AMH 1050 FINAL EXAM STUDY GUIDE

AMH 1041 - Final Exam Study Guide *

Spring Fever in my Office

Spring Fever

Ten-fold Commandments

When I pick her up from school at carpickup, her mood shifts quickly
from affectionately happy to stiffly indignant.

"Mom! Friend X had gum with her today and I asked her for a piece. A
piece!! And do you know what she said?"

I don't answer, but I know.

Still I raise my eyebrows and turn my head her way slightly,
silently encouraging the story.

"Mom! She said no! I couldn't believe it. No!?4 So I asked her if she
knew about the Ten Commandments, and she said no, so I told her about
the one that whatever you give you get back ten-fold."

I turn the car down our street and then aim it at the garage,
involuntarily but quietly giggling at the failure of my home-church
curriculum.

"Mom? Stop laughing! Why are you laughing? Nevermind. Just listen.
So Friend Y interrupts us and tells me to stop trying to trick Friend
X with all my 'smart talk' about things. And then Mom! She says that
everyone knows the Ten Commandments were just made up. Mom? Can you
believe that? Made up? They're real. They're history. Made up?!"

Zoe exhales her frustrated conclusion.

I shake my head. "Third grade sounds tough."

Zoe nodded, got out of the car and slipped back into her usual happy
mood.

************************************
sent from my iPhone

No Teeth. No Hair. All Laughter

Delicate Loss

Dear Tooth Fairy,

Yes it's me again, and yes you still owe me $7 for covering you the last two times, but that's not why I am writing tonight.

I'm sure by now your Tooth Radar has alerted you that Zack lost  another front tooth today.

This particular tooth died a lingering public death in the front of my sons mouth, then suddenly
disappeared.

I suspect he ate it, though I can't imagine how he the boy who won't touch anything that touched a pickle could have distractedly eaten a piece of his own body.

So let this note substitute for the tooth you will not find under his pillow.

Thank you in advance for your consideration of this delicate situation, and for not requiring me to comb through his poop to produce evidence.

Sincerely,

Zack's Mom

Ps- I have less than $2 in cash in my purse, which I locked it in my car (and explains why I'm sleeping with the keys in my bra.) Stop taking my money. I mean it.

A Delicate Letter to the Easter Bunny

(From 2010) Dear Sir or Madam,

(really, which is it? because at the Mall you were wearing an awkward calico vest that could've gone either way...)


Thank you for everything you do to spread Easter cheer. I'm sure it can't be easy to balance a big sack on your round back and then fill baskets with your tiny non-thumbed paws. I hope that you have a lovely night tonight, and that you absolutely don't forget to bring me Cadbury Creme Eggs. 

But enough of the formalities.

I'm writing to bring your attention to a delicate situation.

 Last year we had an unfortunate incident where a malted-milk-egg looking sphere turned out to be a less savory gift from you.  

Thank goodness the dirty muddy tracks leading away warned us to not sample the chocolate-looking treat.

I'm writing to ask you to please wipe your paws off and take care of your "bunny potty needs" before breaking into our house tonight.

If I had any clue how you got in (a window? sliding glass door? the fireplace? from the TV screen?) I would leave you a nice towel to clean yourself off, but as you can see,  I'm clueless about your magical bunny ways.

Happy Easter!

PS - Please give both kids the exact same amount of the exact same things in the exact same colors and flavors, or my day tomorrow will be a sugar filled day of holiday fighing hell.

PPSS -- Please , please, if you have room in your big Bunny saddle bag, PLEASE bring enough candy so I can bring leftovers to my students --  I probably won't have their exams graded for Monday and I want to sweeten their bitter disappointment. 

Dumb Bunny

So being good Americans, we decide to be PREPARED and DRILL for tomorrow, identifying any weak spots or issues in our egg hunting strategy.

While I was writing a long letter to the Easter Bunny (asking nicely that s/he doesn't poop in my house again this year), the kids hid the 28 dyed eggs that have lived in our fridge for about a week.

I find all the eggs -- the one under the cow that looked like he was pooping it out; the ones in the window sill and under the sofa; the ones inside the folds of the blanket (already crackled and falling apart).

So then it was my turn to hide eggs. I found the juicy spots -- behind Barack Obama, in front of the bookcase,  among coloring books, on chairs.

And out they raced, throwing elbows.

He cried, she found more, he cried, she helped him.

The final tally? 16 eggs for her, 11 for him.

We kept looking.

Was the last egg by the Wii? under the coffee table? behind a sofa leg? no?

I did the only thing I could.

I called the Bunny Hotline. (My dad)

When the menu came up, I pressed option #2: "Finding Lost Eggs"

Warning the Bunny he was on speakerphone, I asked, "Please use your magic bunny powers to locate a missing egg. Um, not hidden by the offical bunny, of course, just a practice egg..."

"HI" he said in a squeaky chipmunk voice that barely disguised his New Orleans 9th Ward accent.

The kids laughed.

"Bunny? Where is that egg? Can you help?"

"HI!" he said again, in the same loud squeaky tone.

The kids laughed again.


"Bunny? Can you help me?"

"HI!" comes from the phone, again.

The kids laugh more, and Zack took the phone and said, "Hey? Are you a dumb bunny?"

I cover my mouth in shock, then whisper, "We don't SAY that!"

"HI!"

Zack walks away, continuing his interrogation.

Zoe, thinking maybe it was Papa on the phone, picks up the landline and calls her grandfather.

He answers her call with "HI!"

She laughs and the three of them embark on a three way conversation which I slip away from, trying to get back to my writing deadline.

Then I hear Zack shout,  " HEY, I FOUND IT!" followed by a scuffling noise and "HEY, THAT's MINE!"

They race to me and she wins because he trips and quits, laying on the floor crying.

I step over him and pick up one of the two abandoned phones.

"Papa? You there?"

He laughs.

"I shouldn't have hidden eggs today. Bad idea, huh?"

After a minute he says, "Dumb bunny."

And -- stepping over the chaos and crying and general craziness that comes with kids before every holiday -- I get back to writing.

Exam Day Supplies

Pen, keys, $100 bill

It Was All Great Until...

Nothing starts at the end except really good stories.

So let’s go back to the beginning.

Once upon a time, it was 1994.

I was 25, teaching Latin American History at FSU, had finished all the coursework for my Ph.D., and very very anorexic.

Students who knew me then, later told me that they were distracted by the fact my knees were wider than my thighs.

That’s the thing about anorexia. People are fascinated by it, they admire the courage it takes to starve.

I think they also wonder if maybe it’s something else making that person so thin.

Cocaine, heroine, speed. Maybe for some people it is.

But it wasn’t for me.

I couldn’t afford any of that stuff.

All the anorexics I ever met in eating disorder groups, or at the gym, have been fireballs of energy. Our secret? Caffeine. Diet coke. Tea. Coffee. They all hit you MUCH harder on an empty stomach.

Anyway, so there I was, the first day of classes.

The first day that I would be teaching college, all on my own.
My syllabus, my roster, my assignments, my room.

When I did a walk-through of my classroom I saw that there were no map tacks to hold the map of Latin America up on the chalkboard rail.

The map tack situation was very urgent, in my little world.

I took myself on an excursion to empty classrooms, planning to “reassign” a few map tacks to my classroom and found a whole bunch in a corner room of the first floor in Bellamy Buidling.

I reached. I stretched. Jumped.
Chalkboards don’t look as large when you’re a student. Now that I was right in front of one, it seemed ten feet tall.

Finally, I pulled a desk to the chalkboard and stood on it.

That’s when I noticed my audience.

He was there. With his friend.

Maybe they thought I was laughing at myself, but I wasn’t. I was laughing at them, because I caught them checking me out.

Men!

The redhead looked familiar, and I was feeling bold. Warm, powerful.

What went through me wasn’t an impulse. It was more like a command.

I needed to talk to them. So I pointed at them and beckoned them over.

God help me, it worked. They came over.

We talked. His friend left, he stayed.

We exchanged phone numbers, made a date.

I think he looks at this as the worst mistake of his life.

The beginning of the end of his happiness.

He recently told me that his life was better than fiction before he met me.

Ouch.

Eye Contact

Really, I don't know.

It could be an option, it could happen, but I don't know.

For most of my adult life I have thought about it, but not in specifics, just in vague warm satisfying generalities.

"Yes," I'd say.

"Yes," I'd think.

"Yes, definitely, yes, I'd like to see Cuba. I'd like to see it some day.... " and then the conversation would meander and land where it was headed anyway.

And now, things might be changing.

OK, yes, they are changing, but I'm still standing in the same place, my arms crossed, mercilessly biting the inside of my lip, not exactly sure what to think.

Now that it really might be an option, I'm not sure if I'm ready to visit Cuba.

With my heart? OK, yes, undoubtedly.

In books? definitely.

But to really travel there?

Actual eye contact?

That, I cannot imagine.

Still, people ask me.

Today it came up in casual conversation.

He (a grad student) was excited; he was ready to party in Cuba, speaking only English, of course.

I shook my head, our conversation to brief to bother with a polite white lie like "yes, of course I'd love to go to Cuba... How are your Finals coming?"

No, I spoke the truth.

"I'm not ready. I need a warm up..... Maybe I could start in Santo Domingo.... um, they filmed Havana there, so that's something... and after that, maybe, if I need to, San Juan. And after that, if I STILL had time, I might go to Cienfuegos, or the city of Trinidad. I don't know.....Well, actually, I'm going to see my Abuelo in South Florida, and HE is my Cuba. I mean, if he were in Cuba, I'd go find him there, but he's here -- we're all here - and I'm too thankful to ask for anything beyond how great things are right now. You know? (silence, pause, this always happens when I speak my mind )Anyway, How are your Finals coming? Oh, wait, but the way, I have this GREAT idea for my students to earn a little end of the semester cash...."

4 Artists

3 Writers and a Photographer

Feliz Cumpleanos, Abuela Mia*

Querida Abuela Mia,

History doesn't repeat itself; the same thing never happens twice, but here I am, for the second time, telling you happy birthday after I already know how the circle of your life so perfectly closed itself when you jumped into the sky.

Honestly, I don't even think I need to write anything to you because I feel the twinkle of your laugher right next to my ear one hundred times a day.

Since I have nothing to give you -- besides my laughter, companionship, and some stories you'd rather I'd write in Spanish anyway jajaja -- I have a request for you.

Yes, a request, it's a new tradition.

This past December I gave Zack a scooter on MY birthday, so I've decided to proclaim it tradition to GIVE on our birthdays, and so yes, I'm asking you for something.

Your daughter and husband still sit together under the coconut tree in the backyard, feeling the silence of your absence, and wishing (sometimes in silence, sometimes with their actions) for time to move quickly backwards or forwards.

Can you please shake a coconut down on them today, maybe scare them a little?

I know they'll know it was from you (maldita), not from me (sinverguenza).

Te quiero*

The Sign, At Last

In my mind he is still the dark haired confident dimple faced baby cousin toddler I fell in love with in 1976.

The last time I sat and talked to him, I think, was back in December, the week that Abuela jumped into the sky.

He was there, I am sure he was, in our circle of unmatching chairs under the big coconut tree in Abuela's backyard.

He was there, one of us, sipping wine, watching planes go by, telling meandering family stories. It is still odd and weird to me that he is bigger than I am, but I have forgiven him for that.

Three weeks ago, after sitting under the coconut tree in Abuela's yard on a warm late summer Saturday night, he was in a terrible burning accident on I-95.

Several surgeries later, he is still in the burn unit.

I can't be there, which doesn't mean I don't think about him every day. In a pause between grading and cleaning and all the little unmemorable things that fill my days, I tape three poster boards together write a happy greetings to him across them in my finest Melissa-calligraphy.

I notice a silence in the room, and feel my children standing next to me.

"Wow, Mom." Zack barely whispers, overcome with awe.

Zoe nods in agreement. "Mom, I can't believe you can write such beautiful words."

I smile, then remind her, in my best artist accent, "Zoe, your Mommy is an artist. You have seen her beautiful paintings ....yesssss?"

She shakes her head, "Who told you they were beautiful??"

I look up from my poster, shocked and almost hurt.

She is laughing.

Now that she has my attention, she reaches for a pen, "Can I add some color to this?"

I say yes, and step back, grab my pen and -- after weeks of self-imposed exile in the desert of silence, punctuated by only the tiniest clouds of laughter-- start writing again.

First Day, Last Day, and So On

For many years my uber-competitive super close Cuban-New Orleans-South Florida family has played a competitve ongoing game attempting to be the first wish each other "happy first day of (insert name of the month here)"

This changed, radically, when Abuela decided to jump into to the sky on December 1.

http://laughingmelissa.blogspot.com/2007/12/happy-first-day.html

Since then, we've all limped along, hollow and determined, alternately crying, laughing and staring into the sky.

So today, I sent a new text message to my inner circle, hoping maybe I'd start a new trend.

"Happy last day of August!"

My mom replied "You got me!" then filled the rest of the lines with with news of where our Cuban-New Orleans family was dispersing to during yet another hurricane crisis.

She ended with "I miss Mami."

I texted back quickly with the words that ran across my heart, "Me too. It's like a love tatoo on my soul - welcome but not enough."

Then the tears came in their usual silent tidal wave.

I walked away from the children who were watching the Simpsons, and took off my glasses, blinded by my own tears as I tried to load the dishwasher.

My phone buzzed from its nesting place inside my bra. http://laughingmelissa.blogspot.com/2008/08/abundance.html

It was Mom, texting me back. "You have the soul of a writer."

I know, I know, I thought.

She's been telling me that since I was four.

I don't want that soul today.

The words are too sharp, too bright, too much for me.

I reached for the strongest thing in the house -- Benadryl allergy pills-- and take two.

Hopefully the words -- and the feelings behind them -- will be just a little quieter, if just for one night.

Death by Boobs

There are three zones inside my bra, spaces not taken by the actual designated bra occupants.

Zone #1 is to my lower left.
That's where the cellphone goes.

Zone #2 is in the middle.
That's where keys (and sometimes money) go.

Zone #3 is to the right.
That's where lipgloss goes.

So today, at a birthday party for 4 year olds, my phone is in it's usual Zone #1 and I get a call.

It's not great news, a friend had a computer stolen. After a short talk and a text, I shut the phone off and return it to its warm nest.

The group of sweating parents keep scooting our chairs, leaning into the elusive shade, sweltering in the mid-day July humidity of a sunny windless afternoon.

I reach into my bra for my phone, which doubles as a clock, to check the time and gauge how much longer until I can dive into a cool shower and finish grading exams.

The phone stays dark, even when I hit buttons.

I click, tap, and shake it.

Nothing.

I turn it on, turn it off, blow on it.

Nothing.

Later, at home, I get one call. The screen works fine, I know who is calling, but I can't answer it.

The keys don't work.

It is quite dead, or at the very least, stunned and unresponsive.

This phone has walked with me through about 15 crazy months, but I am not attached to it because that is not my nature.

Already, I imagine writing its obituary -- Cause of death: smothered by boobs.

Zack, Balloons, Karate, Boobs

Video 7/11/08
http://laughingmelissa.blogspot.com

Circle and Chair

It's been a hard day, she finally said, after our conversation weaved through safer territory.

M* dreamed about Tata last night.

She came to her in a dream, young happy and vibrant, and told her to stand up for her.

And then she looked for me, to get me, and then turned around and Tata was gone.

She cried, and cried.

I listened to her painfully and bravely recount, process and release the story.

Not all of our conversations are this somber, this raw.

Sometimes we talk about children, books, random little things.

Other times our stories pull us onto jagged cliffs of memories and longing.

The mourning has not ended, it ebbs and flows, crashes and abates.

I cannot harness it, it is too big, so I ride it.

Last night, I dreamed about Tata, and she dreamed about me.

In our dream, I opened the sliding glass door and lead the kids to the backyard.

Tata was out there with a group of women standing in circle. I didn't recognize any of them, but I didn't mind that they were there.

Tata stepped away from the group that warmly surrounded her in her own dream -- her mother and sisters? her childhood friends? -- and walked towards me.

She didn't say a word, but her eyes were laughing, as she pulled a chair from the table, carried it to the middle of the yard.

Certain that she had my undivided attention, Tata sat down and playfully mocked me in a most-familiar way by making exaggerately feminine and ladylike gestures -- crossing her legs daintily, dangling her hands over the arm rests, fixing her skirt over her knees and brushing off invisible lint off her body.

As I smiled at my Tata loca sitting regally on her chair-throne right in the middle of my yard, she gestured Vamos! at me.

She cocked her head in a personal challenge, daring me to entertain her.

I shook my head.

I had to feed the kids, do laundry, and generally be a Mom (this is a dream, remember?), no time to stand around and play.

Maldita! I said to her, shaking my finger mockingly at her arrogance at appearing and commanding me.

She understood, immediately and completely, our heads nodding a unison of unspoken affection.

And then, after just barely enough time but more than I'd asked for or hoped for, Tata stood up and walked back to the circle of women.

Off she went, back to the magic of her now-eternal dream, leaving my chair and my yard and other parts of me and this world invisibly emptier and quieter.

Mother's Day 2008

(Subtitled: Death by Chocolate)

It is 11:30am on Mother's Day, and already I have filled 8 large bags with yard trash, done dishes and tried several times -- unsuccessfully -- to watch the episode of *Carrier* I Tivo'd on Friday night.

I call Abuelo while soaking Zack in the bathtub.

Abuelo answers on the third ring, sounding sad. Still, we find something to laugh about.

He and I have a long history of playing well together over the past 39 years.

We have had hundreds of hours of long talks about Cuba, money and God while soaking stamps, sorting coins, eating ham sandwiches, feeding ducks and fishing off short piers.

My Abuelo and I have always genuinely liked each other, and since Abuela left us, we have grown even closer in our grief.

Today I call to tell him to tell me Happy Mother's Day, and to report to him that since the kids haven't made me my surprise Mother's Day breakfast, I am refusing to feed them.

He thinks I'm kidding, and laughs.

"I'd bring YOU a big piece of chocolate cake & a glass of Coca-cola for breakfast," I tell him.

He laughs more. "Would you believe I had a piece of chocolate cake already today? And two Hersheys bars?"

I believe it.
I have known the man my whole life.
He is a sweet man with a sweet tooth.

Still, I pretend to be shocked.

"Keep eating like that, viejo mio, and you won't live very long!"

"I've lived long enough. I want to go see your Abuela now, and if eating chocolate speeds it up..."

We both laugh.

He speaks next. "I love you, Melissita. I mean it."

"I know Abuelo, I'll see you in a few weeks."

The kids grow impatient for my attention again, and I'm pulled back into my Mother's Day, washing the multiple Zoe-penned tatoos off Zack's milky white body, still hungry for my surprise breakfast.

Abuelo and I, both sniff a little bit while saying our goodbyes in Spanglish.

Later, while slipping a dryer-warmed robe over Zack's soapy smelling, shivering body, I make a mental note to mail my Abuelo a big box of chocolate.

Tandalea

It is about 10am.

I have already had a long day, and after a ten minute break sitting outside listening to Spring and soaking in sun, I am standing in front of the dining room table about to tackle a huge stack of essays.

My cellphone rings.

Dammit.

I consider completely ignoring it, but since Zack has had those symptoms lately, I can't take a chance of missing a call from his school.

I find the phone hiding under my gym bag.

It isn't his school.

It's my Mom.

I answer.

Hello?!

I have a new NAME for YOU! Tandalea!

(The name rolls off her tongue, ending with laayyy-yah)

Um, thanks lady, but I'm not shopping for a new name today...

Tandalea, (she repeats) don't you LOVE it?

Candelea? Princess Lea? Que lea? Que fea? I don't know.

It starts with a T like Tata. T-a-n-d-a-l-e-a, isn't it beautiful? That's your NEW name!

Mom, you already had a shot at naming me, you can't just suddenly revise it now.

She laughs. I didn't know about Tandalea back then... but now I do!

Fine. Whatever. Thanks for giving me something to write about today. Are you going somewhere?

Yes to a meeting. The airport meeting.

Well, have a very nice time, give them my best.

I will, I love you Tandalea!

I love you too, Tita Loca ~

*****************

Minutes later, while I type the story up, my phone rings again.

Again, it's my mother.

I answer the phone "Tandalea!" and she laughs. "What? WHAT!? What do you WANT from TANDALEA?"

((I keep asking what, interrogating her through her laugher. There are days when Tita's voice is ragged with grief.
Now that she's laughing, I'm sailing this kite of a conversation through every wind I can.))

Why do you DARE interrupt the famous and important Tandalea while she is trying to write?

When she finally is able to catch her breath, Mom reminds me that I haven't told her how Zack is.

He's well enough to be at school today! The Doctor isn't calling it asthma, but he gave me all these pamphlets and some websites to go to... oh, and I have to buy the nebulizer today and these ampules. We'll call the Doctor on Thursday to let him know how it's going.

You told me that yesterday.

I know. Actually, Melissa told you. Today I am Tandalea, it's like everything is new...

(Again, she laughs. Just like she used to.)

I love that name! It's like Condoleeza, so memorable.

Memorable, indeed. Now Tandalea really has to go grade essays....me voy!

Goodbye Tandalea!

I think, in that second after she spoke but before the phone went dead, I heard my mom laughing into her Blackberry, smiling into the sun.

Tata's Shoes

Last Easter
my Abuela
Tata
wore her shoes
to Easter Mass
in America
just like she has
so many times
since leaving Cuba
so many years ago
with an incomplete
goodbye.

This year
Tata's shoes
and some of
her other
favorite things
are in Cuba
without her
going to Easter Mass
on the feet of
others
we love.

And in that,
we find
the smallest
glorious
peace.

History: April 10, 2000

I walk into the classroom exactly one minute after lecture was supposed to begin.

They know, because it is the end of the semester, that I am always early. I have told them to worry about me if I'm late.

As I turn the overhead on, I can't lift my chin to acknowledge them.

That day, I had no "guess what" story, no quizzes to hand back.

Just a single sheet of overhead projector transparency onto which I'd xeroxed both Marvin's obituary and my letter to Marvin.

I flicked on the light, adjusted the focus, and stepped back, arms crossed, leaning on the wall.

Within about two minutes

Hello*

All the good stuff is at  http://laughingmelissa.blogspot.com


You can reach me at melissalaughing@gmail.com

Merry Christmas: Faith, Hope & Love

FAITH
************
Ay Abuela,

My senses deceive me.

They tell me you are gone.

I can hear you,
but then,
not clearly.

I can see you,
only right around the corner,
just gone.

I feel your laugh,
but then,
I don't.

My body tells me you are gone,

But my soul knows better.


HOPE & LOVE
*************
Ay Abuela,

I never prayed in my life
the way I prayed
during the last hour
of your life.

Could you hear me?

Has God told you?

I was pleading with Him
to give you
the hope
it would take
to let go of your body.

God said yes,
and you exploded
into eternity,
leaving us so grateful
for your love.


***************


Felicidades!

Sister Candy

I remembered the first day Candice walked into my class.

Regal posture, long black hair, intense Cherokee eyes.

To top this off, she was wearing a red shirt which only exaggerated the power of her wisdom, courage and -- who am I kidding here? --- womanly curves.

Throughout the semester, she made nothing but A's. High A's at that.

Still -- Candice felt the anxiety so many thirty-something-mother-students are gripped with, and visited me often in my office to get clarifications on notes and readings.

That's where we laughed. Hard.

We're from different worlds -- I'm Cuban, from big cities; she's Cherokee and German, from Lakeland, Georgia, a smalltown outside the small city of Valdosta -- but we have the same laugh, the same curiosity, the same loyal devotion to just a few things.

Our talks turned more serious this past October when we both were tortured with mammogram craziness at the same time. We cried, hugged, giggled and encouraged each other. Just as it should be, right?

Then today, Candice showed up at my door before an exam, no makeup on, teary-eyed. Her grandmother had passed on, too. The same week as mine. We shook our heads in amazement.It's like the universe is serving us challenges from the same script.

But then Candice threw a curveball. She just found outher sister died, the one her father had before he met her mom.

Tears of rage, sadness and exhaustion streamed down her face as she opened her arms, "She's gone. Just gone... and I didn't know her...."

I looked at the clock over her shoulder. Three minutes until I had to give a final. No time for resolution, no time for deep questions. I hand her a tiny but wise and mind-opening book, and tell her I'll see her soon.

Because I will.

I know I will, Candice, because - in case you haven't noticed - I'm your sister, too.

And I'm right here, now, laughing and crying with you.

Forecast: Peaceful Waters

Mom loses her voice under stress.

Which is fine, because she has her blackberry.

This also fine because it means that people can't call Mom and constantly ask for updates on Abuela's conditions.

Being a PR/Media specialist, Mom has found a way to manage this situation.

She's issuing written updates to my father whose job is then to stick to his script and disseminate the statements by phone.

And of course, there is a protocol.

First, dad calls Abuela's other children, Milly and Vincent.

Then he calls my brother Winn. A

fter that he should call me, then other cousins.

The noon update, today: "She continues to deteriorate."

This is a particularly meaningful and appropriate analogy for a family who resides in South Florida and New Orleans.

I imagine Hurricane Abuela, once a category 5 storm with a well defined eye and winds of over 200 miles per hour, downgraded to a category 1.

Then a tropical storm.

Then a disturbance.

Then peace.

About those Keys

(Required pre-reading column: Abuela)

So Sunday night I didn't answer the phone.

No surprise to anyone, really, because I didn't really talk to anyone all during Thanksgiving Break.

Maybe I was still dealing with Beth's suicide, maybe I was tired, who knows.

I just know I sat still in a shadow, unreachable.

I didn't answer the phone when my brother called.

He and I love each other alot. Very much.

We love each other in the "only need to talk once or twice a year" kind of way.

The last time we spoke on the phone was when my dad was in the hospital back in June.

I didn't answer the phone because I just knew it was something not so good.

Finally someone got through to me.

Abuela was in the hospital.

Cardiac ICU.

No, don't come down yet.

Just stay in Tallahassee, wait.

Great. So I did stay here.

And I made up my own rules.

If I couldn't go down there, then no one could call me with bad news.

Not until after 5pm, after teaching, after lecturing, after I was a grownup all day.

Then, of course, I'd be ready to handle it.

On Monday I threw on my lucky airport dress, and taught my AMH 2020 class then took a field trip to FSU to lecture on Teaching College History.

On my way home, I called my mom and talked to Abuela.

She sounded tired and distracted.

Of course, she's a celebrity in that hospital, probably getting foot rubs and extra morphine.

Lucky her.

I told her I loved her and that I'd see her when I drive down with the kids on December 18.

She laughed and told me I'd better bring down the keys, soon. She's ready to drive.

I think -- although I don't want to -- that I understood her, completely.

Abuela

(Originally written June 2007)

My grandmother comes from a particular class and culture in Cuban history where women were not permitted much freedom.

Girls always took chaperones on dates, lived at home until married, knew how to embroider and play the piano.

Such a cultured and protected woman could expect a fine marriage with a Papi-style husband, one who works hard, cheats only when he's out of town, takes care of all the money, and -- of course! -- drives his wife wherever she needs to go.

After fleeing Cuba for New Orleans, Abuela had to take streetcars to work in a cafeteria where no one else spoke Spanish.

Later she carpooled to work with her married daughter to a job a downtown lab where she stained and read pap smear slides.

In all these years Abuela has never ever learned to drive.

Many times over the years she's gotten angry, gotten scared, gotten some backbone and threatened to go to driving school.

When Abuela was about 75, I offered to teach her to drive.

Heck, I taught my brother, I'm pretty relaxed, and hey -- this is Dad's car anyway -- why not?

Abuela said no.

Every time I came home for vacation, for holidays, for whatever, I'd shake car keys in front of Abuela.

"OK! Vamos!"

She would laugh and say "Ay! Si! Vamos!" but she wouldn't get up.

For years Abuela has continually refused the joy and privilege of learning to drive from me.

So about two years ago I started to threaten my Abuela.

Here is the story I told her.

I'll wait until she was completely deliriously old and frail, then I'll ask her to drive me somewhere.

If Abuela says she doesn't know how to drive, I'll make up some wonderfully accurate and descriptive stories about all the places in Cuba she's driven me.

Abuela will then feel a sudden burst of confidence, snatch the keys from me and we'll be off.

Of course, when she actually does drive she'll kill herself, but that would be *fine* because her brain was expiring anyway.

Abuela and waves her hand at me, "Psssssht. I'm not afraid to die. I think it will be fun."

So when I went home this past week, I made sure to wave keys at Abuela, reminding her how much I love her.....

French Fries and Spiderman's Daddy

We met in the parking lot of the Burger King.

Deb jumps into my car and for no good reason, we order huge amounts of french fries.

I eat mine one at a time, no ketchup.

She neatly fishes out groups of three fries, then paints a wiggly line of ketchup across them.

You know this is all about nothing. They just want one more picture of my breasts because they're so perfect. And because my health insurance is so great. That's all.

She nods, nibbling at her next bundle of fries.

We talk about almost nothing, passing time until heading to the radiology center.

She slips back into her car, I follow her.

The waiting room is unusually full.

We take seats in the way back corner, our backs to the wall, observing the room like we own it.

Two little boys dressed as unmasked Spidermen play under a table.

A teenage girl is doubled over in pain while her mother ignores her and makes small talk with a woman dressed in a horrible orange pumpkin-festooned sweater.

No one over the age of five should own anything with a pumpkin on it. Pumpkins are not fashion statements.

We agree.

Besides that, I can't talk.

I can't read.

I'm just smiling, waiting for it to be over.

Melissa Soldani?.... Melissa Soldani?

The radiology tech is not wearing pumpkin scrubs or pumpkin earrings or anything silly, which I take to be a good sign.

We're in Room #4.

She points at the door while holding a stack of xrays.

Take off your top, slip the robe on, let me know when you're ready.

I step out from behind the curtain.

She's holding up a film with pictures of my right breast, which is crazy because the whole reason I was referred was because of my left breast.

There is no small talk, no little questions about what I do or how many kids I have.

Slip your right arm out of your gown and hold on to this bar.

I follow directions, allowing her to plop my right breast onto a clear platter.

Before lowering the top of the machine, the radiology tech palpates my breast as though she were looking for either treasure or landmine.

Here it is. Feel it?

I reach over with my left arm.

Yes.

Wow.

I felt it, restraining my own surprise.

She takes an image, opens the machine and repositions it.

Before settling me in again, she steps back, holds the film up again, and again I can see a big white something that shouldn't be there.

She inserts an attachment that looks like a magnifying glass onto the mammogram machine, then compresses again.

This time I wince.

I know it hurts. That's because it isn't moving. Just hold your breath.

It's over. I get dressed.

The radiologist will be in touch with you within five days. If you don't get a call, you'll get a letter, OK sweetie?

I nod, slip out of my robe, back into my bra and shirt.

Deb is in the waiting room working on a grant.

I sit down in my same seat, sliding back so that my head is against the wall.

She can see I'm not about to talk. Or drive.

I saw something. There is something. I'm sure it's not a bad something, but it's a visible, palpable something. Wow. And I don't want to talk about it because I know it's nothing.

Deb organizes her stack of papers, looks at her watch.

I'm not ready for Halloween. I don't have candy or anything... What time do trick-or-treaters start?

I look at my watch. It's almost 5pm.

Oh, let's get OUT of here. You have to go buy candy. Sometimes they start coming at 6pm.

What are you going to be again?

Barb and I are going to wear cute outfits, drink wine and hit on the helpless and confused Daddies.

I angle my legs so that the muscles pop more defined, then twist a lock of hair in my fingers, pretending to talk to imaginary trick-or-treaters.....

Hi Spiderman's Daddy. Can I see what's in YOUR bag?...... Hello Snow White's Daddy, that's a really hot beer belly you've got going...... Whoo-hoo Ninja's Daddy, did he learn those moves from you?

She laughs.

We walk back to our cars.

After giving me a hug, Deb stands back and shouts I LOVE YOU!

I know she does, but I'm concentrating on something far more important.... remembering to throw away the Burger King bag before I get home.

All There Is

So this is how it happened, Thursday afternoon.

We got caught unprepared in a small rain shower, ducked under a tree, leaned against a large rock and watched the black-socked tourists go by.

My phone rang.

It was a Tallahassee number I didn't recognize, so, because I wasn't really available to talk, I let it go to voicemail.

I showed her my phone, and she agreed it wasn't a cellphone number.

We shrugged together, and waited to see if there would be voice mail.

Beep. The front of the phone lit up.

I flipped it open, turned on the speakerphone, and we both leaned in to hear.

It was Becky.

The radiologist would like me to come back.

Please call.

I frowned at my companion.

I thought I was completely out of the woods when they didn't call back Tuesday, the very next day.

OK, when they didn't call on Wednesday, I only thought about it a little.

By Thursday morning, I wasn't thinking about it every second of every minute.

And now?

NOW they call?

The day before the presentation?

Before Halloween Horror Night?

Before Epcot Food and Wine Fest?

Fine. Whatever.

I called Becky right back.

This is Dr. Soldani, I just got your voice mail.

Hi! Good. How about tomorrow at 2:30?

No. I'm out of town.

Monday at.... 10:15am?

No, I can't cancel class. It's World War 2....

How about Tuesday....

I cut her off. I'm only available from 3:00-4:45. That's it. That's all I can do.

OK,. (I hear click, click, some whispering) October 31, 4:05pm.

That's fine. That's perfect. Thank you.

I look at my friend.

What did they say? Why do they want you to come back?

I didn't ask.

I held my hand out to confirm that the rain had stopped.

Are you going to cry?

Me? Cry? No. But I'm going to feel this. For just a few minutes I'm going to let it go completely through me.

She stood still.

It was clear I didn't want a hug, a pat, any sort of silly pep talk.

After a few deep breathes, I lead us out from under the tree.

This is all we have. Today, here, this. Now. This is all there is.

She nodded.

And it's pretty damn great isn't it?

We continued meandering around tourists, stepping over puddles, laughing at nothing in particular.

Nerves of Steel, Purse Contents, Magazines

This morning I woke up, well aware of the date.

Monday, October 15.

The day of the mammogram.

I heard from a good source that women who forget to wear two piece outfits to their mammogram end up wearing one of those hospital gowns that allow gentle breezes to waft up their sacred Brazilian rainforest.

Forewarned, I have dressed for battle in my 2-piece red suit, the one that shows my curves in a I'm-too-powerful-to-have-anything-wrong-so-don't-cross-me way.

I have my rope pearls on, ruby ring and brown crocodile print pumps with dainty bows on the just-subtly-rounded toes.

Into my matching crocodile print brown bag I've stuffed:

• 7 tubes of lipstick, lipgloss, lip shimmer and lip glass because it's IMPOSSIBLE to match a red suit in changing light...


• 2 protein bars, just in case my appetite returns


• $3.35, excavated from the bottom of my red purse.


• The pink prescription form from my gynecologist, with it's generic stick figure drawing of a woman's drooping breasts, providing a field for physicians to sketch in any "suspicious areas."


• The checkbook, in case there is a co-pay. And also, because I have promised myself I can buy Boston Market chicken soup and a bottle of Francis Ford Coppola's Rossi on the way home. I may or may not do this, but in the meantime, I'm unapologetically allowing myself to imagine it soothing me.


• The lucky silver egg that I bought in Austin


• My brown-pink-and-teal striped journal


• very engrossing book which I decline to mention here

Yes, a book.

I hate waiting-room magazines especially ones targeting women, warning them to clean & decorate their house (cheaply and quickly!), lose weight (quickly!), teach their children manners (quickly!), fix their marriage (because that's a woman's responsibility!), and -- after home and family are all safe and perfect --- figure out what they want to do in life.

Whatever.

I already live my dreams, and the only magazines that helped me get here are the ones that published my articles back when I was taking baby steps toward finding the writer I'd buried deep under shame, pain, and habit.

That was years ago, in my own dark ages, before I realized that my writing gives me nerves of steel.

So this afternoon, while I'm standing there alone in a cold room, breasts squished between unforgiving metal, that's what I'll be thinking of.

Nerves of steel.

Living my dream, today, tomorrow, and every day.

The Big Squeeze

If I could do it again, I might have folded the referral sheet and tucked into that pocket in my purse where I stuff things I can't handle quite yet, but I need to have handy for the moment my courage surges back.

But I didn't.

Today when home, while the kids were rummaging around for afterschool snacks, I taped it up at eye level on the side of the refrigerator.

It took less than 15 minutes for Zoe to see it, read it, and ask me what was going on.

"Oh that? It's for my mammogram." Damn, why didn't I leave it in my purse?

"Your WHAT?"

"Mammogram. It's where they use a special machine to squeeze your boobies and to make sure everything is OK."

She gasped and held her imaginary breasts. "Will it hurt?"

I don't answer.

It hurts now, deep in the pit of my stomach.

Thinking about it makes me flinch, the pain more emotional than physical.

My breasts have been good to me.

I can't imagine them being part of any sinister plot to shorten my life, take my hair, challenge my virility.

"It's no big deal. If it does hurt, it'll only be for a minute. I'm tough, right? Plus, if there is anything wrong, I can get NEW breasts!"

She gasped in mock excitement. "How?"

"You know Aunt Milly? She had breast cancer and she got two new boobies AND a tummy tuck. You can ask HER how they make new ones."

I smiled and locked my teeth together, waiting for Zoe to lead the conversation.

To change the subject would raise her antenna.

To lead her deeper into this than she can understand would be dangerous.

The girl would be googling "double mastectomy" within hours, and parents from school would be calling us to discuss Zoe's "anatomy lessons" in the playground.

Zoe smiled at me, looked down at her unopened bag of doritos, and -- I imagine -- considered whether spending time on this with her mom would be as satifying as a rerun of Full House.

"Well, we girls can talk about this later."

She spun on her heels, disappearing to her room, content and secure.

Perfecto Amor Equivocado

By noon, the worst was over.

Whatever it was, it hit me hard, and as I sat on the sofa hugging my pillow, I didn't have the mental energy to watch last night's The War from PBS. It would be too loud, too bright, and I know WW2 so intimately that I kinda wanted to watch something a bit more upbeat than the Anzio campaign.

So I went to On Demand and found a wonderful, wonderful movie that was shot in Cuba, "Perfecto Amor Equivocado."

Set in modern Cuba, this story centers on the life of a famous writer, his gynecologist wife and his professor girlfriend. From the first scene I was completely absorbed by this intelligent, smart and funny film which reminded me of *Love, Actually* and *Four Weddings and a Funeral.*

Of course, those films are all set in the UK, a culture and background which emerges as an enchanting character in both films.

Modern Cuba -- beautiful, sparse, hot -- cradles this film and steals a few scenes. I know my Cuban History and I know that the US has had an embargo on Cuban since 1960. What I could never imagine was the impact this apparently the ongoing long-term embargo against Cuba has resulted in a bra shortage on that beautiful island.

Everywhere, every scene, happy women wearing clingy shirts gesticulate dance and generally go on with their merry lives completely unashamed of their jiggling communist breasts.

Shameless, truly.

Just wait until Castro dies and Victoria's Secret opens in Cienfuegos. These women can then know the glory of perfectly set -- and well behaved -- good freedom-loving breasts.
Probably the most amazing part of the film was the utter lack of technology -- especially communication technology -- in modern Cuba that cut deeply across this film, exaggerating the gulf between our cultures.

For example, the (hot professor) girlfriend doesn't know what time the writer's plane is arriving, therefore she calls his house repeatedly, and repeatedly hangs up until he arrives home and answers it himself. That's a little crazy, and very very 1955.