One of the things that I love about traveling, whether it be domestic or abroad, is trying new food. Or, trying old food (not old in the dried up or moldy sense, but old as in familiar) with a different twist. Some of the things I have tried I love and others I could never even see again and be ok with it. I'm not fond of alligator, turtle or most goat cheeses, nor do I like beef or sausage at any locale across the Big Pond.
However, here are a few of my favorites:
*Cheese - any kind of cheese (except most goat)
*Chocolate croissants from Le Panier at Pike Place Market
*Turkey po' boy sandwich at The Gumbo Shop in New Orleans
*Cornish game hen from La Lousienne in New Orleans
*Iced coffee and beignets from Cafe du Monde, New Orleans
*Hot dog from street vendor in New York City
*Fresh bagels from small cafe run by Jewish family just outside of Harlem in New York City
*Salad with ham and gruyere cheese at an outdoor cafe in Paris,France
*Roasted chicken at small inn near Glendalough, Ireland
*Chicken Cashel Bleu at classy restaurant across the way from the Rock of Cashel in Cashel, Ireland
*Toasted cheese sandwich at that pub on the highway near Waterford, Ireland
*Fried egg sandwich with bacon and cheese at cafe run by Italians near Buckingham Palace, London, England
*Coppa Nostra at Italian joint near Bedford Square in London, England
*Fish enchiladas at La Sirena Gordita in Zihuatenejo, Mexico
*Chicken tamales and cheese quesadillas from Cafe Tacuba in Mexico City, Mexico
*Tomato, avocado, onion salad from Los Arcos cafe in Cuernavaca, Mexico
As I make this list, I wonder if it was really the food that was so damn good and memorable, or was is the ambiance of the place, the people, the smells, etc.? Like the toasted cheese sandwich near Waterford, Ireland. I mean, c'mon, it is cheese and mayo and bread! However, I was the only woman in the pub and from the looks that I got I think I was the ONLY woman who had ever crossed the threshold of the pub. There were drunk Irishmen wearing knit caps and tweed coats who had arrived on their bicycles, pounding down pints and singing old Irish ballads. It was like stepping onto the set of "The Quiet Man".
Nonetheless, I am now starving and I am going to make some scrambled eggs, whole wheat toast with jam and an iced latte!
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Saturday, June 07, 2008
The Farmer's Field
Earlier today I was looking down into the kitchen sink as I was washing the dishes. I thought to myself, "Something is out in the farmer's field." Looking up, I scanned the field. Nothing there except for the rhubarb that is not being tended. This is the last summer that we will have this beautiful field behind our house. They will begin to build 34 new homes back there this fall. Yuck. Devarshi's voice jerked me back into the present as he called to the boys from upstairs. "Boys, come quickly! Look, there is a deer in the farmer's field eating the rhubarb."
Oh, Lucy!
I dreamed that I was pregnant and gave birth to a baby girl. I named her Lucia, because she was to be the bearer of light, and called her Luci for short.
Thursday, June 05, 2008
Hi, I'm Karen.
I hit up an Al-Anon meeting last night and ironically the topic of discussion was 'blame'. Ironic because just a couple of days ago I posted about who, in my past, I blamed for my sister's battle with drugs.
I came away holding onto the reminder that in conflict sometimes no one is to blame. Sometimes the conflict is what it is and no one is right and no one is wrong, no one to blame. Just a difference of opinion. I have been too eager to take the blame for a lot of things in my life, when really there is no one to blame. This is a definite character defect of mine. It is easier to say "Oh, I'm sorry. That is my fault." just to avoid someone else feeling uncomfortable. Why can't I just let it be? For so long I had done such a good job of not doing this any more, but unfortunately, I have gotten back into this bad habit.
I love gentle reminders that kindly kick my ass, put me in my place and set me on the right track again.
I came away holding onto the reminder that in conflict sometimes no one is to blame. Sometimes the conflict is what it is and no one is right and no one is wrong, no one to blame. Just a difference of opinion. I have been too eager to take the blame for a lot of things in my life, when really there is no one to blame. This is a definite character defect of mine. It is easier to say "Oh, I'm sorry. That is my fault." just to avoid someone else feeling uncomfortable. Why can't I just let it be? For so long I had done such a good job of not doing this any more, but unfortunately, I have gotten back into this bad habit.
I love gentle reminders that kindly kick my ass, put me in my place and set me on the right track again.
Yeats
Have I mentioned how much I love W.B. Yeats? My love affair with him and his writing all began in the mid-90s when I first visited Thoor Ballylee, Yeats' home where he lived and wrote from 1919 to 1929. It wasn't until my second visit to the home in 2000 that I realized that the home was actually built in the 16th century by the de Burgo (later Burke) family, which are my maternal ancestors. Standing on top of that Norman tower and taking in all 360 degrees of the view, I felt so connected to the land, to the home, to the writer. "This", (she says with a grand sweeping gesture), "is what inspired a lot of his work." Ah, sweet William. Sweet Ireland. I miss you so.
Tuesday, June 03, 2008
So, who is to blame?
So, who did I blame for my sister's heroin addiction anyway? I finally - f-i-n-a-l-l-y - got over thinking that I had cursed her or was somehow responsible for her actions. If you remember, I had said that to whom and how I directed that blame was one of the most shameful parts of my own history (worse, in my mind, than stealing the communion wine from church to get drunk for the first time). Although it is a part of my past that I am not proud of, it is also a defining period that completely altered my self-concept and how I look at the world.
We all remember writing that stupid essay in high school or as we applied for a college or scholarship. You know which one I am talking about, I know you do. The one about "Who was the one person who has influenced your life the most?", or any other combination of words that forms basically the same question. If you were never lucky enough to write an essay based on this mundane and over-used question, then perhaps you heard a Miss America contestant answer it.
Answering this question in high school felt so contrived. I always defaulted to Jesus Christ (hell, I got drunk for the first time off His Holy Blood, didn't I?) or my great-aunt Jocelyn, or Tia, as we called her. Although there were lots of people who had impacted my life, whether they have realized it or not, I didn't really want my writing to be manipulated by answering this question, nor did I want to put much thought into it all.
At the time I did not know that sometimes it isn't the big things that change and transform people, but the little snippets of conversation, the simple acts of kindness (or not so kind-ness) that have the most impact. It really would not have been too difficult to pick out any one person and their small yet profound impact on my life about which I could write tomes.
Ironically, as I approach my 40s (my God, did I really say that?) there is definitely one person who stands out, who had a huge impact on how I look at the world, at myself, at family, at......well, at just about everything.
Shortly after finding out about my sister's heroin addiction I began the shift the blame from myself to who I felt at the time was really responsible for her actions.
This is when my hatred of Latinos, Mexicans in particular, took hold of my heart and soul. You see, the boyfriend - the dark-haired man - who first shot her up with heroin was Mexican-American. And now, all of her drug dealers were Mexican.
Being a heroin addict isn't just about shooting heroin into your arm. There is a whole lifestyle and mindset that goes along with it. Generally, heroin addicts aren't violent. They are nodding out in their bathrooms and don't have the wherewithall to lash out at someone. However, they do steal, return stolen items to stores to get cash refunds, sell drugs, trade sex for drugs or money to buy drugs, etc. Learning about the lifestyle around the drug use was on some level more disturbing to me than the actual addiction itself. To think of these "pinche" Mexicans getting my sister to steal for them, to do dishonest returns to stores, to sell drugs for them, to use her body in heinous ways just to give her drugs to get her high and beg for more, oh how I loathed them. I hated Mexicans with every fiber of my being. Everywhere I turned there was another dirty black-haired, brown-skinned villain snarling, foaming at the mouth, just dying to pounce on its next victim. To me, every Latino in Portland was here illegally and they were all pimps and drug dealers. Certainly they were all filthy dirty people. The men beat and cheated on their wives, as well they all molested and beat their kids. All were gang-bangers and thugs. Also, they were illiterate, ignorant and just plain stupid. Hell, they couldn't even speak proper English. If I were driving down the street and saw a Latino on the sidewalk I would glare at them. More than once I called a Latino "Spic" to their face. I was rude to them and impatient with them in grocery stores, the mall, DMV.
Oddly enough, in 1996 I was working in the admissions department at an alcohol and drug treatment center in Portland. Often, we got phone calls from people wanting services for Spanish-speakers. The agency didn't offer these services and there wasn't anyone in the department who could speak enough Spanish to refer a caller on to another agency. I decided I needed to learn a bit of Spanish. If nothing else, at least I could learn to swear in Spanish at the Mexicans working at Burger King.
At this same time the agency was hiring a new maintenance worker. I was making photocopies of some papers when out of the interview room walks the head maintenance guy with a young Latino. I remember looking at him thinking "Oh my God, I hope he doesn't get the job because then I'll be forced to be pleasant because he will be working here." He was tall, nicely dressed, had a very gentle demeanor, which surprised me because all Mexicans dressed in rags and were shorter than me, weren't they?
Well, yeah, you know where this is going, huh? Yep, Pablo got the job and started working right away. He spoke pretty much no English, but still tried to be friendly and engage in some sort of conversation with everyone. I glared at him and was very curt towards him. He kept coming around and tried to win me over. I started taking that Spanish class and found myself a little curious about this guy. Maybe I could use some of my newly-learned phrases on him? I was actually really afraid of him. Surely he was a gang-banger and a drug dealer. Would he offer me heroin or cocaine? Was he married and if so, did he beat his wife and his kids? I was sure that he lived in a filthy, cluttered hovel with at least 10 other people.
After several months of my Spanish classes, his being friendly to me and me giving him the icy cold-shoulder, I broke down and tried to ask in Spanish, "What are you doing this weekend?" However, I mixed up some Spanish and French words and he was lost. His English-speaking skills had far exceeded my Spanish, so he asked me in broken English if I would like to meet for coffee sometime. We could practice our newly-learned languages with each other, he suggested. Como no? Why not?, I thought. I had recently separated from my husband and was looking for things to keep me busy. As long as we met in a public place where there were lots of people, I would feel safe being around this Mexican.
We met at a cafe in the The Galleria. I was very nervous and wary. I kept waiting for him to offer me drugs or make sexual passes. He paid for my coffee, corrected my Spanish, then insisted on walking me to my car to make sure I was safe. He even opened my car door for me. Boy, he was really putting a good show, wasn't he?
We met again, and again, and he was the same every time. More respectful and more gentlemanly than any American man I had ever met. He also had a great sense of humor and, although didn't have a lot of education, had a brilliant mind. He was enamored of life and wanted to take it all in. Oh, and humble and unpretentious too. A friendship was quickly ensuing, even though I tried to remain aloof and continued to keep my guard up.
One day he invited me to a gathering at his house and I found myself agreeing to go. What in the hell was I thinking? Going to the den alone with the rabid wolves? God only knew what these Mexicans would do to a white female alone in their lair. It was dangerous and risky, I knew. But I felt compelled to go. I had it all planned out in my head about how I wouldn't eat anything because I doubted they washed their hands before cooking. And I for sure wouldn't drink anything because it was probably laced with some kind of drug. I made sure I had lots of quarters on me so that I could use the pay phone to call for help in case I had to escape their clutches.
Nervously, I arrived at the apartment. It looked 'clean' from the outside. I knocked on the door and entered a pristine two bedroom apartment that was tastefully decorated. There were 3 men and 2 women there already. All of them (men and women) were chatting together in rapid Spanish, drinking bottled beer, helping each other make authentic Mexican food. Everyone was so gregarious and graciously invited me into the home. I was on guard for awhile and my eyes darted around the apartment looking for the drug paraphernalia, filth, roaches, etc. None of which I ever found in this tidy abode. I soon discovered who all lived in this two-bedroom apartment: Pablo had one bedroom, his sister and brother-in-law had the other. That was it. As the evening wore on a few more people arrived. I took the plunge and tried the food. Some of the best I have ever eaten. I did have a bottle of beer. I figured it was safe since I was the once who used the bottle open to take the cap off, hence no one had a chance to slip something into it. Then the dancing began and I fell in love with Cumbia and Salsa music and dancing. I tripped over my feet, but all of the men there were patient and kind and gentle teachers. A couple of them walked me to my car at the end of evening and I arrived back at my apartment safe and sound and sober.
My mind was reeling. No one could keep up this act forever. Surely by now a person's true colors would begin to show. Maybe not all Mexicans were dirty, drug-dealing thugs. In fact, I had now met more Mexicans who DID NOT deal/use drugs than DID deal/use drugs. Hmmmm........
I not only developed a friendship with Pablo, but also with his sister and his brother-in-law. All of them helped to restore my faith in humanity and my zest for life. Long philosophical discussions on culture, religion, relationships, politics while sipping brandy or a cerveza. Lots of picnics, biking, swimming, playing basketball, soccer and pool. They turned my whole world upside-down and shook it out. In a good way. I spent as much time with all of them as I could. I went to so many parties and gatherings with Mexicans (and Costa Ricans and Hondurans and Guatemalans and Salvadorans and Ecuadorans and well, you get the picture) that I began to actually feel more comfortable in the presence of Latinos than with "Americans".
I learned to salsa dance really well. I learned to make authentic Mexican food. My Spanish got really good and my new-found friends encouraged me to go to Mexico to study. So I did. They gave me the name and number of one of their brothers living Mexico City. Told me to call him if I had any trouble of any kind. Never needed to call. Arriving in Cuernavaca was in a way like arriving home. I felt so comfortable in my own skin and have never felt more respected or honored as a woman.
I fell in love with the Spanish language and went on to earn a second bachelor's degree in it. I did it without even trying. I just kept taking classes and ended up having so many credits that it just made sense to get the degree.
And, yes, Pablo and I did try to have a romantic relationship. Too many issues got in the way, however, so it didn't work out. We tried to remain friends, but it was hard for him when I started dating Devarshi.
It amazes me at how once upon a time I so deeply loathed Latinos. It is like a bad nightmare. In fact, when I tell my Latino friends of my past hatred for their race they are astonished. More than once Latinos have commented on how "Latina" I am. I get their jokes, their culture, their idiomatic expressions, etc. They view me as 'one of them'. They often don't believe that I ever had this horrible prejudice.
I wasn't exaggerating about calling Mexicans 'spics' or being impatient and rude towards them. Now I go out of my way to help Spanish-speakers if I see them struggling at a store or at the DMV. Having been to Mexico, real Mexico, not just the tourist spots that cater to Americans, as well as having intimately known legal and illegal aliens, I understand the plight of the immigrant and what they are leaving behind. I have such mixed feelings about the illegals. I know that they need to get in line to enter our country legally, just like everyone else. But my heart goes out to them. I have seen firsthand the poverty, the political corruption, the suffering. "Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, the wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me. I lift my lamp beside the golden door!" However, immigration issues are for another post, so enough of that.
Before Pablo, it never occurred to me, at least not consciously, that the "pinche" Mexicans didn't get my sister addicted to heroin, they didn't make her participate in illegal and immoral behavior. With my healed heart I was able to clearly see that my sister got herself addicted to heroin (ok, being born into a family of alcoholics and addicts didn't help). My sister, impaired by the heroin, made her own choices to participate in the activities that she did. It was irrational to blame myself and too painful to blame my sister. I needed someone to blame, so, the Mexicans took the brunt of my pain.
Thanks to Pablo and his family and friends, my heart was forever changed. I have also learned to have patience for people who do harbor resentments or hatred towards a particular race or culture. Maybe someday they will meet their own personal Pablo and have their eyes opened to a whole new reality of the way the world is.
We all remember writing that stupid essay in high school or as we applied for a college or scholarship. You know which one I am talking about, I know you do. The one about "Who was the one person who has influenced your life the most?", or any other combination of words that forms basically the same question. If you were never lucky enough to write an essay based on this mundane and over-used question, then perhaps you heard a Miss America contestant answer it.
Answering this question in high school felt so contrived. I always defaulted to Jesus Christ (hell, I got drunk for the first time off His Holy Blood, didn't I?) or my great-aunt Jocelyn, or Tia, as we called her. Although there were lots of people who had impacted my life, whether they have realized it or not, I didn't really want my writing to be manipulated by answering this question, nor did I want to put much thought into it all.
At the time I did not know that sometimes it isn't the big things that change and transform people, but the little snippets of conversation, the simple acts of kindness (or not so kind-ness) that have the most impact. It really would not have been too difficult to pick out any one person and their small yet profound impact on my life about which I could write tomes.
Ironically, as I approach my 40s (my God, did I really say that?) there is definitely one person who stands out, who had a huge impact on how I look at the world, at myself, at family, at......well, at just about everything.
Shortly after finding out about my sister's heroin addiction I began the shift the blame from myself to who I felt at the time was really responsible for her actions.
This is when my hatred of Latinos, Mexicans in particular, took hold of my heart and soul. You see, the boyfriend - the dark-haired man - who first shot her up with heroin was Mexican-American. And now, all of her drug dealers were Mexican.
Being a heroin addict isn't just about shooting heroin into your arm. There is a whole lifestyle and mindset that goes along with it. Generally, heroin addicts aren't violent. They are nodding out in their bathrooms and don't have the wherewithall to lash out at someone. However, they do steal, return stolen items to stores to get cash refunds, sell drugs, trade sex for drugs or money to buy drugs, etc. Learning about the lifestyle around the drug use was on some level more disturbing to me than the actual addiction itself. To think of these "pinche" Mexicans getting my sister to steal for them, to do dishonest returns to stores, to sell drugs for them, to use her body in heinous ways just to give her drugs to get her high and beg for more, oh how I loathed them. I hated Mexicans with every fiber of my being. Everywhere I turned there was another dirty black-haired, brown-skinned villain snarling, foaming at the mouth, just dying to pounce on its next victim. To me, every Latino in Portland was here illegally and they were all pimps and drug dealers. Certainly they were all filthy dirty people. The men beat and cheated on their wives, as well they all molested and beat their kids. All were gang-bangers and thugs. Also, they were illiterate, ignorant and just plain stupid. Hell, they couldn't even speak proper English. If I were driving down the street and saw a Latino on the sidewalk I would glare at them. More than once I called a Latino "Spic" to their face. I was rude to them and impatient with them in grocery stores, the mall, DMV.
Oddly enough, in 1996 I was working in the admissions department at an alcohol and drug treatment center in Portland. Often, we got phone calls from people wanting services for Spanish-speakers. The agency didn't offer these services and there wasn't anyone in the department who could speak enough Spanish to refer a caller on to another agency. I decided I needed to learn a bit of Spanish. If nothing else, at least I could learn to swear in Spanish at the Mexicans working at Burger King.
At this same time the agency was hiring a new maintenance worker. I was making photocopies of some papers when out of the interview room walks the head maintenance guy with a young Latino. I remember looking at him thinking "Oh my God, I hope he doesn't get the job because then I'll be forced to be pleasant because he will be working here." He was tall, nicely dressed, had a very gentle demeanor, which surprised me because all Mexicans dressed in rags and were shorter than me, weren't they?
Well, yeah, you know where this is going, huh? Yep, Pablo got the job and started working right away. He spoke pretty much no English, but still tried to be friendly and engage in some sort of conversation with everyone. I glared at him and was very curt towards him. He kept coming around and tried to win me over. I started taking that Spanish class and found myself a little curious about this guy. Maybe I could use some of my newly-learned phrases on him? I was actually really afraid of him. Surely he was a gang-banger and a drug dealer. Would he offer me heroin or cocaine? Was he married and if so, did he beat his wife and his kids? I was sure that he lived in a filthy, cluttered hovel with at least 10 other people.
After several months of my Spanish classes, his being friendly to me and me giving him the icy cold-shoulder, I broke down and tried to ask in Spanish, "What are you doing this weekend?" However, I mixed up some Spanish and French words and he was lost. His English-speaking skills had far exceeded my Spanish, so he asked me in broken English if I would like to meet for coffee sometime. We could practice our newly-learned languages with each other, he suggested. Como no? Why not?, I thought. I had recently separated from my husband and was looking for things to keep me busy. As long as we met in a public place where there were lots of people, I would feel safe being around this Mexican.
We met at a cafe in the The Galleria. I was very nervous and wary. I kept waiting for him to offer me drugs or make sexual passes. He paid for my coffee, corrected my Spanish, then insisted on walking me to my car to make sure I was safe. He even opened my car door for me. Boy, he was really putting a good show, wasn't he?
We met again, and again, and he was the same every time. More respectful and more gentlemanly than any American man I had ever met. He also had a great sense of humor and, although didn't have a lot of education, had a brilliant mind. He was enamored of life and wanted to take it all in. Oh, and humble and unpretentious too. A friendship was quickly ensuing, even though I tried to remain aloof and continued to keep my guard up.
One day he invited me to a gathering at his house and I found myself agreeing to go. What in the hell was I thinking? Going to the den alone with the rabid wolves? God only knew what these Mexicans would do to a white female alone in their lair. It was dangerous and risky, I knew. But I felt compelled to go. I had it all planned out in my head about how I wouldn't eat anything because I doubted they washed their hands before cooking. And I for sure wouldn't drink anything because it was probably laced with some kind of drug. I made sure I had lots of quarters on me so that I could use the pay phone to call for help in case I had to escape their clutches.
Nervously, I arrived at the apartment. It looked 'clean' from the outside. I knocked on the door and entered a pristine two bedroom apartment that was tastefully decorated. There were 3 men and 2 women there already. All of them (men and women) were chatting together in rapid Spanish, drinking bottled beer, helping each other make authentic Mexican food. Everyone was so gregarious and graciously invited me into the home. I was on guard for awhile and my eyes darted around the apartment looking for the drug paraphernalia, filth, roaches, etc. None of which I ever found in this tidy abode. I soon discovered who all lived in this two-bedroom apartment: Pablo had one bedroom, his sister and brother-in-law had the other. That was it. As the evening wore on a few more people arrived. I took the plunge and tried the food. Some of the best I have ever eaten. I did have a bottle of beer. I figured it was safe since I was the once who used the bottle open to take the cap off, hence no one had a chance to slip something into it. Then the dancing began and I fell in love with Cumbia and Salsa music and dancing. I tripped over my feet, but all of the men there were patient and kind and gentle teachers. A couple of them walked me to my car at the end of evening and I arrived back at my apartment safe and sound and sober.
My mind was reeling. No one could keep up this act forever. Surely by now a person's true colors would begin to show. Maybe not all Mexicans were dirty, drug-dealing thugs. In fact, I had now met more Mexicans who DID NOT deal/use drugs than DID deal/use drugs. Hmmmm........
I not only developed a friendship with Pablo, but also with his sister and his brother-in-law. All of them helped to restore my faith in humanity and my zest for life. Long philosophical discussions on culture, religion, relationships, politics while sipping brandy or a cerveza. Lots of picnics, biking, swimming, playing basketball, soccer and pool. They turned my whole world upside-down and shook it out. In a good way. I spent as much time with all of them as I could. I went to so many parties and gatherings with Mexicans (and Costa Ricans and Hondurans and Guatemalans and Salvadorans and Ecuadorans and well, you get the picture) that I began to actually feel more comfortable in the presence of Latinos than with "Americans".
I learned to salsa dance really well. I learned to make authentic Mexican food. My Spanish got really good and my new-found friends encouraged me to go to Mexico to study. So I did. They gave me the name and number of one of their brothers living Mexico City. Told me to call him if I had any trouble of any kind. Never needed to call. Arriving in Cuernavaca was in a way like arriving home. I felt so comfortable in my own skin and have never felt more respected or honored as a woman.
I fell in love with the Spanish language and went on to earn a second bachelor's degree in it. I did it without even trying. I just kept taking classes and ended up having so many credits that it just made sense to get the degree.
And, yes, Pablo and I did try to have a romantic relationship. Too many issues got in the way, however, so it didn't work out. We tried to remain friends, but it was hard for him when I started dating Devarshi.
It amazes me at how once upon a time I so deeply loathed Latinos. It is like a bad nightmare. In fact, when I tell my Latino friends of my past hatred for their race they are astonished. More than once Latinos have commented on how "Latina" I am. I get their jokes, their culture, their idiomatic expressions, etc. They view me as 'one of them'. They often don't believe that I ever had this horrible prejudice.
I wasn't exaggerating about calling Mexicans 'spics' or being impatient and rude towards them. Now I go out of my way to help Spanish-speakers if I see them struggling at a store or at the DMV. Having been to Mexico, real Mexico, not just the tourist spots that cater to Americans, as well as having intimately known legal and illegal aliens, I understand the plight of the immigrant and what they are leaving behind. I have such mixed feelings about the illegals. I know that they need to get in line to enter our country legally, just like everyone else. But my heart goes out to them. I have seen firsthand the poverty, the political corruption, the suffering. "Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, the wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me. I lift my lamp beside the golden door!" However, immigration issues are for another post, so enough of that.
Before Pablo, it never occurred to me, at least not consciously, that the "pinche" Mexicans didn't get my sister addicted to heroin, they didn't make her participate in illegal and immoral behavior. With my healed heart I was able to clearly see that my sister got herself addicted to heroin (ok, being born into a family of alcoholics and addicts didn't help). My sister, impaired by the heroin, made her own choices to participate in the activities that she did. It was irrational to blame myself and too painful to blame my sister. I needed someone to blame, so, the Mexicans took the brunt of my pain.
Thanks to Pablo and his family and friends, my heart was forever changed. I have also learned to have patience for people who do harbor resentments or hatred towards a particular race or culture. Maybe someday they will meet their own personal Pablo and have their eyes opened to a whole new reality of the way the world is.
Sunday, June 01, 2008
Character Defects
For those of you that have known me for more than a couple of years are well aware of my participation in a Twelve Step program - Al-Anon. Upon moving to the Salem area a lot of my former self went by the wayside, Al-Anon included. I've attended about 1 meeting a year since moving here and my life has suffered because of it. I still try to live my life according to many of the principles that I learned. However, that lack of fellowship, working intimately with a sponsor, weekly contact with other members/friends who 'got' my issues, etc. has really taken its toll on my day to day life. Some of my old character defects that fell away just from working the Steps have crept back into my life. I am so blessed on so many levels, but my thinking gets me into trouble.
I will have to say that my own self-assuredness (is that a word?) and, unfortunately, my marriage are the two areas that have suffered the most. I want so badly to get back what I had. It isn't lost, necessarily, just misplaced. Stored in the back of the filing cabinet under a wrong label, so to speak.
I don't have enough time right now to put into words the character defects that I need to turn around and make assets. Just know that they are there (of course you know! Everyone knows!) and I may be doing some Step work here, just to keep myself accountable to 'someone' until I can get back into meetings and find a sponsor.
I desperately need to make a searching and fearless moral inventory of myself. Just had to put this out there to the Universe.
I will have to say that my own self-assuredness (is that a word?) and, unfortunately, my marriage are the two areas that have suffered the most. I want so badly to get back what I had. It isn't lost, necessarily, just misplaced. Stored in the back of the filing cabinet under a wrong label, so to speak.
I don't have enough time right now to put into words the character defects that I need to turn around and make assets. Just know that they are there (of course you know! Everyone knows!) and I may be doing some Step work here, just to keep myself accountable to 'someone' until I can get back into meetings and find a sponsor.
I desperately need to make a searching and fearless moral inventory of myself. Just had to put this out there to the Universe.
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