Category: Writing

If someone ever gave out free samples of positivity, I’d surely try it since “free” is my price. Not only that, but I want more positivity in my life. More doors of opportunity to be opened, more creative flow, restfulness, energy and laugh-out-loud moments.

When I was younger, I thought once I figured life out, I’d be perpetually happy. I’d know exactly how to avoid pitfalls by learning from my mistakes. Only challenge is, I’m still making my mistakes.

It’s similar to the time I had the brilliant idea to make a list of the things I needed to get done before I sat down to read. My leisure reading time would start after I’d cross out everything that needed to be done for the day. The more I wrote down, the more there was to do. As a matter of fact, I began to have a list of lists. I started grouping certain activities to cut down on driving around so much on any one particular day.

After a few weeks, I concluded the only way to guarantee at least an hour’s reading time nearly every day was to schedule it since the list was virtually endless. I’d wind down for bed at a certain time, regardless of how far I’d made it on the list, and read for an hour.

Scheduling happiness is a far more challenging task. It involves more than avoiding pitfalls, boring people, junk food, traffic jams, high bills, car repairs, rising rent, illness, lack of money, insomnia, heartbreak and stress. A daily dose of happiness cannot be swallowed like a multivitamin, taken like a medicinal shot of tequila nor added to a morning smoothie to start the day.

Happiness, as I best understand it, is the result of an uncompromised immune system of positivity. Having an uncompromised immune system of positivity doesn’t mean that opportunistic assholes and bullshit don’t cross your path. It means despite the fact that they have, you’re STILL a happy person. A positive immune response allows you to recover from exposure to negativity.

A positive response may occur automatically and naturally for some people, but not if that person is me. I’ve had plenty of negative exposure that flared my temper, where, much after the fact, I thought of many different responses that could have diffused the situation had my mind not been flooded with negative thoughts.

The instant gratification of acting out, usually in the form of very sharp words, have set me back in the long run. At one point, I had a boss who actually strategized to tick me off. He’d counted on my temper worsening the situation during his last attempt. Unfortunately for him, I’d read a wonderful book called Working with You Is Killing Me. Armed with something more productive to do, I reacted empowered to the negative situation in a positive manner. I handled the situation so well that HIS boss complimented my reaction. A few minutes later, she realized that he had lied to her about my performance.

I’ve not faced such a situation again, but I can never vanquish all negatives once and for all. Blissfulness comes and goes. When it’s gone, all I can do about it is breathe and flow. Sit in stunned silence until the initial shock propagates through my nervous system. I breathe and I think. If I’m lucky, I haven’t had my daily exercise yet. Exercising is one of the healthiest ways I boost my positivity along with my breathing. I visualize the extra blood pumping through my vessels driving out the stress.

Whereas others need caffeine to wake up, pills to sleep and whatever else in between to dull the pain, I rely on the breath. Sometimes, it needs to slow down. Other times it needs to speed up. On rare occasions, like when I’m swimming, I need to rhythmically hold it.

Full disclosure: I practice yoga four times a week. Out of all forms of exercise I’ve ever tried from various styles of dancing, martial arts, lifting weights and swimming, the profound, directed breaths I take in yoga are the most useful to combating negativity. They are the free positivity samples.

Next time someone or something stresses you out, don’t hold your breath or huff and puff in anger or count to ten. Breathe. Give your brain the oxygen it needs to think of a positive response.

There is no abracadabra

Hocus pocus

Open sesame

No unsaying things said

Nor undoing things done

Kissing him good-bye

As if it were hello

But it’s really good-bye

It’s really

He’ll never know

Since he’ll be long gone

Before the truth escapes

From her sensuous

Secretive mouth

He’ll never understand

She wasn’t batshit crazy

She was just infused

With HIS crazy sauce

Do all aspects of life

Boil down to

What Mom always said?

Her timeless wisdom

Withstanding technological innovation

Educated fools

Still as predictable

As the day they

Finally stood upright

Getting into as much trouble

As their opposable thumbs

Could grasp

Lackluster people

Wearing down nerves

With their dull words

Coma-inducing

Conversation

Dangerous conservative ideas

Slipping past lethally

While eyes glazed over

Mind on autopilot

What did you say?

My mind wandered off

In self-defense

Sorry

So

You found

THE SOLUTION

The silver bullet

To a complex problem

All that needs to happen

Is for everyone to act

And think narrowly

As you do?

Just say the word

Any word

Work roots

Cast a spell

It’s all fairy tales and lies

Smoke and mirrors

Optical illusions

It only becomes

THE TRUTH

If someone believes it

Nearing college graduation, I knew two things: I didn’t want to enter graduate school nor did I want to get a “real” job; so I joined the Peace Corps as an education volunteer. That amazing experience started my teaching adventures in Tanzania, South Korea, Egypt, Mexico and Honduras. It also opened my eyes to the reality of other women’s lives.

Until I’d taught in developing countries, I’d taken my formal education, reproductive rights and means to make money all for granted. Yet, time and again, those were the three common challenges I saw host country women toil under. An obstruction or lack in any one of those areas was enough to drastically lessen  women’s autonomy, but usually those challenges existed bundled, especially for poor women.

Off and on, I spent eleven years teaching math, science and ESL outside the US prior to moving to Austin, TX in 2009. Although an American citizen from birth, I felt I’d emigrated from another planet. Austin persevered as a liberal island, surrounded by a sea of conservatism where the “separation of church and state” was not as clear as those words implied.

I marveled at how conservatives viewed big government and oversight regulation as plagues on the American way of life, except for in the case of women’s reproductive rights. In this instance, Texas state government bent over backwards, not only to shame and harass women for seeking abortions, but interfere with doctor-patient communication, demand unnecessary facility upgrades for places that provided abortions, and promote false information regarding abortions.

While Texan women’s health care centers were actively being defunded, regardless of the myriad of life-saving services they provided such as mammograms, so-called crisis pregnancy centers received increasingly more funding to continue their mission of dissuading women from seeking abortion care and disseminating medically inaccurate information.

Yet, women have agency, regardless of politics or religion. Freedom of expression guarantees we women have a right to voice not only our experience, but also the solutions we seek as we navigate through life’s challenges. We should not be regarded as perpetual dependents who need patriarchal policies, dictating morals nor blocking access to safe, legal, medical procedures.

The label “feminism” rolls in and out of favor over time. However, its ideology has had staying power. It’s generally accepted that girls should be educated, and women should have the right to vote, drive, and own property. In the US, these phenomena are no more acknowledged as “feminist” than fish acknowledge water. When one visits a country were these rights do not exist, then like a fish out of water, the gasping begins.

Unfortunately, one doesn’t need to go out of the US to discover developing-country quality women’s healthcare. Those conditions are being created in Texas, a state that has one of the largest economies nationally and some suggest would have the 12th largest GDP if it became a sovereign nation.

We must be vigilant and active to safeguard our reproductive rights as citizens of a prosperous, developed nation.

The sincerest lie about love is that it conquers all. Moralistic, preachy fairy tales lied to little girls about romance and true love. The only tale, in retrospect, that gives a clue about modern romance isn’t a fairy tale. Tarzan stories illustrate what modern women have to look forward to in romance: bringing civilization and intelligence to some king of the jungle.

Interpreting and managing his moody manspeak, “Arrgh, yrahg, raw, HUNGRY. Your-go, yawr-go, ragh TIRED. Huko, dak, haah, PUSSY.” We fearless Janes swing through the jungles with our Tarzan until the vine snaps.

The sincerest lie about family is that blood is thicker than water. It’s a literally true statement, sure enough, which makes it seem as if it should be true figuratively. Yet, compared to some of my blood relations, my daily supply of drinking water is far more beneficial to the quality of my life. Our common DNA doesn’t lead to much common ground. Despite how much we look alike, we don’t think nor act alike. As a matter of fact, we might as well be polite strangers.

The sincerest religious lie is only one true religion exists, which depends, of course, on the religion one was raised. If anyone wants to know universal truths or revelations about God, don’t study the Bible, Quran, Torah nor any other religious text. Study math. All things can be explained or predicted by at least one equation or inequality. Mathematical revelations exist whether humankind has discovered them or not, but once we do, we understand more about this wondrous world in which we live and use math to continue our understanding.

The sincerest employment lie is one can work hard and be successful. Very often, the one who works the hardest, gets paid the least. Everything the working poor buys costs more since they can’t buy in bulk nor buy long-lasting quality products. Everything takes longer to do since they cannot afford to pay more for convenience, be it transportation, nutritious food or high-quality health care.

Lastly, the sincerest half-lie is about the truth setting you free. You can tell the truth and your conscious will be relieved even if the system is designed to portray you as a criminal or incompetent, especially if someone profits from the false accusation against you. Yet to be truly free with your truthfulness, you either need money and/or position to back you up. You cannot be some marginalized member of society or low person in the social or workplace strata and expect your truth to trump some privileged person’s lies.

Lies, upon lies, upon lies. The best you can do for yourself is not imbibe the poison of self-deception and flee from those who are allergic to the truth.

This marked my first outing with a new outdoorsy meetup group. I wanted to exercise my permanently injured ankle in a novel way; so I could strengthen it.

I gave the park’s fitness area the evil eye as we walked past. I’ll run on a treadmill and lift free weights, but I want nothing to do with other exercise equipment.

Our fearless leader lead the way although he’d never hiked this trail.

The first path we followed ended on a street. I love how a house peeked just beyond the trees rather than an animal.

Following a different trail, we came across another human activity “dropping.”

I surrendered my camera to pose with this interesting tree. 

This was the first of several water crossings we traversed.

This miniature waterfall added some variety to the otherwise lazy, shallow river we loosely followed.

This was the most sensible crossing we encountered. On the next one, I helped an older woman across since she was not confident in her footing on the rocks. I made a mental note to purchase a walking stick at Goodwill next time I plan to go hiking. 

We still ended up walking on a neighborhood sidewalk as part of our journey and circling back to the house we’d seen in the first ten minutes of our hike.

Toward the end of my junior year of college, Mom had the brilliant idea that I transfer to a less expensive school since The University of NC at Chapel Hill, AKA “Carolina,” cost more than sending both of my sisters to ECU. There was no way in hell I was going to transfer to another school; so I started selling Bibles. The plan was to train in Nashville, then relocate somewhere I’d never been before to sell Bibles and educational books door to door during the summer.

Ever the control freak, Mom enticed me with the offer of free room and board if I sold books in Fayetteville, NC. Since this was the time our relationship was at its most contentious, I acted as if I had to remain with the two young women whom I’d agreed to be roommates. They shared a downstairs room in my parents’ house while I rested comfortably upstairs in my childhood bedroom.

Mom didn’t really want to be a temporary landlady and was quite upset she couldn’t have guests all summer, but I’d wanted to leave home and thought it was fitting that she suffered for insisting I stay.

By the end of summer, I’d saved over two thousand dollars, mostly because I enjoyed free housing and food. At least my parents didn’t have to pay for my last year at Carolina. And as an extra bonus, I’d bought myself a Bible.

Although my parents raised me Baptist, ensured I had dutifully attended church nearly every Sunday, I believed in God but not religion. This was long before I knew anything about feminism or the patriarchy. All the conflicting beliefs and interpretations of The Bible, along with other religious books, didn’t clear up any confusion, especially when those so called religious beliefs touted that I was less than who I was because of my gender and race.

After graduation, I wired 12-inch miter saws on a non-moving assembly line. My coworkers teased me for being a Carolina graduate and ending up employed with them. I just smiled and took the ribbing in stride. Not because I had an even temper. I wanted to see how low their jaws would drop when they discovered I was paying off a small student loan and buying some things for my impending adventure to Tanzania as a Peace Corps Volunteer.

I sat on that tidbit of information for 5 weeks. Afterwards, I had the cheek to give a week’s notice. The only reason anyone gives notice for a shitty job like that is to rub it in the faces of their coworkers.

I can’t remember whether I’d packed my Bible for that trip or not. As a matter of fact, my next recollection of that Bible was when I’d moved to Denver several years later. I’d scheduled a bona fide reading time in my daily itinerary. From the stack of material on my nightstand, I’d start off reading a passage, then a chapter from whichever books I had at the time.

In 2000 when Al Gore won the popular vote, but not the presidential election, I put most of my things in storage and packed up the rest for a two-year teaching job in Alexandria, Egypt. I brought that Bible as a handy reference for life in the Biblical lands.

More significantly, however, I’d made a promise to God. My only surviving grandparent, Mama Bea, was in failing health. I’d vowed on New Year’s Day 2001 to read The Bible daily for a year and in its entirety if God spared her while I labored through this task.

My diligence paid off. Mama Bea remained alive for all of 2001, passing in January 2002. A few days after learning of her departure, I dreamt about her. She feared I would be late for work. Instead of simply telling me to get up, Mama Bea placed both of her hands on my torso and shook me as if rolling out dough. In my sleep, I argued with her to stop shaking me. I half woke up, looked at my alarm clock and complained about her waking me up a minute before it sounded.

Fully wake, I still shook. Or more accurately, the bed itself shook. I’d woken to an earthquake. Not as strong as the one that crumbled the famed Alexandria Lighthouse. Just strong enough to leave me with the eerie feeling that Mama Bea had come to me in form of an earthquake before reaching her final destination.

After teaching in Egypt, I moved to Mexico. Slowly, my Bible deteriorated from the outside in, starting with the binding. It’s tempting to say that the rough travels of being shipped from one country to the next shortened its life, but I blame the Egyptian customs agents. After all, when I’d optimistically packed up a class set of compasses to teach four different levels of math at a private school in Alexandria, I received my boxes only to find every compass metal point had been broken off. That should’ve been my forewarning.

My Bible suffered a torturous round with Egyptian customs. At least I still received it, unlike the two journals I’d written in nearly every day while living there. The only tangible memories I have of my time in Egypt are two photo albums and the long, descriptive letters I emailed to friends and family.

Over the years, my Bible’s leather binding shed completely, followed by pages from both ends. I recycled everything. When I noticed the decline increasing, I thought, “My Bible is dying.”

Absurd to personify a book, right? I chastised myself for being so attached to it, given my secular disposition. Yet, the thought of tossing the entire book into the recycling bin was unconscionable. I agonized every evening when I read a passage and more pages slipped away.

I went to a Christian bookstore to buy a replacement. The Bible selection was incredible: from colorfully illustrated children’s Bibles to the myriad of adult Bibles with their constellation of acronyms both familiar and exotic to me: KJV, NKJV, CEB, ESV, HSCB, NAS, NIV, NLT.

This didn’t even include the different publishers who had their own versions of these acronyms. With very little research, I selected the “latest” study Bible. It boasted of having over 8,000 study notes, along with QR codes and web links. I thumbed through it and read some of the passages, which were written in contemporary English.

Toting both Bibles, I placed the new one on the counter and asked the sales woman if they recycled Bibles as she rang me up. She cheerfully told me that they didn’t exactly recycle Bibles, but if I wanted to donate my old Bible…I held up my old Bible.

She stopped mid sentence. I told her the abridged story of how it came to be in that condition. Her eyes widened at the mention of “Egypt.” I told her I could recycle pages, but not the book itself. My eyes began to water. She smiled, handed me the new study Bible, which cost two weeks’ worth of groceries, reached for my old Bible and said they would recycle it.

I nearly jumped outta my skin when a friend told me how lucky I was to have teaching as my “fall back career.” I wished I could’ve traveled through the cell phone to cuss her out in person. She’d caught me off guard, sliding that insult disguised as a compliment into our otherwise friendly, yearly Thanksgiving Day phone call.

I realize George Bernard Shaw wrote, “Those who can’t do, teach,” but I’m beginning to think he was merely jealous of the lifelong passion one derives from doing what one truly loves. Yes, there are people who trudge through jobs they hate, day in and day out just to make ends meet. They are sellouts. Some of them are teachers, but really they could be soullessly doing anything for money. Even writing plays.

Yet, once I resigned from teaching at an Austin public school, I’d finally combined both my passions for teaching and writing as a freelance editor and writer of online educational materials. I wrote Biology lessons, imagining how engaged students would be with the interactive exercises I created. I actually missed being with students, but not asshole administrators.

As fate would have it, I ended my last freelance educational writing contract the first week of December 2014 and didn’t get another until the last week of December 2015. In between time, I taught an evening adult basic education class, which allowed me to do yoga, paint and write in the mornings and interact with students in the evenings.

I loved it. One of the best lessons I learned, I’d actually heard myself telling a student, who thought it was incredulous that I enjoyed teaching math. I told her, “Because I know how to teach math, I will always have a job.”

I must explain that’s not the only reason I enjoy teaching math, but as any adult education instructor will tell you, adult students are mostly motivated to return to school because they are tired of dead-end, minimum-wage jobs with questionable job security and most likely, an openly inhumane supervisor. So, highlighting a clear economic link between understanding math, a subject majority of my students struggle with, and job security, is a good thing.

Later, it hit me: as long as I can teach math, I will always have a job. Eureka! Never had I picked out a specific skill, besides being fabulous at strategic thinking and organization, both of which I attribute to mathematical reasoning, from the myriad of teaching skills, and saw the marketable commodity I’ve honed for 20 years and counting.

Once I became a licensed teacher with a Masters in Education, I thought my career path was set. Long ago, people remained with the same company and/or career throughout their entire professional life. That world began to disappear about 40 years ago and the rise of the Internet and its technological cousins accelerated this transformation.

My career journey traveled a little off the beaten path since I began both teaching and writing as a Peace Corps Volunteer. I’ve leapt from one international, exotic location to the next, teaching math and science. Never once had I felt I’d fallen backwards. As a matter of fact, I credit my international teaching career for helping out my fall back writing career!

Just to show that the universe continues to conspire with me, I recently had the inspiration to start training parkour, thanks to watching one of my nephews train. That’s a perfect analogy for how I now visualize my career trajectory: leaping, swinging, climbing and flipping from one challenge to the next, using whichever skills I need at the time to meet my personal and professional goals.

Before I learned sex positions were named for what’s done to a woman, I knew women weren’t created to be passive recipients.

Before I learned oral sex was sex, I knew it should be reciprocated.

Before I learned most of a man’s fascination with his own penis was the fact he could see it, I knew women had genitalia worthy of attention.

Before I learned some men couldn’t climax while wearing a condom, I still knew I had the right to be protected.

Before I learned some guys thought inserting “just the tip” was an acceptable work around to wearing a condom, I knew the tip was where rogue sperm and STIs hung out.

Here’s some anatomical irony: men boast and compliment one another by stating how big their testicles are; or urge another man to be courageous by suggesting he “grow a pair”; and will even express admiration for an assertive woman by saying she’s really “ballsy”. Yet, testicles are as fragile as an overhyped male ego. On the other hand, vaginas are designed to withstand a pounding. So, shouldn’t it be more complimentary to tell a man he’s a big pussy?

Once upon a time

On an overcrowded bus

From Mombasa to Dar es Salaam

Zoned out

Dead weight

Bouncing around

Exotic African images blurring past

Crudely serenaded by

Blasting Zairian music

Heavy bass

Pulsating hearts

When slowly

Through mental fog

A primal response

To inanimate vibrations

Orgasmic vaginal contractions

Forget horseback riding

Ride a chicken bus instead

Heaven and Hell

Are self-inflicted