Your Next Bold Move

I was walking down my block after yoga class and I knew.  My bike had been locked up right in front of my house and immediately I thought I needed to lock it up in back.  I took a few steps closer and felt it – I knew it was gone.  Sure enough, as I approached my house it wasn’t there.  It was the final sign for me.  It was time to leave.

I guess I started contemplating moving a few months ago.  I had wanted to change around my apartment – something wasn’t feeling right.  Then I gave up on that idea and opted to just not come home, staying out late, events, drinks with friends or yoga every night etc.  I didn’t notice much considering that it’s not rare for me to be hyper-involved in various activities until I spent the weekend at my parents’ house and my mother made me an offer.

“Yenni, why don’t you come home so you can save money and be with the family?”  She asked.  Last time she made me that offer I laughed and said, “Are you kidding?  We’d kill each other!” Yet, there I sat, considering it for the first time in ten years.  The stolen bike was the last straw. 

I think I’m actually mature enough to move back home with my family.  Odd as that sounds, I really think I had to go through some intense growth to be able to feel excited at this prospect. 

I left home at 18 years old.  My mother and I both couldn’t wait for me to leave the house.   Between college, travels, boyfriends, jobs and adventures I managed to move 10 times in the past 10 years, finally settling in Pilsen, where I’ve lived alone for the past two and a half years.

In the decade I've spent away from home, I’ve howled with wolves in New Mexico, trekked the land of my ancestors, endured heartbreak, and climbed rungs of the business ladder among other amazing things that continue to fill me with a never-ending thirst for adventure and a smile. Today, I find myself in a different phase; one where I’m seeking a quiet self-exploration, but without the solitude I used to prefer. 

I’ve been attempting to incorporate more honesty into my life, especially honesty with myself.  As difficult as it is for me to admit: I need the support of my family now more than ever.  In these past ten years, I’ve seen a headstrong, idealistic and independent teenager grow into a full grown woman that thinks it might be nice to not have to work so hard to maintain her autonomy.  I want to spend time with my family.  I want to save money for my future adventures.  I want to come home to people that love me and care about me especially as I look forward to an arduous yoga teacher training for the next six months.

I’m really excited about moving back home.  I’m looking forward to reading all those books I’ve been meaning to in the backyard shaded by trees.  I can’t wait to spend nights throwing popcorn at my brother as we watch the Lord of the Rings trilogy (extended version of course) in succession.  I don’t think I’ll mind the dog jumping on the bed every morning to wake me.  I’m excited about all the home cooked meals my mama will make and am definitely looking to have some deep philosophical conversations with my father about life on some long walks through the forest.

My favorite LoTR character.

I believe this stage, this layover, this stop, this step, whatever you choose to call it, is necessary, and like most opportunities that present themselves in my life I will come through this a better, more inspired, happier and more peaceful Jen.

I still, however, really really miss my bike.  

The Best Break-Up Advice you'll ever Receive

Ugh, it’s a horrible feeling.  You’re on the train heading home and you feel as though you might burst if you don’t allow those tears to flow.  You put on your sunglasses so other passengers don’t notice.  You’re stomach won’t unknot itself and you’re not looking forward to any interaction especially with your family today.  You fear one simple hug or “how are you?” will send you straight back into a tearful fit, full of heaving and choked up sounds.

You get home and all you want to do is curl up on your mom’s lap.  You don’t want to talk about what happened or all the cruel and awful things that were said.  You don’t want to admit to anyone else how hurt you are despite the fact that they can tell by your red swollen eyes.

She hates seeing you cry.  She was never the maternal type.  She showed love other ways rather than caresses or kind words.  In this family, the women are warriors, their internal strength delivering them from every evil.

She gives you precise directions on what to do next:

1. Stop crying.
2. Get a haircut.  Pamper yourself.  Buy some new shoes or clothes.
3. Go to church and pray – or yoga to meditate.
4. Clean your apartment – make it immaculate.  Throw out everything you don’t want.  Get rid of things that you don’t need.
5. Go and find a new boyfriend because “un clavo siempre saca al otro,” (one nail always gets another one out).

If this had been two years ago, you would have scoffed at her advice and thought that a broken heart was far too serious to remedy with superficial adjustments – but she’s been right too many times this year and you follow each instruction.  The pain dulls away as though someone had put ice on the wound and each day you awake with less and less.  

At some point in adulthood, you realize your parents are not just your parents, but human beings that have probably been through a lot of rough times they hid from you when you were a child.  You realize that no matter what you’ve done or how horrible you feel that they understand you more than you know. 

Thanks mom.

How To Diss a Vegan

I had spent the entire day becoming more intimate with my two new vegan cookbooks and cooking up a storm.  It was a Sunday afternoon.  I had invited my brother over for some much needed sibling time.  My brother rode his bike all the way to Pilsen from parent’s house in Schiller Park.   That’s at least 20 miles!  Luckily, I was prepared for such an occasion with a fully stocked fridge.

My brother tends to always be hungry and yet he is skinny.  I hate him.  Furthermore, I wanted to feed him considering I had spent all this time cooking a variety of different meals.

I had made lentil soup in the slow cooker, roasted eggplant with quinoa, “chicken” fajitas with black beans all of which were fresh, warm and delicious.  I guess you go kind of crazy when you can’t cook for 40 days, plus I was being squirrel-like and preparing for the week ahead.

My brother walks in and immediately I’m badgering him about what I could feed him (also, I think this is a Mexican female thing where you want to feed men…it’s weird but I digress).  We go back and forth for a while until he looks at me all serious-like and says: Jen, I respect your decision to become a vegan, but I will not allow you to subject me to this type of “food.”

Me: wha?  I mean it’s good, it’s just vegetables.

Him: Exactly.  That’s precisely what I mean.

Me: but everyone eats vegetables!

Him: You know what I ate today, Jen?  I ate like four different animals.  In fact, I don’t even know what types of animals I ate.  Could have been tilapia, could have been salmon, who cares?  Then I’m pretty sure I had some cow, chicken and pork.

Me: Wow, good for you! Murderer! (under my breath)

Him:  It’s just the way the world works, Jen.

Me: You should at least try something, I’ve been cooking all day and I know you’re hungry.

Him: I’m fine. 

He probably ate one of these too.

Twenty minutes later, I heard this popping noise coming out of the kitchen.  I walk out to see what it is and he had the nerve to make popcorn!  I made all of this delicious, hearty, fresh and healthy food and the $#*&@! makes popcorn!!!

Then he looks at me and smiles and says: this popcorn is vegan, right?

The Fast: Day 27; Here it comes: a better version of me

“So why are you doing this?”

I hear this question constantly.  I have so many answers I struggle with what to say first.  My usual quip that I’m sure people are tiring of is because I want to be like Jesus (Jesus fasted 40 days; Jen fasts 40 days), but jokes aside, Jesus has nothing to do with it.

I guess to explain fully I’ll have to go back to California in early April.  There, I experienced an “aha” moment.  I was travelling solo for a few days in Los Angeles and then later met up with my extended family and finally my parents.  I hadn’t seen my aunts in a year and a half and you couldn’t mask their reaction to me when they saw me. 

I didn’t feel well.  I was coming out of somewhat of a depression that I didn’t even know I was in from the year before.  No one said coming of age was going to be easy and I experienced some challenges that year.  My body reflected all of this.  How had it been in one year’s time I managed to gain a whopping 40 pounds?

As soon as I got back to Chicago, I started watching what I ate more closely and exercising regularly and by July I was down 20 pounds.  It was subtle and not dramatic but I felt better.  

Then in August, my coworker popped into my office to ask if I had heard of the Master Cleanse before because she was on her seventh day.  I couldn’t believe it – I had not even noticed (and we have a tiny office).  I had just watched this documentary about juice fasting and considered it a sign that it was time to get back into it.

So why fast?  Most people who know me (and those of you who have followed this blog religiously) know that I’m a very adventurous young woman; from backpacking solo adventures to living with wolves.  The same thing that draws me to do these things is what draws me to unconventional paths to self discovery.

I absolutely loathe stagnation.  I need to constantly challenge myself and put myself in uncomfortable situations to learn and grow.  I’d say abstaining from food and alcohol for a 20-something social butterfly is pretty damn uncomfortable (thank God men are not on that list).

Yes, it’s hard.  Someone told me once that there’s no point in doing anything unless it’s hard because it’s the challenge that forces you to grow and furthermore no one ever achieved anything without sacrifice.

Mountains in Oaxaca, Mexico.  I miss you.

I mentioned in an earlier blog that I couldn’t escape to the mountains of Mexico and meditate in a cave for three days so instead I’m fasting.  In the past 27 days the things I’ve learned from doing this are astounding.  I feel like a different person and I still have 13 magical more days to go.  I can say that sometimes I wake up (super energized and happy of course) and think that 40 days is too little – that I should go longer because I feel so good.  Maybe I will.

You’ll have to wait for the next blogs to learn about those discoveries and changes, but I can tell you that the Jen that was 27 days ago is no longer.  In the words of Fiona Apple: “Here comes a better version of me.”

xoxoxo

New Blog Project: Las Lecciónes de Don Jesús

The Lessons of Don Jesús

My mother called me home yesterday.  I had made plans but I couldn't say no to mole. Those of you that have had it know what I'm talking about, but for those of you that are not Mexican inclined (that is what I have decided to call all my non-Mexican friends) mole is a traditional dish originally from Oaxaca.  It's chicken in a spicy delicious chocolate sauce and though it may sound odd, it is the most delicious thing ever.

When I drove into the driveway of my parent's house I saw my grandfather sitting on the benches in front of our front door.  My dog came out to run after my car.  "Hola abuelo, enjoying the sun, it's so warm out here." I said surprised.  This is April in Chicago and the sun made it feel like June.

My grandfather has been alone since 1991 when my grandmother died.  Well, that's not entirely true- he has had several girlfriends and remarried once or twice too.  So far, his wives/girlfriends have either died off or left in some fashion or another.  I used to call him "grandpa pimp" for a while (never to his face of course).  This was even more amplified because he used to have this hat that he got in L.A. which he LOVED.  It said Los Angeles on it but all the letters were bright diamond-like stones.  He was "bling blingin' for the ladies," I'd always joke.  Now he is alone and claims he doesn't want "the drama of a woman."  This, in turn means a lot of work for my aunts.

Abuelo gets on a plane every year after collecting his Christmas presents and flies to California to spend the winter in mild temperatures while dividing his time between Los Angeles and San Diego, where my two aunts live.

He came back to Chicago about a month ago.  My mother says that he is getting older and more demanding to take care of.  "He just gets anxious sometimes," she says.  "It's more difficult for him to tolerate living alone."

It was decided that between the family we would divide the weekdays and take care of him.  My days are Tuesdays.  I've decided to take this opportunity to record an integral part of my family history.  My grandfather has a great memory and loves to tell stories once he's asked.  I learned this after he started to get depressed about getting old and to distract him I asked him how he had met my grandmother.  He went on for forty five minutes about meeting her.  He remembered everything.

Another beautiful thing has happened to make me want to record this important history.  For the first time in our family we have a male born to carry on my grandfather's name.  Mateo Joaquin Montenegro was born on March 26th.  All other Montengro cousins are girls.  Being one of the oldest cousins in the family and a writer I see this as an obligation and privilege to record my family's history.

My grandfather has had an interesting life so check back here for free lessons on life from someone who has lived it for a long time.

Family Vacation Brings up Age Old Question: "Am I adopted?"

After three days on the road with your parents you start to wonder if the marketing wordsmiths behind the term “family vacation” enjoy sick little jokes or are just huge fans of oxymorons.

“Oh no! I’m not walking there.” My mother says defiantly. “We will take the trolley.”

“Norma, that defeats the purpose of coming to a nature park.” My dad retorts.

“If you think that I’m walking in this heat, you are absolutely crazy.”

We get on the trolley.

When I was younger my brother and I used to fight over which one of us was adopted.  “I’m not their kid!  You look like them waaayyy more than I do.” We’d say.  We’d ask our parents if we were indeed adopted.  Luckily, my mother loved lying to us and so she’d invent stories about how I was sold to her by Mexican gypsies in the Sonoran Desert in Mexico.  She’d wink at my dad and he’d go along for the ride.  “Yenni, I had to buy you because of your pretty black hair,” She’d say smiling.  I’d run back to my brother screaming: “I told you so!!  I AM adopted, HAH! It's you who's their real kid!”

Now it’s 20 years later and I’m in the backseat praying to the universe that I don’t carry their genes half as much as I think I do.

“You know, there used to be a coffee shop here.  Years ago, things have changed so much.  I could have sworn that it was here.” My dad says.

“Well, dad, things change a lot in forty years…” I say trying not to sound exasperated.  This is about the 20^th time he mentions that things have changed in San Diego since he’s toured around there.  I’m losing the tiny amount patience I have.

Why am I here?  Why did I say yes to meeting my parents in San Diego and driving into the desert with them for three days?! My parents, who under normal circumstances (visiting once a week on weekends), drive me insane?  First, it’s my mother who ALWAYS knows better than you about how you should be living your life and of course she has no reservations about letting you know exactly what you are doing wrong whether it be boyfriends, jobs, makeup, clothes or even hairdressers.  Then she starts talking about the girl from the telenovela she just watched last night and all the bad things that happened to her because she didn’t listen to her mother, as though this is some sort of REAL point of reference or something.

Then it’s my father who is normally a very well intending individual except for the fact that he is convinced the world is out to get him and his social security checks.  He tries to take the little victories where he can. 

“Jen, put this in your purse.”

“Dad, it’s a packet of honey, we have some at the house and I’m not taking a packet of honey from the restaurant for you.”

Or by calling the hotel room phone from the lobby phone instead of your cell phone from his pocket JUST BECAUSE HE CAN.

Why have I, a reasonably logical and intelligent adult woman, decided to take this trip with my parents?

I realize that I’m very lucky to have the parents I do.  Despite all the writing material they give me, they are good loving parents.  They are also getting older and in great shape to still travel and enjoy life. So if I don’t enjoy them as an adult myself now, then when?  We get older and so wrapped up in our little worlds that we forget about the important things sometimes. 

This gratefulness unfortunately rarely extends itself to you when you’re sitting in the backseat annoyed that you were created by the two people in the front seats who are currently having their third argument of the day about how my father should have changed his shirt and how my mother needs to stop micromanaging his life while on vacation.  

No, you just take a deep breath and thank God you brought your ipod.

My Life as a Bear

My grandmother will be 90 years old in June. She was telling me this over the phone yesterday and I could sense her fear of turning 90 and thought about how many steps her feet have taken over the span of her life. I thought about her growing up in Cuba and Spain, getting married and having a family then watching her only son leave his country. I thought about her moving to a whole new world in Miami – leaving her country behind too.

I asked her if she ever wrote. She said she didn’t much anymore and I told her that she should write all the lessons she has learned in her 90 years down. I was hoping to someday read them and learn about my great grandmother curing colds with fresh eucalyptus leaves or about a country brewing with revolution and then struggling with despair in the aftermath.

I think it’s human nature to not know what you have in front of you until it’s not there anymore. Youth is fleeting. I keep thinking that and trying to convince myself not to waste any time and then I feel exhausted from thinking about all the things I should be doing with my life like returning to Miami, building my own legacy professionally, listening to my elders’ stories more so not to lose my own history… I start thinking about how tomorrow isn’t guaranteed and why I am not living the life I need to be living now?

I may feel like I need a pause from the madness of the unimportant things I give significance to only to realize that nothing else pauses. That while the bear wants to go into her cave and hibernate during the winter there will be a different forest in the spring. The winter may have killed away some decay, some dying trees and the newness of fresh buds and baby insects buzzing await outside the cave. Life does not give one the luxury of pausing so that you could figure out its purpose. It’s a forest of challenges you to keep moving out of necessity. The only option is movement.

I am an animal, always. It will always come back to me being that bear in the woods responding to her environment. Animals don’t have existential crises about the meaning of life – they see a branch in their path and they move past it, they track their prey and they eat, they meet someone and they mate. They take what they need to survive and then they procreate and die leaving enough of this world for their offspring to enjoy for generations to come.

For now, there is no rest, there is only movement. Eyes focused on my prey with the vision of a better world for humanity’s offspring in my mind’s eye and I take the leap.

Rooster alarm clock or the dancing deer sweater? What says I love you more?

Have you noticed that you are feeling more stressed out around these “relaxing days” more than other times of the year?  The crowded shopping malls, the angry shoppers perusing useless crap that no one would buy any other time of the year.  

Then there’s the annoying Christmas music reminding you that if you haven’t found so and so the perfect gift by now you are running out of time.  You must be thorough and consider all possibilities because she might really like that horrible sweater with dancing deer on it and of course your mother needs a new rooster clock to replace the one you got her last year. 

I don’t hate the holidays.  I’m not trying to be a Grinch or whatever else the media will call me for not buying this consumer/product love fest as the answer to the U.S.’s economic problems but I always figured that the point of these times was to hang out with loved ones have some time to appreciate what you have within your family, friends, etc.  It should be a celebration of love and taking time to see what matters but instead we’re like little monkeys looking at the T.V. screen to see what shiny new thing to buy.

Instead, I’m rushed and exhausted by walking past the gray faces on the bus as my tired shaky arms carry bags full of God knows what for people.  Why are we choosing to do this to ourselves?

I had dinner with a friend the other night and he was telling me about how this is the busiest time for a couple of his clients.  One owns a funeral home and the other is a psychiatrist.  It makes me think we have this thing backwards.

I’ve noticed that the holidays are so much less about the point.  It’s become this huge consumption oriented time of busy-ness that just distracts you from feeling what you feel, from reflecting on the year, on what you liked, what you didn’t like – things you’d like to change, things you’d like to remain the same.

In my family, the presents are the least favorite part of the night for me.  It’s the games, the food, the drinks, being with my family that is the primary joy on Christmas day.  

Cheers to those good times!  

Growing flowers to understand dying

I went to the cemetery today to visit my grandmother. While I was at the cemetery, amidst the feelings of sadness and sorrow watching my family pray over her grave, I thought of death. 

Wandering past tombstones and the ghosts of children and veterans lingering in the gray cold of fall’s first chill I couldn’t help but read the tombstones of the living.  I stood there wondering about these living ghosts’ current lives.  I wondered if having a headstone with their names on it in some cemetery was cause for them to wait for death instead of celebrating life.

To have your tombstone readily engraved while alive was an idea that baffled me.  When you’re young you don’t think much of dying. 

Beloved Mother, Beloved Daughter, Beloved Wife, Boring, Boring, Boring…what will my tombstone say?  What legacy will I leave behind?  Will I be one of the many Beloved Daughters?

To my family reading this, please PLEASE put something creative on my tombstone – better yet, put something funny.  That way when people walk by, they’ll know that I ENJOYED life and am probably enjoying death (if that is possible, I have yet to find out).

I kept praying in my mind, conversing with my grandmother’s soul, asking for guidance on my next steps in life, wishing there were some sort of manual saying, “please proceed to this destination for the next two years…”  Then something happened.  Through some odd epiphany of sorts I felt that this is it.  This is such a time of beauty and uncertainty I’m only going to dream about later when the path I’m carving through cluttered forests becomes cemented and far too easy to trace. That’s when I’ll sit back missing the wilderness of unchartered territories and missing what I have now.

I have choice now – I can choose what path to walk, what terrains to venture into or stay out of and how to do it. 

Out into the wilderness I go!

Gracias Abuela!

P.S. If I die and my tombstone is one of those run of the mill beloved daughter, beloved wife titles to showcase who I was in life I will haunt my loved ones until they change it.  So if some months after my death you experience odd occurrences such as finding your work files in your refrigerator or your toothbrush in a cereal box you obviously messed up. 

My final act will be to make people leave my grave laughing instead of crying.  How would you feel if every time someone came to visit you they just burst into tears?  Thanks for the flowers and all, but damn, is the thought of me that much of a downer? 

P.P.S. You all know how much I love all animals so you better bring your pets, I don’t care what the cemetery rules are – it’s better to ask for forgiveness than permission (Mayor Daley quote – can you tell I’m from Chicago)?

P.P.P.S. I just found out that there are elephants buried in the same cemetery as my grandmother and that little fact, my friends, made my day.  

The 20-Something Conundrum

The 20 – Something Conundrum

Ever since the New York Times article came out about 20-somethings I've been doing a lot of thinking about my generation and how we differ from our parents and past generations.

As a result, I’ve “interviewed” several peers, colleagues and friends of all generations about the qualities that differentiate Generation Y and why we are the way we are.  In addition, I’ve done some soul searching and good old internet research (how Gen. Y of me) to present the following perspective on the subject.

First, a few definitions for the purposes of this work:

Millennials, Generation Y (Gen. Y), 20-somethings: These terms refer to people between the ages of 22 and 34.  There is no clear cut definition that was to my satisfaction regarding the start and cut-off ages of this particular group.  While I may use these terms interchangeably, I am referring to the same group throughout. 

Location, location, location: These terms refer to only those 20-somethings living in the United States.  I will go more into why that is in later blogs.

I can’t help but want to defend my fellow Millenials from the constant flak and badgering we get from society and our parents from having several different careers or directions in our 20s.  The times we are living in are very different from our parents and WE are different.  Information is at our fingertips, the world is readily available to us through our phones as well as our education.  We live in a global economy, global marketplace and the simplicities of life our parents enjoyed like the flexibility of having a stay at home parent have suddenly become a luxury.

My parents came here as immigrants from Mexico and Cuba and while it may seem as though they knew what they wanted from the beginning; it’s like most things in life that take form like the telling of a story: it’s much easier to tell it once you know what the end looks like.   My mother was raised like a good Mexican woman; expert at cleaning and cooking, her purpose in life was to find a good husband and breed (This isn't meant to be offensive, my mother, like most Latina mothers, is a force to be reckoned with and she's likely tougher than you).  My father’s path was slightly less defined until familial obligations forced him to be financially stable with an eye towards the future.

They were not raised in the United States during the 90s watching Reality Bites and The Real World and listening to feminist activists like Ani Difranco and going to punk rock shows the way I was.  They also didn’t have the choices my brother and I had so they did their best with all they had to work with.  They did pretty well for themselves; putting my brother and I through good universities, purchasing a nice suburban home and travelling a great deal.

I understand their frustration with my brother and me.  They worked really hard for us to have the opportunities we have at this point in our lives and careers.  It must be really annoying to have a daughter like me who thinks settling down is something you do when you’re in your 40s. For Godsakes, I’m already 26 and God knows my clock is ticking (especially with no boyfriend, right mom)?  


My brother can’t decide whether he wants to be a New Yorker, Chicagoan or California dreamer and so he has moved from coast to coast and places in between with his career.  My parents keep hoping that we become more sensible: purchase some property, make some investments, settle down.  

It seems like the only thing we can all agree on is that our youth is this sweet elixir that vanishes more quickly than tequila at a Mexican wedding.  We just can’t agree on where or how to drink it.

Sometimes, I think I wasn’t born to settle down and sometimes when I try to, I just long for another adventure, while each one makes me thirstier than the first.  To me my 20s means I am free.  Free of mortgages, free of marriages, free of long-term commitments and maybe it’s my only shot to have my adventures.  


I don’t want to wait for retirement; I won’t have my body then, and there are no guarantees that I’ll even make it to my 70s anyway.  Janis Joplin once said, “Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose.”  I’ll have a lot more to lose when I’m older and “settled.” Kids might come into the picture as well as a mortgage, a husband and all those other things that I’m supposed to want right now, but I don’t.

My mother is constantly thinking she did something wrong in raising my brother and me.  Somehow, it was a mistake to send us to college or to bring us with her on all those vacations because we were bitten with the travel bug and now we can't stop. Or maybe we learned too much in college and expect to encompass it all in a career.

Our generation as a whole is highly educated with up to 51 percent of us having some college in our educational background.  This, in stark contrast with our parents whom only had a high school education, has helped create what I call the 20-something conundrum that is plaguing and blessing we Gen Yers.

The 20-something conundrum has to do with the paradox of choice.  The current belief system we operate under in Western society is roughly as Barry Schwartz, (The Paradox of Choice, 2005) puts it, “The more choice people have the more freedom they have.  The more freedom they have the more welfare they have.” We are essentially “paralyzed” by too many options and too much freedom that choosing a path is more difficult.  When we finally do make a decision we are likely to be less satisfied by that choice because we are too busy thinking about what could have been with other options.  A perfect example are our parents: they chose the path they did with more ease because of less choices. 

I’m sure many can relate when you’re at the grocery store and you’re in the cereal aisle.  If you had three options: Cheerios, Corn Flakes or Cinnamon Toast Crunch you’d probably have an easier time deciding on the type of cereal to get, right?  But instead there’s Cheerios, Honey Nut Cheerios, Cinnamon Apple Cheerios, Toasted Oats, Multigrain Cheerios and all of a sudden twenty minutes have gone by and you’re comparing ingredients and prices and stressed out about how this decision will affect the rest of your life.  


That’s what the 20-something conundrum feels like except the choices are between: getting a corporate job downtown that pays really well, following your dream to become a writer, actress, singer, nationally renowned cyclist, working at a non-profit and serving your community, backpacking through the Andes, moving to France and studying the language, working for the embassy in China or going back to school and getting your MBA or a Masters in English so you can go back to your old high school and put a new spin on The Great Gatsby.

It’s overwhelming, right?  We are the generation that was told as children that if we can dream it, we can have it.  Our parents sent us off to get really expensive diplomas that we were supposed to graduate with as a passport into the land of opportunity and now we are finding that it’s harder and harder to choose a path knowing what big world there is out there.  


So while I’m busy deciding whether to start my own business, get my MBA or join the PeaceCorps at 26 years old, my parents were bringing their family to the U.S. from Cuba or getting ready to get married.

For our generation, it’s not the work that challenges us, but rather choosing a path and going down it with no fear of regret that’s the challenge.   This is the quarter life crisis; this is the 20-something conundrum.  

Look for more blogs from me about 20-somethings in business within the next few weeks.

The Snake Charmer

The sound of laughing down the hall, the white walls mocking the emptiness I know and it's a look she gave me as they rolled her away and then it's a "this is as far as you can go."

I cried when we were in the room.  She said, "Esto no es nada, uno tiene que ser fuerte en la vida."  I know my tears are disappointing, "Por que no veniste ayer?  Eres un cobarde." and I know it's true - I am nothing but a coward because she is the strongest thing I know.  I saw her weakness in a needle attached to an IV and I couldn't handle it.

"We might need to remove her ovaries."  I fumbled with the buttons on my sleeve thinking about the changes my first home would undergo.  She and I were the same once: I see her in my rebellious nature, my big brown eyes, and I'm in the waiting room, but really I'm fast asleep dreaming while the doctors are removing tumors.  She hates waiting is not a patient person, overly anxious, some would say.  She conveys emotions openly and I am my father.  He's praying in the chapel and fear hides behind his calm.  He hasn't slept for days and he knows how to wait.  He retreats to himself when something is wrong; I retreat to my books.  My mother is a snake charmer that can coax him out and make him dance, but she's in the operating room and the doctors are false charmers using metal instruments to extract the bad.

There's this consistent beeping that is monitoring someone's life down the hall and the laughing in the hallway has ceased.  I am my father again, seemingly distant and cold because we are too deep and yet too easily we overflow with emotion; I cause floods.  I wear a red necklace with a stone shaped like a lifesaver that my mother gave me.  She bought it in Mexico.  I am clutching it tightly hoping it can save me.

The Savior or our Middle Class Values

From my Loyola days...I wrote this when I was about 20 years old.  It's still funny.  Not much has changed in the six years since it was written.  Enjoy.

My mother worries about our family.  She considers herself the savior of our middle class values, and rightfully so.  She makes sure we have the latest in pillowcase design, and the correct color of cushions for the porch décor.  My father thinks she spends too much money, but my mother calls it “investing.”  She thinks of each clever little ceramic house hanging on the wall as an investment.  She also thinks that having a collection of eight different glass vases is investing.  She justifies this by saying she is investing in her option to choose, which gives her a sense of freedom until the credit card bill arrives.  She claims that she rarely spends money on herself, but rather for the family.  My mother believes that we cannot lead a healthy life unless we have a brand new bright red couch in the living room to sit on.  To my mother, it is the couch that makes us young twenty somethings, not the fact that I am in college and my brother is working up the ladder in his new career, or the fact that we go out at night with friends, or even the fact that we are young twenty somethings. 

            When I was younger, my mother would make my father drive around rich neighborhoods and go to their open houses pretending to be in the market for a new luxurious home.  Real estate agents would learn our names and show us each room saying, “This room could be for Jenny; the walls are such a pretty pink and everything.”  My mother would act as if she was considering the idea, sometimes outwardly enthusiastic, “Jenny, wouldn’t you love to have this view?  Oh and we could put your dolls right here on these shelves…” It took a few weeks for me to realize that we were not going to move into a million dollar home anytime soon, but after every house my mother would say, “What did you think?  Wouldn’t you like to live in this neighborhood?  They have a pool just down the street.”

            My mother constructed her idea of success in front of us; each house was a new blueprint of her dreams for our lives.  She believed in the philosophy of teasing us with things we couldn’t have so that we would want it more.  She also believed that if she were to control the adults we would become she must start molding us early in life. For instance, my mother decided that I needed to lose weight when I was fifteen.  She feared that if I didn’t lose weight now, I would never find a nice husband.  To encourage my weight loss she developed cute nicknames for me like, “gordita” (translation: little fat one).  She thought it necessary to point out all of my thin classmates and how pretty they all were.  She would even point out young girls’ bodies at the mall and say, “Wouldn’t you like to have legs like that?”  Every week she would tell me of a new diet that she had heard about.  When she’d take me shopping she would let me pick anything out and try it on only to refuse to buy it for me saying, “Oh that style must be for skinny girls.”  She’d yell at me if she saw me about to eat a slice of cake at cousins’ birthday parties, and to spite her I’d eat it with joy, acting as if each bite was the most delicious bite I had ever had in my life. 

            It was at this age that I began to rebel.  I refused to go shopping for new clothes with her and would instead spend my money on cds.  I adopted a boyish style of dress and would plead apathy when she asked for advice on her new hair color.  She would often refuse to take me to my aunt’s house unless I changed my outfit.  Apparently, she wasn’t into the whole “punk” look.  I remember her coming home and seeing my once black hair a bright red.  She wouldn’t talk to me for days saying, “How could I have raised such a low class daughter?”  She blamed herself for a few moments, and then came to the conclusion that it was my friends’ influence.  I set her straight when I said it was all the music’s fault. 

I had fun with my mother.  I like to think of it as an adaptive trait I picked up; a reaction to my environment.  For example, after Columbine I would joke around and say, “That old trench coat in the basement hasn’t been used recently, huh?  I love the way it looks on me.”  She thought I was crazy at this time, with the music, and the dyed hair and all.  I used to make my parents drop me off at the Metro for some punk show just to see my mother’s reaction to the mohawks and tattered jeans.  I would tell her, “I think I might cut my hair like that girl,” and point to a girl with bright blue liberty spikes; the one who probably thought her hair could serve as a weapon in the mosh pit.  This was my revenge, my rebellion. 

At some point after I moved out of the house my mother and I decided that it was time to compromise.  I would try to dress decently when I came home, and she would confine her complaints about my life to one thing for the weekend, like my lack of a boyfriend, which has been her favorite for about four months now.  She believes that a woman cannot be happy unless she is dating someone, so when I come home, she assumes that I am depressed and lonely.  To remedy this she has begun to give my number to men that she thinks are charming.  Most recently, she gave my number to a 32-year-old computer technician who she thinks is perfect for me.  “He’s handsome, successful, and Mexican.  You will like him.”

“Mom, I’m only 20.”

“You’re mature for your age, and besides he’s fun.”

“I know a lot of “fun” 32 year old guys in the city of Chicago that like girls my age.  I meet them all the time, really.”

“Well, if you can do better than why are you still single?  At your age I had two boyfriends at once.  And you, not even one?  What’s wrong with you?”

Yes, conversations with my mother are always full of lessons and insightful observations about one’s worthless existence.  She masks her nitpickings with things like, “I just want you to be happy,” or “I’ll buy you a new pair of shoes.”

  My mother has molded me into the person I am today.  My mold is the exact opposite of her mold, but we meet halfway sometimes and laugh at our differences.  She makes jokes about me having a boyfriend “someday,” and I make jokes about her old house, saying, “Wouldn’t it be great if you guys moved into a huge house with a lovely garden and marble countertops with a huge kitchen?” just as she’s opening the bill from Loyola.  We find ways to understand each other, I suppose. 

My brother and me on Parenthood

George, my brother, was holding our 1 year old baby cousin when I realized what a great father he will be one day. I told him so and he replied with a thank you. We were taking our other cousin downstairs to look for a movie when I told him I thought I would make a horrid mother.

My other cousin, Sophie, was trailing down the stairs after me at that point and while I was distracted she yelled "Hey wait for me!"

Case in point: I practically forgot she was there. I'll be a typical Aquarian mother I figure: leaving the kid's toys in the freezer and worrying more about my dogs than my kids.