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Sofia's Blog Entries

Lunes 13 de Febrero de 2012 03:21 |

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TWO TURN TWELVE

They turn 12 today. Diego was devastated last night because his cough would not let go. I rubbed him with vicks vaporub, gave him medicine, and offered to sleep on the bunk bed in his room. He said “no mom, I know that bed hurts your back” and it does not, so I am not sure if he wants privacy or if he truly means it. And that is the way I find myself lately: guessing if I am intruding too much or not showing enough concern. We used to be an amalgam my boys and I: one merged unity, we operated as a single element. I knew what they were thinking, they knew how I would react, we looked to please each other, the authority roles were clear, their thoughts were fluid, what they said was pure honesty, there was no filtering or “do I tell her this so she does not yell at me yet I get to do what I really want?” I rearrange his pillows so his back is a bit vertical and helps with his breathing. He looks at me with thankful eyes. He is so worried his birthday today will be totally ruined because he is sick. They have a ski trip and we have invited two of their friends to stay over with us Saturday night in our cabin, then ski again Sunday, get back just in time to watch the SuperBowl. Go Giants!

So I go upstairs, get my pillow, get in bed. I hear him coughing so bad it hurts me. I feel that open stitch all mothers feel at some point when their little ones are in pain and it is like the pain is in you, again, that union of feelings and minds, not knowing boundaries, we laugh with similar intensity, we hurt together as well. But then the cough spell stops, and it becomes a low snore. Alas, he sleeps through the night.

Five in the morning, the phone rings. I hear David’s steps, he answers, hangs up. I am wondering if the ski trip is being cancelled. I go find out. “It was your brother Carlos” he tells me in a tone that really says “Gotta love your family Sofia”. I sigh. He had stopped calling. My brother who drinks and gets sentimental at weird times during the night and starts calling dear ones. Decades ago it was not calls. He would show up in your house at 3 in the morning with mariachis.

We cannot go back to sleep again. We toss and turn. We just decide to get up and get ready.

Getting ready for a ski trip with two twelve year olds is not easy. At least when they were toddlers, we were the ones in charge, we knew all the stuff we had packed, what was missing, what we could not forget. Good thing we asked them to pack the night before, but there are still questions “Why can’t we go out the garage door?” because it broke last night. “Can you carry my shoes?” If I do, what are you going to wear there? “I am not hungry, I will be ok with a bite of a muffin”. For 5 hours until you have lunch? Really?

We drive to the school where the buses depart from and I am worried Diego will get sick in the bus. I give him a plastic bag, a bottle of water and a box of tissues. If instead I could have a magic wand and make him better right now.

I get out of the car and go deal with the signing off, coordinating with the other moms of their friends who are staying over with us. Forms, releases, I agree that I am ok leaving my kid in the hands of an adult I don’t really know. That is the form Zane’s dad signed, we have never met, I just met his mom for a little bit Thursday and they are letting him come with us for a weekend. Only in America. Only in a country where there is trust and individuals count on the good intentions of strangers. As a group, at least where we live, they have not been contaminated by the fear of kidnappings, and the word ‘desaparecido’ has no other meaning in their minds than a magician’s trick.

There are girls on the queue waiting to get on the bus. They are anxiously waiting for Diego and Mauricio to pay attention to them. They are giggling. The other day driving back from swim practice, I asked Diego to stop texting while we were talking. “But mom, I don’t want to be rude, this is a friend, and she wants to know what can she bring me for my birthday”. I can picture this girl, all flirty, smile, tilted head, looking all dreamy to Diego asking him this question in the relational cyberspace texting is. Diego asks for a cookie or a cupcake. Is that girl on the line behind us? If so, I want to ask for the cupcake and smear it on her face. How dare she be close to MY boy? Doesn’t she see he is MINE? No girl will come take him away. Ever. Oh wait. We are not a single entity anymore. My boys are youngsters now, we are not an amalgam anymore. So instead I smile and I ask them “are you going to sing them happy birthday in the bus?” The three of them laugh. I guess they have sensed I have claws and I have decided not to use them to pick them up and fly them far away on my witch broom and have them be ‘desaparecidas’. So they are relieved and play the ‘I am a good and funny girl’ part in this charade. As nice as they want to be, one part of me still wants to find that cupcake and smear it all over their faces.

They go up in the mountain with their friends. Boys are skiing with boys. Which reminds me a soccer tournament this Spring, for which instructions for the trip strictly say “Boys will stay in hotel A and Girls will stay in hotel B”. Oh my, have we started the forced gender separation in case “anyone gets a bad idea”? Seriously?

They come in for lunch. I have sandwiches prepared, one of them eats it religiously, the other one skips the protein, goes for the potato chips. If there was a jail for mothers who did not force enough real nutrition to their kids, I would be in it. Diego does not eat fresh fruit or vegetables. Mauricio’s natural tendency towards carbs is a bit scary. But it is their birthday and I am not going to be the nagging mother I am every other day.

We have two tables full of their friends. They range from the tall to the short, the shy to the boisterous. They are all boys. Some have baby faces, others look like they can hang out with a gang in Los Angeles. They tell stories about amazing jumps. Amazing bike rides. The time they got lost. When their friend had a gash so big an ambulance was called. Young men trying to impress one another. They laugh from their bellies. They measure the opponent. They mean fun. They are trying to figure out who the others are and who they are themselves, in an endless play of mirrors they pass to each other. I fall into the conclusion this group of friends is now that entity my boys and I used to be. They are now in another circle of influence. They have fallen victims of the spell of being cool, looking cool, behaving cool.

Some other girls come to our table. I have not seen these ones. They are asking questions. They are getting very short answers. One of them has pimples. Where are those cupcakes, darn it?

I tell them I want to take a picture of all of them. Getting them out at the same time from the lodge is like herding chickens on an open field. Of the eight, four make it out. They see a mount of snow, which is really ice, and of course, but of course, they try to climb it. They slip, the fall, the tumble. They all laugh. There is no point on climbing this steep mound, only that they are boys and there is something steep at hand. I take pictures. They are laughing, fooling around, pushing, the humongous smiles. These kids don’t need girls to have fun for sure.

Kids without their parents show their true nature. Some of these kids I have known since they were in pre-school with my kids. I know their parents. Some are rude and leave their food on the table when they leave the lodge. Some show manners, watch what they say and clean after themselves. One of them walks by and I ask him if he has seen my boys in the mountain. He says no. I tell him I heard someone got hurt. He does not know who. Two hours later, when he comes back from the lodge, he takes the time to come by and report back: my boys are at the terrain park. There are two injured kids, one had a collar bone broken and the other one he is not really sure, but it sounded like an ankle injury. He has red hair, perfectly cut, he is courteous and thinks before he talks. I like this kid. Are my boys like this when I am not around?

Tonight we are taking him out for dinner to celebrate their birthday. I am hoping the time will freeze for a little bit because before I know it, they will have beards and their voices will be deep.

Later:

They asked to walk to town. Oh no! the ever-protecting mother said in me. Then we said, ok, just to the corner. Because it was light out and not as cold as we thought, we actually let them walk all the way to the restaurant. We listened to funny stories from Garrett, all his mannerisms a simile of his mother, it was like having her at the table. Mauricio sat to my left, did not speak to me, something about me bothers this kid. I am afraid we have entered the era of silent, dismissive hate. What he does not know is that I went through the same. I hated my mother, silently, strongly, with a force that would make me choke her if I had the courage. And I survived. He will survive too. Hopefully we won’t hurt each other as much as my mother and I devastated each other. May our war zone will leave space for reconstruction.

The all sleep in one bedroom. Like with every other sleep over, there is this surge of energy that possesses them the moment lights are out. I hear constant whispers. I go in and retrieve their iphones. Diego’s cough is not letting him sleep. I give him medicine, give him tissues, put more pillows under him. Can I give him my lungs and chest for one night? I have to menace the rest: if I hear more whispering, someone is going to sleep in the car. Finally quiet. Their tired, young bodies get some rest.

Off they went in the next morning, fresh and excited. One more day of skiing. One more day of their clan together, binding friendships that they might or might not remember when they get old. They are weaving a path with strings from each other’s lives. They don’t know it, but these are the days they will once look back and realize how easy life was, how fun, how desparpajada era la vida.

Sofia Bonnet Hollis

Catskills, New York

February 5, 2012.

Ultima actualización (Lunes 13 de Febrero de 2012 03:28)

Miércoles 29 de Diciembre de 2010 02:13 |

There are no translations available.

Escribí un artículo sobre mis recuerdos de Navidad cuando éramos chicos. El título es Bacalao.

Sábado 19 de Junio de 2010 06:37 |

There are no translations available.

Adiós Tucson, me voy de vuelta a Nueva York. Me regreso bronceada y con menos kilos. El desierto me chupó la prisa y un poco de grasa. Me curó el dolor de rodilla y me derritió el pedazo de alma que tanto invierno en Nueva York me había hecho hielo.

Me voy llena de sol pero ando arrastrando la cobija porque no me quiero ir. Traigo la necia idea de que yo aquí pertenezco. Y la explicación es sencilla: Tucson es México con infraestructura gringa. Lo mejor de los dos mundos, en paquete integrado, todo incluido. La gente es buena, venden tortas en la calle y puedes confiar en la policía. Vivo en Calle Rosa, esquina con Cloud, vecina de la calle Beso en una zona que se llama Sabino Canyon. O sea, toda una mezcla perfecta de español e inglés que tiene las calles limpias, pero está lleno de nopales. En la tienda compro queso fresco y barbacoa, paletas Michoacán y tortillas calientitas. Hay una panadería que vende las mejores conchas que he comido en mi vida. La gente no te mira raro si hablas español. El salón de la escuela de mis hijos está plagado de González, Hernández, Ramírez. Las mujeres son morenas, guapas y altas, con las meras norteñas de Chihuahua. O más bien “Shihuahua” como dicen ellas.

Y todo esto lo voy a cambiar por las nevadas de mierda en febrero, la actitud de dioses de los niullorquinos y los impuestos que son un abuso. No se vale. Me quiero quedar aquí por siempre. Quiero seguir viendo a los tecolotes hacer nido en la palmera del jardín. A las tarántulas pasearse muy oriundas ellas afuerita de la casa, impávidas ante nuestra presencia, pasando por la vida sin lastimar a nadie (excepto a los bichos que se comen, claro). Quiero ir por siempre de caminata a las montañas, a ver los millones de espinas de los saguaros brillar ante los primeros rayos del sol a las 6 de la mañana. Ese sol que aparece precioso antes de las 8, que pinta el sol de rosa y naranja al atardecer, pero que a medio día es infernalmente devastador. Hoy estuvimos a 43 grados centígrados. Una ridiculez. Pero prefiero sudar que congelarme, eso que ni qué. Prefiero aguantarme la frustración porque aquí nadie tiene prisa y son de lo más desorganizados, a lidiar con los groseros de Nueva York. Porque al fin y al cabo, sé lo que es la mediocridad, crecí en el país del “ahí se va” y del “no hay”. Por eso no me cuesta vivir aquí, hasta me entretiene. Porque el país en el que crecí es de mariachi, tequila y alegría, y eso abunda aquí también.

Le digo adiós al desierto que me curó la tremenda herida de ausencia que traía desde que dejé México hace 18 años. No me había dado cuenta cuánta melancolía traía enterrada en le pecho como una estaca invisible. El desierto me la sacó a punta de nopales bien preparados y el olor de los chiles poblanos asándose en el mercado de los domingos. Ese mercado lo voy a extrañar, porque es como un mercado sobre ruedas de pueblo mexicano. Y qué será de mi vaquero güerito, ay qué guapo muchacho el que vende la carne y el pollo sin hormonas. Pantalón de mezquilla, botas, sombreo vaquero, ojo azul y sonrisa perenne. Mi novio en el mercadito, qué será de él? Seguirá vendiendo feliz sin mi presencia. Porque la vida sigue, contigo o sin ti.

No voy a extrañar el estúpido calor del verano, ni las calles rascuaches ni al sol que se mete a nuestro cuarto a las 4:45 de la mañana en el verano. No voy a extrañar los cucarachones que se meten a veces en la casa, ni la sensación de infierno cuando vas caminando sobre asfalto en un estacionamiento. No voy a extrañar la base aérea plagada de cientos de aviones de guerra que nadie usa pero que están ahí como testimonio del tremendo complejo narcisista y bélico de este país.

Voy a extrañar a la gente, amable y sonriente. A los niños chapoteando en la alberca hasta altas horas de la noche. A la vecina cubana, a mi amiga argentina, a las ardillas minúsculas que corren subrepticias brincando en los hoyos de sus madrigueras bajo tierra. Las serpientes seguirán viniendo a visitar el jardín tímidas y hermosas. Los coyotes aullarán en coro a media noche y yo no estaré aquí para escucharlos y agradecer que todos estamos vivos en un solo grupo de seres vivientes, conectados en formas imperceptibles. La magnífica luna llena del desierto iluminará las noches cada mes como si fuera el sol mismo, y yo no veré las sombras de los mezquites que ella dibuja sobre la arena. No crecerán girasoles constantemente bajo el comedero de pájaros que pongo en el jardín.

Voy a extrañar a este desierto como una paria que dejó su tierra a marcha forzada. Pero más que nada, me voy a extrañar a mí misma. La Sofía del desierto es una mujer más tranquila, más en paz que la vive en Nueva York. Porque aquí estoy en mi elemento, me muevo como se mueven los demás, hablo como hablan los demás, no soy la rareza andando. No soy la excepción. Me como unos tacos de carne asada como todos los demás, y nadie se fija. Me rió fuerte y nadie voltea. Doy una vuelta en u donde no se debe y nadie me mira feo.

El desierto me curó la ausencia, y ahora temo que de ausencia moriré enterrada bajo la nieve. Espero que el verano en Nueva York me suavice la aterrizada, y que cuando extrañe el cantar los pájaros que viven en los saguaros, pueda escucharlos aún a dos mil quinientas millas de distancia, porque su canto me lo llevo en el corazón.

Nos vemos en unos años Arizona. Volveré como las oscuras golondrinas, pero esta vez para quedarme por siempre.

Sofía

Junio 18, 2010

Ultima actualización (Sábado 19 de Junio de 2010 06:46)

Jueves 06 de Mayo de 2010 22:58 |

There are no translations available.

Lluvia. Rain. Falls during the night, like a surreptitious robber. The drops sneak past the God of Dry, who rules the desert in Tucson. They fall on the mesquites, on the nopales, on the rocks. Each minute element of sand gets soaked. The first time it rains, as hard as that can be, after a little bit it is like nothing happened: the desert is so thirsty it soaks it up, it gulps water like a nomad who has been wandering and lost for months. It is a trick of magic, because if you had not seen the rain, you would have never guessed it happened. Then the second rain comes, and with the anxiety of the first rain gone, the sand now gets moist. You see puddles when you wake your dogs in the morning. The wash shows signs of the passing water, minute walls that weave curves on the sand, so perfectly wavy you don’t want to step on them.

In January the rain comes to the desert, the air is cold, the Catalina Mountains are white with snow. There are clouds above, a rare view in what is normally a straight blue shiny sky. You see them and you cannot take your eyes off them, you are mesmerized, because you suddenly realize how beautiful rain clouds are. You never see them, and your soul is getting drenched with their presence. They pass majestic, and eventually will break to let you peek into a triangle of sapphire behind, reminding you that above them, hope exists.

La lluvia lava todo. Rain washes everything. It rolls over the rocks, gets slurped by saguaros, who are now chubby and happy. They get inflated with life after the rain. Saguaros know of scarcity. They go several months without water, standing tall and proud, like it does not matter. But when the rain falls, you can almost feel them sigh in relief, gathering every droplet available, swelling like an accordion full of fluid music inside. Wet music, with the gila woodpecker yelps as a background.

Every plant here remembers the drought. Seven months ago, the heat was ridiculous, the sand was burning, shade brought no relief. The desert shuts down under the criminal sun. The trees get grey, the cacti sharpen their thorns, nothing moves at noon. Eating happens at night, when every living creature crawls out with eyes thankful they survived another day of summer heat in the desert. Weeks go by. Not a drop. Maybe the occasional monsoon, which is a joke, granted even if it lasts long, it cannot make up for the absolute martyrdom of the inferno that engulfs the desert for months. And months later, splash! The rain falls, not once, but twice, thrice. Days in a row. The desert is greener, it shines, almost squeaks because it is so clean, lavadito, rechinando de limpio.

Rain in the desert is like love lost found. It stays in our memory or in our hope for so long. But it does not come. We wait. We patiently sit around life looking down the road, maybe ‘the one’ is coming towards us, oh, there, maybe it is him, a cloud far away, no, it was not him, it did not rain today, we will continue dry inside, dry outside, waiting for love to bless us with their moisture. And then one night, after a windy afternoon, we hear rain. Our heart hesitates, bumping inside pum, pum, drip, drop. Here he comes, love at last. The morning finds every single tiny little leave decorated by tiny drops who resist to let go. We smile at the mirror, he loves me, he does. I do too. Come down again rain, empapame con tu locura, arrastrame a tu cueva de amor desesperado. Drown me with your slippery hand, cure the blisters of the summer, make me forget all the time I was without you. I missed you, let me absorb you in eternal kisses while the clouds float above, promising even more rain. Let me love again. Let it rain again.

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Ultima actualización (Miércoles 29 de Diciembre de 2010 02:15)

Sábado 17 de Abril de 2010 23:30 |

There are no translations available.

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