of bed, dressed, eating, happy.

Somehow my mom got me to go to the store with her.

Getting out of the house was a big deal because I was completely and ridiculously obsessed with being fat, with looking fat, with how I looked and how certain I was that I was not fit for human eyes. I didn't want to leave the house only to be viewed, discarded, seen and scorned.

I was probably over-the hill, turn-the-corner-to-crazyland delirious from starving myself for months. Eating disorders are only funny if you don’t have to live with one. I was paralyzed and suffocating. Not writing at all.

My mom and I bought some sparklers so that we could entertain my grandparents that evening. At least that was her story then – now I see that her real game was to get me moving, back on my feet, functioning again.

As we were pulling out of the parking lot, a truck in front of us took off a bit too quickly, and a big brown box slid out of its flat bed.

Mom said “get it!” and a surge of curiosity and Scarface-like intrigue gave me sudden burst of courage to jump out of the car, grab the box & toss it in the trunk.

Roman Candles. A big box of them. More fireworks than I’d seen in my life.

We aren’t poor, but fireworks – especially the ostentatious kind – are sorta a waste of money,

That night we had a wonderful time – my parents, grandparents, me – running with Roman Candles in our own personal Olympic relay around the poor. Dancing with them (everyone was sober, so it was ok), laughing with them.

Abuelo got out an American flag and BB gun, and he and I marched around the pool on patrol.
My dad took a bunch of pictures of the whole event.

Have you seen them? I’m wearing a peach shirt with a navy collar.

I still think look great in those pictures, not too skinny, too serious, to lonely or too sad, like people kept telling me.

Summer School 26: We Belong Together

(Portions taken from my book,  Prayer of the Laughing Yoga Frog) 

The next week the professor tried to put the Laughing Yoga Frog out of her mind. 

Well, she kinda tried, but mostly she talked about the frog to her mother to her daughter to her students to her friends and imitated the pose the best she could much to their entertainment. 

The professor was so enchanted by the memory of the Laughing Yoga Frog that she googled it to see if she could sneak a peek at it online.

She tried "Yoga Frog" and "Laughing Frog" and "Cracker Barrel Frog" and "Most Amazing Happy Frog Ever" but nothing she tried brought an image of anything that came close to the amazing Laughing Yoga Frog. 

As life would have it, the next week she was hungry for eggs again and found herself at Cracker Barrel again. 

The professor went straight to the section where the frog had been and there it was, still standing still and quiet in tree pose laughing, still balanced, still patiently waiting to picked up and brought home. On top of that, the price had been slashed 30%. 

The professor stood possessively in front of the discounted-yoga-frog for as long as she could, but when her name was called she raced right up to the front, hungry and thirsty and ready for eggs. 

When she finished her meal the professor paid quickly and left the store racing past racks of books on tape and recipe books on things like how to use Coca-Cola in amazingly American dishes. 

She didn't take a single last look at the frog, not a peek. 

It's easier this way, she told herself, explaining to no one that she did NOT want to become someone who had frog statues in her front yard. 

In her heart she wished the frog a great life and then kept going, as quickly as her cute Jessica Simpson nude colored patent leather pumps with peek-a-boo toes allowed her to move, past the row of old fashioned rocking chairs, past the oversized table with the oversized checkerboard, into her car and onto the highway. 

The next week the professor again couldn't stop thinking about the frog. 

She googled it (nothing) she tried to draw it (no, too flat, too cartoonish) and then finally stopped and sat herself outside to be extra extra extra quiet. 

What is it I'm supposed to be learning from this frog the professor asked the universe and the answer was silence, silence and more silence. 

Am I supposed to jump like a frog, she wondered, but that didn't sound right. 

Maybe I'm supposed to work on this pose she thought and of course that was the answer so she got right into Tree Pose. 

She stood straight up on one leg, tucked the other foot above her knee making a right triangle. 

It was hard to hold, she fell out of it, laughing. 

Again she tried to hold the tree pose, to be like a tree, strong, silent, balanced. 

Again she fell down, laughing. 

Over the next week she worked on her tree pose over and over and over, telling people they should try it, they should try it and try to learn to be like a tree - solid, quiet, flexible, strong. 

People nodded and changed the subject. 

Morning after morning, night after night the professor tried to stand like a tree, to stand like the frog and keep her balance while looking up to the sky, to the universe and each time she tried she fell over, laughing. 

The next week again the professor had an overwhelming undeniable craving for eggs. 

She tried an Egg McMuffin but it felt empty. 

She tried Village Inn but it felt heavy. 

She tried to cook at home but it felt rushed and cold. 

Finally she made time and a date with a friend to go to Cracker Barrel proclaiming to the world Oh my GOSH I come here too often! 

She marched right to where the frog was and it was gone. 

She waited in front of the moon pies and orange soda somberly and waited for her name to be called. 

The professor ate her two over-medium eggs quietly and bitterly. 

They seemed rubbery and wet and tasteless at the same time. 

The bacon was fat and limp. 

The biscuit was hard and flat and doughy; none of the jellies even sounded good. 

Her diet coke tasted flat and weak. 

After a few minutes the professor gave up and just put her fork on the plate, realizing 

she didn't even know what she wanted at all anymore. 

When the professor approached the counter to pay, the extra friendly brown aproned cashier asked if everything was OK. 

Yes, yes, fine, she muttered in response then despite herself blurted out, I was just wondering about this Yoga Frog you had and maybe you have some more in the back? 

The cashier looked at her for a second with a blank face then pointed to the back of the store. There's still one sitting there. It's out of its box, I think. I'm pretty sure it’s the last one. 

The professor spun on her heels and quickly weaved through a crowd of slow moving people with large purses and bags, marched past the dice games and around the pile of gifts celebrating each branch of the Military, and looked exactly where the cashier had pointed, right there facing the bathroom, doomed to smell cinnamon apple candles read cute signs like “Don’t Judge me Until You Walk a Mile in My Flip-Flops." 

There, planted like a tree was the Laughing Yoga Frog, now 80% off on clearance. She carefully picked the frog up, cradled in her arms and said silently to her heart, to the universe, to whoever was listening, I hear you. I don't know why, I don't know what for, but it's clear we belong together. 

####

When the professor brought the Laughing Yoga Frog home she thought she would put it outside by the rose bushes, jasmine and fishpond where it would be a glorious center to a meditation area. 

She put it down, surrounded it with rocks and stepped back. 

The otherwise jubilant frog disappeared into the foliage small and lost, a point of joy dimmed into nothing. 

No, no this is all wrong the professor muttered then put the frog on her mantle. 

There, you will inspire me every day to be quiet, to be prayerful, to be happy and balanced like you. Perfect. 

The frog looked a little bit better there next to the flat screen TV, but because it was up so high no one could really see it's prayer and appreciate its balance. 

One day as the professor was packing her laptop into her shiny red faux-leather sack on the way to work she looked up at the frog and thought to the frog Hey! Are you happy there or do you want to come with me? 

The Laughing Yoga Frog didn't protest so the professor carefully picked her up and brought her to the car where -- just in case, you can't be to sure, you know -- she placed it in the passenger seat and strapped the seatbelt carefully around it's delicately strong pose. 

Once she arrived in her office the professor put the yoga frog down on the corner of her desk, unpacked her computer and turned it on. 

 She sat back in her chair and looked around for a suitable place for the frog to pose. 

Over there was a line of frogs the professor had rescued from her mother's house, frogs who were being evicted in a purgative house cleaning. 

The yoga frog was larger than the other frogs - the Puerto Rican surfer frog, the bank frog, the frog with the sapphire eyes, the two frogs melted together in a tango - like the Statue of Liberty placed among kindergarten play dough creations (no offense to the other frogs she thought and quickly then laughed at herself). 

The Laughing Yoga Frog wanted to stay on the professor's desk, right there by the pile of lucky rocks that sprung from the center of the earth and although they couldn't walk, couldn't talk, had no free will, here they were offering themselves up to the endless line of students who came to talk to the professor -- and now her frog -- about Andrew Jackson, the Cuban Missile Crisis and other such professor stuff. 

Over the next semesters the ever changing pile of rocks that visited the professor's desk and watched the frog do her yoga before leaping into the hands of students included blue lace agate for healing, crazy lace agate for balance and laughing; rose quartz for harmony and love; Amber for luck and success and to remember that sap was once running and then slowed down, so slow it transformed into art. 

One day the professor received an email that a student died. 

She wanted to turn her computer off and walk away from her office, her rocks and the Laughing Yoga Frog but instead she brought her laptop to exams and took pictures with each and every student as handed in their exams and received their lucky rocks. 

This one is for freedom, this one is for insight, this one helps you let go of beliefs that no longer serve you and don't help you become who you are intended to be. 

No matter how carefully the professor counted rocks when she went to buy them the professor always ended the semester with twenty or thirty rocks that refused to let themselves be picked, and instead insisted on being returned to her office where they could stay with the Laughing Yoga Frog.

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If you are enjoying this story about former students, I hope you will consider supporting a current student, Marvin Cristopher Blanco https://www.gofundme.com/ydb92-marvins-kidney-transplant