When the Smoke Clears...

Her daughter has failed her in all the important things.  She is doomed to spend her life alone because she cares nothing for finding a husband.  In fact, she’s completely contrary to the idea of dating.  You can tell – look at her boots – they are old and worn and she’s had that dress for years…  Her hair is never done; she dislikes makeup and what God gave her just isn’t enough.  How will she ever marry if she can’t even get the basics down?

What a failure she’s produced!  She, after all, gave her children everything and to see them now; worse than penniless beggars, they care nothing for a better life for themselves.  What selfish spoiled brats after all she’s done for them – how can they not want the same things she wants for them?  How can they not do everything in their power to please her?

Her daughter knows that she’s nothing more than a series of measurements to her mother.  She is her salary, a husband, a dress size or in the least a good car as proof that she’s lived a good life.  These measurements become less and less important and she sits quietly through the explosions at home, smoke thickening more and more each night, waiting calmly for an approval that won’t ever come.

They both think the other just doesn’t get it, yet they understand each other all too well – it’s more of a disagreement of what constitutes a life well lived.  To her mother it’s a white picket fence, 2.5 grandchildren and a secret vengeance so her daughter will know the hell she was put through.  Her daughter couldn't care less for illusions of happiness or material success people tote around like trophies. 

She’d been so ashamed to admit how bad her devaluation had been through the years and all the damage done, but she works through it.  The tears each night come not from what she’s endured but a silent sadness for the blindness of her mother.  She knows the way you treat others is a reflection of how you treat yourself and she can only imagine how bad it’s gotten.

Oh, but she is so much like her – if you watch closely.  She was born with that killer charm and knows how to work a room with that type of joy that’s infectious.  She can’t sit still and carries around her fears in a metal locket; the one where she turns into the type of woman who takes her pain out on her loved ones; the one who’s black and white vision can never invite all the gorgeous color in or the one who can’t quite relinquish a control that was never there in the first place.

They are stuck together for life.  The mother, who only expects to be disappointed and the daughter, who’s only escape lies in seeking transcendence, sit together at the table.  One’s inflamed and angry and the other is finally learning to sit still through the turbulence.

They look each other in the eye because they are both still willing to try.  Where there is love, there is hope.

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.

The Yoga Project: Calming the Monkey Mind

I was going strong having done yoga for 13 days straight but I was going crazy.  I hadn’t been able to see my boyfriend or friends for more than a week (and I live alone – so when I say going crazy, I mean it literally – all work and no play make Jen Jen cray cray).  I was getting home at 10 each night and leaving by 7:30 a.m.  I felt exhausted.

It dawned on me that the point of yoga isn’t to drain your vitality but rather to replenish it.  In conclusion, I’m planning on doing yoga as much as I can without burning out or losing the point of this exercise which was to integrate more yoga in my life and develop a regular practice.  That being said, I’m planning on practicing at least five times a week or so.

Now that the technicalities are out of the way, let’s get to what it’s been like on the mat for the past couple of weeks. 

I’m learning and relearning so many things like what it is to really breathe or how to sit up straight to remembering promises I made to myself as a child that are no longer useful to me.  Engaging in a yoga practice so aggressively (bet you never thought you’d hear yoga and aggressive in the same sentence, huh?) is no joke.  There are days where I just can’t get with it – the teacher says left and I go right, my downward dog looks like a pathetic panting puppy and I’m not feeling so zen towards my instructor. 

Then there are other days where practice seems to flow so gracefully.  I do a pose I’ve never been able to do before.  My breathing stays consistent with my movement and shivasana (corpse pose) feels as though I’ve entered into a magical realm between dreamscapes and reality while conscious.

Last night, I would not allow myself to enjoy my yoga class for whatever reason.  I was having a really off night.  During these off nights I feel as though I learn the most about myself and my old thought processes and patterns.  For instance, you decide you’re good at hip openers but bad at core work so you avoid the core work and at some point you realize that you are deciding it all and not allowing yourself to be open to the experience.  Instead of opening up, you then become your mother’s voice in your head telling yourself that everything you do sucks and that of course you’ll never get into the poses that the tiny girls right next to you get into and of course you’ll never be strong enough to sink that knee fully into Warrior pose then you REMEMBER.  You remember that you’re in control, and that you love yourself and your body and are thankful it can take your knees halfway in warrior and that you can get into that one bind that you couldn’t do last week. 

Yoga reminds me of Aztec danza – for every step to the right there is a step to the left and they call themselves warriors, not because they participate in bloodshed, but because they battle themselves in the danza.  I often feel as though I am battling my mind on the mat and I wonder: which half will win tonight?  The overly critical dark half that leaves me wounded and crying or the compassionate light half that allows me to feel the joy within my body and accepts me always as I am.

More to come on my yoga journey.

Namaste

Why I Really DO Love My Solo Life

What the hell does it say about me when my friends send me articles like this:

 

 “Lol-this article made me think of you: Ladies if You Want to Pick Up, Wait Until You're Ovulating."

  

I guess the advice is useful and from an evolutionary and genetic standpoint, it makes sense, but WHAT exactly do my friends think of me if articles like this remind them of me?

I went to my parents’ house a few weeks ago. We went out to eat and afterwards my mother decided that we should go to the huge statue of the Virgin Mary (Virgén de Guadalupe) to pray. I’m not one to pray to Christian relics (read more here), but she’s my mother so I reluctantly sat on the bench with her looking at the flowers, candles and souvenirs: the physical embodiment of heartfelt prayers left at the Virgin’s concrete feet.

I watched my mother’s face as she focused hard on something. I asked her what she was praying for thinking that maybe her cousin’s passing had weighed heavier in her mind than I had originally thought.

She turned to me and said, “I am praying that you find a husband soon.”  

Oh.my.GOD!!! I didn’t know whether I should burst out laughing at this statement or take it seriously and thus take a more sensitive approach. I couldn’t hold it. I laughed. Hard.

“Yenny, you know that this is how Juliana found her husband. Her mother prayed and prayed to La Virgén and now look, she is getting married.”

“Oh, I thought she was getting married because she’s seven months pregnant, but I see your point, it must be because La Virgén willed it.”  

“Yenny, la Virgén makes miracles happen.”

What the….?!?! Me finding a boyfriend is not a miracle! Oh dear God, is it? Maybe, considering the shitty dates I’ve had lately. Well, in that case, I guess I used to be a little miracle machine – like for more than 6 years of my life and I can tell you it didn’t feel THAT miraculous.

I had a conversation with some single friends of mine regarding everyone else’s’ emphasis on relationships. I didn’t notice when I was first starting my career how everyone always asked if I had a boyfriend. I must not have noticed because I gave them the right answer. I was always in a relationship; as such, people reacted very warmly to this asking me for details about whatever boyfriend I had at the time. It almost seemed comforting for others around me to know I had a boyfriend, especially my family, despite whether or not they liked the guy I was dating at the time.

Now all of a sudden someone asks and you say you’re not seeing anyone with a huge smile on your face and there’s still that silent awkward little pause or people say: oh don’t worry, you’ll find someone. Really? Oh good, I was worried that I was going to die alone with those nine cats that I’m allergic to in a lonely apartment on the south side with no friends and no children to take me to a nursing home. Thank you for reassuring that that won’t happen to me.

In these blogs, I feel as though maybe I focus on the bad parts of being single like the horrible dates, but truth be told, no one likes to read about the good ones because that’s boring. Also, I don’t go on good dates because I care too much about the blog and you fine people. 

But today I’d like to list the things I love about not being in a relationship:

• I have made SO MUCH art! I’m talking drawings, music, writing…
• I come and go as I please with no need to explain anything to anyone. Save for my job, I’m truly free to do what I want when I want without need for discussions or compromises.
• I’ve met so many new friends that I feel like I will know for life – some from having gone on dates with them and realizing that amazingly lovely friend vibe rather than a romantic one. Not being attached to a relationship opens doors for many other types of relationships to enter your life.
• I love finding comfort in feeling unsettled. It drives me more than most things in life. I am completely portable at all times. The world is my oyster – I can roam through it at any time seeking only to please and care for myself.
• There’s a sense of complete uncertainty that authors and poets romanticize in their memoirs that seems more prevalent when you’re single. The kind where you don’t know exactly where you’re going or how you’re going to get there, but you know you’re going somewhere. Freedom breeds a certain type of youth regardless of age where the ride of your life could be parked on the corner of the dance studio you pass by or it could be waiting for you downstairs from your favorite coffee shop.
• It’s summer and everyone tends to wear less clothing and since you’re single, you can look AND touch.  
• You actually have time between your job and career oriented activities to nurture your hobbies, go back to school, and hang out with new and old friends.
• You don’t feel dependent on anyone. You are a full and whole person on your own. Regardless of how independent you may feel in your relationship there will always be shared activities and things that the other person takes over doing for you because they’re better at it (like dividing household chores or finances or even being the “strong one” usually). When you’re alone there’s a growth that occurs that is unparalleled to growing with another person. Many times it’s from having to do those tasks you don’t like; or having to be that person that you’re not best at being (like the serious one when you thrive on being the fun one).
• I love being my own best company and being completely content without missing anyone else when I’m alone.

How To Attract Creepy and or Crazy Men

Why is it that the guys I seem to attract are crazy, creepy or just wrong altogether? I think I have identified key factors about myself that may be contributing to this:
 
How to attract crazy and creepy men:

• Talk about living with wolves.
• Be obsessed with dead baby jokes. (Although I have seriously made some progress here...)
• Go to bars by yourself just to sit and draw or write poems.
• Wear feathers in your hair.
• Talk about your passionate love for chess.
• Be slightly domineering and assertive (for some reason, crazy and creepy men love strong women).
• Be open-minded (to the point of allowing weird conversations go on way too long).
• Have crazy parents to begin with that are at fault for placing you on the path to being accustomed to crazy behavior from others. (read here for more background)

How to be a creepy and or crazy man:

• Buy me Barbies for my 27th birthday (this is never an OK thing to do for ANY adult woman’s birthday).
• Stare at me every single time I get up to go to the restroom in the hallways of my office.
• Now this particular person has graduated to saying hello. I don’t respond. No one likes to STARED at every time they go to the restroom.
• Take pictures of my apartment when I am not there.
• Ask me to kiss you after asking me if I have ecstasy pills on me.
• L.A. clubs are kind of crazy. Do I look like I have drugs? Seriously…
• Love Jesus a little too much and or think I am going to Hell. (please see here)
• Ask me to wear my hair a particular way prior to going out with you (yep, didn’t end up going out with him after that).

Sadly, all of those things mentioned above REALLY did happen to me. Even sadder is that there hasn’t been a normal instance to balance any of the creepy crazy instances out. Disillusionment and fear is settling in rather quickly.

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.

Guilt-Trippin' in the U.S.A.

My lovelies,

Somehow this blog has become like this really sick relative that will completely chastise you if you don’t call every other day.  I don’t know how it happened really, but it’s become this crying baby that I birthed and I never imagined so demanding.

This post is inspired by GUILT!!  That little gnawing feeling you have when you did or probably didn’t (if you’re Catholic) do anything wrong.

My mother (she always comes up in our conversations, Blog) is the master of making you feel guilty for just about everything in your life (especially when you don’t call).  As a consequence I’ve grown immune.

My immunity allows me to do the following:

• Tell new parents that I’ve DEFINITELY seen cuter babies.

No Mommy!  I don't want to bite on the stick!

• Tell my dog that she would be much better as a mop because she’s so hairy and then try to get her to bite hard on a long stick so I can drag her across the floor.
• Tell funny jokes about dead babies.
• Tell even funnier jokes about dead babies that were mutilated in some way and or stock piled…
• Drive a Hummer.
• Drive a Hummer full of food and fresh milk through Africa passing all the hungry famous children from t.v.!
• Pour a bunch of motor oil on top of seagulls’ heads in the Pacific Ocean.
• Take pictures of said seagull and laugh hysterically while tweeting them and face-booking them to all my closest 402 friends.

You may get this image texted to you later with a "hahahahaha" as the caption.

• Float leisurely on a huge iceberg while watching Polar Bears drown

and finally:

• Vote Libertarian and Green in really tight elections.

How to find a husband - tips from my mother

Mom:  "Jenny, will you please stop writing about feminism on your blog so much?  You will never find a husband that way.  Men don't like feminists.  I could put gas in my own car, but why should I when your father does it for me?  Sometimes it's nice to have men do things for you, they like it..."

Me:  "Okay, well I love it when men do things for me...I would never try to stop them, really.."

Mom: "Good, men don't like feminists.  Write about other things."

Me: (laughing hysterically at this point) "okay."

There you have it, friends.  This is my official last post on feminism because I've been known to be only the most obedient daughter.

I think I might write a book on feminism now..you know, to attract a husband.

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.