To a dear friend on her wedding day

Dearest Urszula,

Today you get married! I welcome you into the club of globe-trotting, mixed heritage married couples. 

It's club filled with people who decided that their love outweighed the challenges they'd face: differing expectations, ever-present communication problems, hard decisions about places (where to live? who to visit?), names (change it or not? baby names that everyone is happy with?), and so much more. You've met with some of those challenges already, but trust me, more are on their way. Mixed couples have it hard, and many things that wouldn't be a struggle if you married the boy down the street will crop up as major speed bumps to get over. 

So why do we do it? Why are there ever more people joining this club full of arguments and tears and misunderstandings? Why are you doing so today?

Because.

Because the love that drew you to this man, so different from you in so many ways (yet so alike in others), feels stronger than any you could have for anyone else.

Because the struggles that we face as mixed couples truly only do make us stronger, and solidify the bonds that we started forging years ago.

Because mixed couples go into marriage with their eyes wide open, knowing they'll have to fight for their love. And sometimes that makes all the difference.

Because the richness that your partner will bring to your life (yes it will increase!) will come in many forms: new places and foods, new languages to conquer, new points of view to understand, new realizations and greater empathy. He will be by your side through those experiences and help you make sense of them and see the beauty in them. 

Because you'll get to do the same for him.

Because your table will be filled with foods from differing corners of the earth (and I know you like to eat).

Because like attracts like, and the other mixed couples you'll meet in upcoming years will be among the most interesting and compassionate people you'll ever know. And you'll immediately be drawn to them, and they to you, and you'll be able to discuss all those struggles and hardships with your new friends, and they will understand like no one else can. They are the rocks you'll learn to lean on. Because couples need couple friends. And again, the richness of your life will multiply.

Because mixed couples make beautiful babies, who grow up with empathy and a unique perspective, who grow up multilingual, multicultural, and as true citizens of the world.

There are so many reasons that this club is a good place to be. I've only been in it for three years and have seen what incredible joy it has brought me. I'm so happy that, starting today, it will bring you the same. Welcome.

Women on the 20s!

You may or may not have heard of this initiative going on in the US right now. Each bill of our paper money has a face on it, of either a president (George Washington, Abraham Lincoln...) or someone important in the nation's history (Benjamin Franklin). (See here for all the bills—including some much bigger ones than you may think exist!)

On the 20 dollar bill we see the face of Andrew Jackson, a president who did a lot for the country—some of it good, and some of it... not so much. One of his biggest, and certainly his most terrible legacy is the "Trail of Tears", formally known as the Indian Removal Act of 1830. 

"...the Cherokee nation was forced to give up its lands east of the Mississippi River and to migrate to an area in present-day Oklahoma. The Cherokee people called this journey the "Trail of Tears," because of its devastating effects. The migrants faced hunger, disease, and exhaustion on the forced march. Over 4,000 out of 15,000 of the Cherokees died."                             source

Just take a look at this map to get an idea of the scope of this relocation. For anyone familiar with the geography of the US, think about how radically different those deep south climates are from Oklahoma.

source

So do we really want to celebrate this man on one of the most commonly used US bills? Here's another reason it doesn't make the most sense that he's there:

Some argue that because Jackson was a fierce opponent of the central banking system and favored gold and silver coin or "hard money" over paper currency, he is an ironic choice for immortalization on our money.                                                                             source

One thing to remember is that the people who appear on US currency can change at any time—the President, the Secretary of the Treasury, or Congress just has to order it to be done. Another interesting fact: the faces on our bills haven't changed since 1929.

So now that we've established that Andrew Jackson's face is not the most logical, and that it's rather time for a change, who should we put on the $20 bill? Before we can answer that, these kids have an important question:

The people at womenon20s.org are trying to garner public support for the change from Andrew Jackson to a celebrated American woman on the $20 bill. This is far from being an aggressive feminist movement, it's simply a way to give some needed attention to the important women of our nation. We have lots of inspiring ones to choose from!

In March I was one of the 256,000 people who voted for my top three of the fifteen most influential American women. Now, since the beginning of April, four finalists have been identified. From the womenon20s website:

Because of strong public sentiment that people should have the choice 
of a Native American to replace Andrew Jackson, Cherokee Nation 
Chief Wilma Mankiller appears on the Final ballot.
from: www.womenon20s.org/the_process

Go here to get to that page and read these amazing women's more complete biographies. I certainly learned quite a lot!

I have two email addresses, so I'm voting twice, but I won't influence you one way or another so I won't tell you who I'm voting for, however I will tell you to go vote! Even if you aren't American! Go take a look at the womenon20s website, learn a bit about the history of that country, and really, why not vote? The more people vote, the more likely it is that one of these women will appear on the 20 dollar bill in 2020, right in time for the 100th anniversary of women's suffrage in America!

Vote here!!

My lil sisters arting it up

I've been rather quiet here in the blogosphere lately, not only because I'm adapting to new classes and work duties and so on, but also because, well, not much happens in January. I didn't forget about the blog, I just haven't done much worth relating here. It's gotten to the point that it's January 22nd and I only have two blog posts for the month, which is pretty shameful, so I decided to go look back at January 2014 and see what I wrote about then to get ideas! I quickly realized most of the posts were simply looking back at our Christmas vacation, which gave me a few ideas. So without further ado...

The night before my flight out of the US I plopped lil sis number 3, Tessie, down with my phone and this picture opened on it. She had been promising me for ages to draw a picture of Othman and I for us, and still hadn't done it, so I decided to put an end to her procrastination. 

About 12 minutes later this was the scene...

And less than 10 minutes after that the drawing was complete. That lil sis of mine is pretty good.

On that same night, lil sis number 1, Isabel, was making herself a very cool graphic-designed, sharpie-drawn quote. Yes that explanation was bizarrely incoherent, but what do you call this:

???

Anyway that's the one she offered to make for me after I stood all googly-eyed over the one she had made for herself for maybe a bit too long. 

There is so much art that goes on in our family's house all the time, and I absolutely love it. From paintings to doodles to piano concertos, it never seems to stop! Needless to say, I have some pretty talented and very kind siblings. Thank you both for the gifts, love you sisterlies!

Pages-- Chapter 3!

This is post number 100 on this blog, which has been in existence for less than a year! I'm so happy I started it, as it gives me a great outlet for writing and is such a great way to keep family and friends around the world a glimpse into my life and travels. It's more personal and detailed than Facebook, but less time consuming than personal correspondence, which it doesn't really replace, but in my sporadic conversations with friends throughout the year it's so much easier to just direct them here for a report on what has been happening!

Anyway, for my one hundredth post, it's an absolute pleasure to talk about the very exciting event that happened last Wednesday! I had the opportunity to speak in front of a crowd of Moroccans and expats at a bar in the "old downtown" of Casablanca at an event called Pages. If you missed my previous post about Pages, take a look here.

Photo from the Pages FB and photo credit to Rapax Studios!

The night was fantastic, the other speakers inspiring, and the music enjoyable! Tahir Shah, the author of The Caliph's House which is based on his experience moving to Casablanca, was there and spoke a bit about stories and storytelling to open the night. Having read his book (along with every other expat in Morocco I think...) and been to his house (as the venue for the baby shower of a friend sometime last year), it was really interesting to see/meet him in person. I really enjoyed his thoughts on storytelling, and especially his point about how the same stories, Cinderella for example, crop up in totally different cultures and corners of the world repeatedly. Certain stories and characters are transcendent of time and place, simply because they are so compelling, and are unlikely to disappear any time soon.

I was the last speaker to talk, which was a bit nerve-wracking since I had to wait my turn the entire night, but being a teacher I'm so used to standing up and "performing" in front of a bunch of people that I wasn't too nervous. I mentioned in my introduction at the event that although anyone who knows me can attest to the fact that I'm a talker, even more than talking I like to write. So instead of talking in front of all those people, I read something I had prepared. And due to the fact that while here in Morocco I'm most at ease speaking mix of French and English, what I wrote was in that same mix, given that I was privileged enough to be speaking to a crowd who could understand it all. Feel free to use google translate to get the main idea of the French sections. ;D

Photo from the Pages FB and photo credit to Rapax Studios!

 My Maroc

un

3 years.

3 years, 8 months, 6 days.

I’ve lived in this city for 1344 days. Almost two million minutes.

I’ve lived in this city for 192 weeks— that's 18 weeks longer than my college career.

Those weeks have been full of sunshine and tears, white knuckled car rides and donkey pulled fruit carts, hair tearing bureaucracy and toes dancing with seaweed.

deux

The first time I came here was on my University’s account. Bank account. I scrapped together some BS grant proposal as a pretext for visiting that man right there, and getting to know his country, his family, and him. He and I had had some good times en France plus tôt dans l’année, et ça a commencé d’être plus sérieux. Ma première vrai journée à Casa, et il m’amène ou? Bah a Derb Ghallef bien sûr! On a bu du thé marocain dans un magasin de pièces de voiture. J’étais trop excite de montrer ma grande connaissance d’Arabe—atay nana ! Mais non, c’était même pas nana.

The shopkeeper’s sob story how his wife had just left him was translated sporadically, but I was content watching the pitter patter of pedestrian traffic on the small side alley, everyone picking their way to avoid the ablution runoff. I didn’t see any women.

trois

Au début, chômeurs, on a habité avec ma belle-famille. J’ai appris le Français. Mais c’était pas facile.

quatre

Imsouane. Imsouane.

New Year’s. Sunshine beating our skin, Atlantic winds chilling our bones. Nutty argan oil on my veranda breakfast omelette. Blond surfers in the bay, us exploring the shore’s rock formations, afraid of the frigid sea. A fisherman dancing with his dog, silhouetted by the last crimson sunlight of the year. Fish, fish and more fish to eat, and never a complaint from us. The stars. The silence. The next year, we did it all over again.

cinq

It’s the day to day things I find the hardest. My death-defying taxi drivers. My lack of time to form proper friendships. The struggle to get the internet fixed, or the fridge, or the water heater, or to get the electricity turned back on when Lydec turned it off EVEN THOUGH WE PAID.  The birds that poop on the clothes I just hung out for the sun to finish my laundering job. The ear splitting, high-pitched road rage of blameless drivers. Walking on the street with self-imposed invisible blinders, shielding myself from the honks, looks and dirty mutters I don’t understand…. but understand.

It’s the day to day things I appreciate the most. The seagulls perched as regularly as piano keys on the construction crane in front of my school. The way the fruit here pops when you chew it. How the wildflower colors change each month. Le fait que je parle français maintenant. Les couleurs de la coucher de soleil au-dessus de l’océan. How little trash I create here, compared to in the US. No heating needed. Central AC? Pff. Real food is cheap, processed isn’t, that’s how it should be.

six

On Mondays for the past year I’ve headed to la petite église près du Rond-Point du Sports, pour chanter dans une chorale. On est des marocains, des français, des anglais, une danoise, une américaine, et même plus j’en suis sure.  C’est ma thérapie hebdomadaire. Pendant notre spectacle en mai le monsieur chargé d’ouvrir et fermer les rideaux sur la scène a le Rialto était totalement défoncé, et il a fait n’importe quoi. Les rideaux ont ouvert sans le moitié des chanteurs, et après ils ont pas fermer pour que on fait la changement de costume. Embarassing? Ohmygod yes. But this is Morocco, and no one really seemed to pay attention to that.

sept

In a multilingual country such as this, one picks up on things that might not draw attention otherwise. Par exemple comment des voix changent quand on parle dans les langues différents. I imagine my voice to be the same mix of throaty nasal dans les deux langues, but you might not agree. E si eu falo português, a lingua da minha mae, é totalmente differente! Funny how that works.

fin

Part of how I make sense of this world, this life, this country, is through writing poetry. I’ll leave you with a true story.

In the West she’d be locked away

She’s a shadow made of moss and brown,
feet horned and dusty. Her sandals slip
on and off.

She ambles with that monkey gait

through carts of egg vendors,
boys screaming at their goalies,
and the local station de police.
Her chatters and mumbles don’t stop,
going from spider to howler in an instant.

The first time she looked drunk-stoned,

I thought maybe she’s another glue sniffer

or counts among the illicit alcoholics

of this dry and thirsty country.

I saw a man offer her bread at the hanout today.
She didn't seem to understand;
maybe her stomach was sated.

She must have been educated
before the psychosis set in;
her French, spat out with saliva darts,
is better than mine.

I've often wondered if she has anyone,

a sister, uncle, social worker. Him?
But that's just my Western brain,

I think. Because then I remember her wiry hair
tied up with that kind of plastic rope
they string dried figs onto.
She shifts it back onto rough chopped gray
from its flower power place.

There's never a fly too far off.

She is as scenery in this place,
another piece of Oulfa’s puzzle,

and I’m the only one the least bit phased
by her accusing stares.

Photo from the Pages FB and photo credit to Rapax Studios!

A huge thanks to Monika and Amr for organizing another night of fantastic entertainment, which brings so many different people together in such a wonderful way. Already looking forward to Chapter 4!

To my mom on Mother's Day

May is a month of celebrations in our family. There are no fewer than 4 immediate-family birthdays, as well as the birthday of the Chomicki twins who are my parents goddaughters and our "cousins", plus with seven kids there is bound to be some sort of graduation almost every year, and last but not least of course May is home to the day we celebrate our dear mother. 

Growing up, all my friends loved my mom and thought was very cool, but I couldn't really see where they got that from. Most of my teenage years (and some before and some after...) were spent butting heads with her, and I caused her lots and lots of grief. A few years ago the realization dawned on me that part of the reason I fought with her so much was because I am really similar to her in many ways. We both hold strong opinions and aren't willing to back down from them. We both get emotional when we believe in something, and will fight hard for that. And we both seek beauty and appreciate truth. While we don't see eye-to-eye on many things, we've both learned to live with that, and though we may not understand the other's point of view we've come to a mutual respect.

Getting married has changed my life in many ways, and one aspect is that it has given me a new appreciation for my mom. Her early days of marriage resembled mine in some ways, and must have been harder in others. We both are/were young women expatriated and living in our husband's land, a place we came to willingly but a place of foreign customs, full of people with inexplicable behavior. Language and expectations are vital to a married couple, and marrying someone with a different native tongue, and with cultural expectations that you may not be aware of, can cause a lot of unnecessary strife. But when things get difficult she's an example to me of someone who made it work, and has reaped the rewards. I wasn't there in those beginning days of my parents marriage and honestly had never given them much thought, but lately I've realized that wow, she made it through, under circumstances even more difficult than mine, so hey, so can I.

Almost exactly a year ago I was sitting in the city headquarters of a large gas station company, waiting for my student; the head of human resources there was a lovely but not-very-timely lady. I had just bought a new little pocket notebook, and as I sat there thinking, I began to write down a list. I'll inscribe it here, as a mother's day gift, the best I can give to my mom on this day. Although I might write it slightly differently today, this is how it was written then, and I'll keep it unchanged.

My mother has many amazing qualities, many of which I share, others which I'd like to develop or adopt. 

We share, but me in my own way:

• hardworking
• creative
• good at writing
• good at cooking
• passionate

For my development, now or in the future:

• organizing events and other people
• good at art
• good at mothering
• being a welcoming hostess
• independent thinker

For adopting in the future:

• making something out of nothing
• bringing people together
• encourages ability, talent and independence in her kids
• optimistic

Thank you mom for being an inspiring mother, the best you could be, and the best I could hope for. I love you!

15 years of sisterly love

My sweet, intelligent, and beautiful sister Maria is 15 years old today! B or Bia, as I usually call her, has always held a special place in my heart. I was almost 10 when she was born, and old enough to help care for her a lot when she was small. I remember staying with my mom in her hospital room with tiny baby Maria, the smallest of all of us, and filling out her homemade birth announcements with my shaky, childish cursive. I thought she was so perfect, and wanted to be around her all the time. My one and only (and utterly failed) venture into the world of knitting was a baby blanket for her, which I randomly found last summer and realized was much, much smaller than I remembered.

Newborn Bia in the hospital

My best 9-year-old handwriting

As a baby and toddler Bia was generally very sweet tempered, and once Tessie came along they were inseparable playmates. Though their personalities are quite opposite they have always complemented each other well and gotten along beautifully. When I was homeschooling in 7th and 8th grade Tessie was a baby and Bia was a toddler, and I often helped mom take care of them--I especially remember many hours spent watching them playing in the bath! I loved the special sisterly bonds that developed between us from all the time spent together. Neither of them remember much or any of it, but I do, and I know if I had been in school those two years we wouldn't be as close as we are now.

They wore matching clothes for years and years!

One of the hardest parts of living in Morocco for me is being so far from my sisters. Bia was only 8 when I left for college (and Tessie was 6) and I feel like I've missed so much of their growing up and becoming who they are now. Each summer I feel like I rediscover a "new version" of my sisters, who are essentially the same but who have a year's worth of changes behind them. When I got home last July Bia's hug felt different--she'd passed me in height, and was no longer the pre-teen I had left the September before. It's hard to see so tangibly how much I miss. 

B, Tess and Volamino in Brazil, 2006.

Maria is a very unique member of our family, but she and I share a lot of common traits and we understand each other well. We even look the most alike of the sisters! She's the witty one in the family--she may not talk much but when she does it's worth paying attention to. Philosophical and hilarious comments that cut right to the heart of whatever dinner-table discussion we're having are her specialty! She's a lover of paper--whether it's in a book, in one of her many notebooks, or she's drawing or painting on it--there is always some close to her. She and I are probably the two biggest readers of our siblings, and we're definitely the two who write the most. She recently started her own blog, which is full of personality, and gives me wonderful doses of her from across an ocean. Bia also likes to bake, and during my weeks in South Dakota in the summer one can often find the two of us making cookies and laughing together in the kitchen. She's a private person whose mind is constantly full of all sorts of fanciful thoughts, whose mouth and manner may be calm, but whose spirit definitely isn't. 

One major difference between us is the environment we grew up in. It still kind of confuses me that my two youngest sisters basically grew up as South Dakotan country girls. I think Bia took the move away from the acreage and into the city this past August the hardest, and I don't blame her for it. Every day she'd take an after-dinner walk around our property and in our woods, enjoying the beauty, the quiet, the alone time. She took me on her walk a few times, and it was wonderful to share that with her, and to remember how I used to do much the same when I lived there in high school.

I think that was our very first farm cat, aptly named "Kitty"

This year for Maria promises all sorts of things--a new house (we hope!), an overseas trip (we hope!), a learner's permit (maybe?), and a continuation of her growth into a beautiful young lady who is wonderful to be around and who can make everyone smile. Happiest of birthdays dear little sister, and here's hoping this year is the best one yet. I love you and am so proud of you!!

Volamino, Volamina

My mom has been in Brazil for about a week now. Last Wednesday evening, March 5th, my grandfather, my Volamino, passed away. 

He and my grandmother were my older brother's godfather and godmother, which translates to padrinho and madrinha. In combination with vovô and vovó (grandpa and grandma) their names became Volamino and Volamina to his toddler tongue. Since then that's what we've all called them.

Volamina passed away five years ago, and since then my grandfather has been kind of lost. The last time I saw him was also the last time I was in Brazil, during the summer of 2009. It was about 8 months after she died, and it was hard to see how he'd wander the house looking for her. After 57 years of marriage and being parents to 11 children together, I guess life without her didn't seem as bright. 

Volamino, Patrick and Volamina in 2006

Volamina was one of the kindest, most selfless people I've ever met. Her smile was constant, her eyes bright, her hands soft. She was a natural teacher, and while she never had an full time job she was always giving classes to someone. She was incredibly talented and bright, spoke Portuguese, French and English fluently, managed a huge household that moved around Brazil many times, and raised 11 children that turned into wonderful people. Volamino was much the same. He was an esteemed engineer in Brazil working in the steel industry, and as he got older traveled all around the world as a consultant due to his expertise. He was fair minded, kind, and delighted in beauty. Music was a passion of his, and I learned from a facebook post of my aunt's remembering him that he was a graduate of the Brazilian conservatory of music in classical piano. It makes perfect sense, but it was one of those things I never knew, or had forgotten. Most of my aunts and uncles are musical--the siblings formed a choir when my mom was young and friends called them the "Brazilian Von Trapps". The fact that two of my sisters took up piano made him so happy. I remember the proud and contented smile on his face in 2006 when Isabel, aged 11 gave a little piano concert at Christmas. 

In 2006, for Volamino's 80th birthday, 9 of their 11 children came to celebrate.

I remember being 4 years old and walking in the mountainous countryside in the state of Rio, huge trees overhead, damp smell in the air, birds and insects adding their voices to our laughter. I was picking bouquets of the small red, pink, and orange wildflowers that pop up everywhere with Volamina. Every time I see those flowers, ubiquitous on the Rio mountainsides, that memory comes rushing back.

I remember being a four year old at the beach with Volamino and his red box kite and the diamond one with a funny face. In my memory he made the kites by hand out of bamboo and tissue paper, decorating them with faces, and then helped us fly them. It's one of those memories that I'm not sure I got exactly straight, but one that I wouldn't want to change even so.

Me at 4 and 5 years old. Volamino and the red box kite are on the left.

I remember our days at Sitio Santa Helena, the property with a summer house in the mountains 2 hours from the city of Rio that my grandparents retired to. It was in Volamina's family since she was a little girl, and I spent many beautiful months there with my family when I was younger. I loved the hills, the horses, the little lake with its rowboat, the chicken houses and pig pens that still housed animals when I was very small, the smell of the rain on the hard red dirt, the wall of said dirt that extended 3 meters up lining the driveway, with plenty of footholes allowing us to climb it and dance around the giant ant nests above. I loved our summer bonfires filled with dried bamboo that made huge, loud pops when the hollow chambers inside got too hot and exploded, and the flying newspaper fire-balloons we'd make on summer nights. I loved the big pool with the water slide, the little lizards that lived high up near the ceiling on the walls, and the huge blue butterflies that sometimes wandered in the house. 

I loved the hammock, the funny-looking well my grandfather made, the swings, the long walks we'd all take around the extensive property, the cobblestone drive leading from the garage down to the pool, and the rooms above the open garage that housed a walls of bookshelves filled with titles in many languages. The books were full of little tunnels going from cover to cover made by bookworms; but my literal counterparts didn't stop me from devouring the Agatha Christies and whatever else I found in English. I loved the old pool table in that same room--if I remember correctly it also served as a table for Volamino's model trains. I loved the lines and lines of white laundry hanging in the sun next to the orange trees with oranges that stayed green but made delicious juice. I loved how good everything smelled. I even loved how we'd try to watch the VHS of Apollo 13 or Snow White (in Portuguese) only to realize the mildew got to the tape again and it wouldn't play. 

I remember the terrified feeling in 2001 when we would lose sight of toddler Tessie, and my heart jumping in my chest as I'd run to the un-fenced pool to make sure she wasn't floating there. I remember the relief finding her with gardener, her staunch friend, almost every time. I remember the Nesquik popcorn we'd eat, and how I was never sure how much I liked it. I remember making trips into Mendes, the nearby town, and getting coconut ice cream at the Apollo 11 ice cream shop with Volamino. I remember the heavy feeling in the rented van as we'd make the trip to the airport in Rio, always with a stop at Bob's--Brazilian fast food--when I'd giggle at how Volamino would eat even his burger and french fries with a knife and fork.

Volamina and me in 2007.

I have so many memories from sitio, and so many more from the house they moved to in Petropolis in 2005 or so, when living in a smaller, simpler house, and closer to medical establishments, became more essential. Teaching Texas Hold 'Em to cousins, French and Portuguese lessons with Volamina, poolside reading, bathing Blungo the overweight golden Labrador, trips into the historical city and into the surrounding areas, with Volamino pointing out which mountains my uncles had climbed in their youth... I have such wonderful images in my head.

I think of my mom, in Brazil right now with her siblings, and how she must be feeling. Her memories are more vast, more deep, more painfully beautiful than mine, simply because the first quarter century of her life was spent in those places, as a part of that unique and loving family. She is the 7th of 11, and ten years separate her from my oldest uncle, and ten years again from her youngest sister. She has been so far away from them for so long. What joy it must have been to grow up in such a beautiful place, surrounded by the love only a close family can give. 

My mom with her dad.

In a way I feel it is a blessing that my grandfather passed when he did. She was able to be by him till the end, which must have been a comfort, since she did not have that opportunity when Volamina died. Now she can grieve for both of her parents in the company of her siblings and Titia, my great-aunt who has always been a part of the household. My mom hasn't been able to visit these past few years unless there was a sickness or other such emergency in the family. Now she has a couple weeks to enjoy her family, and simply just be with them. 

Of course I am sad, we all are, that Volamino is gone. It's hard to think of how I'll never see him again. But he lived a long, good life, had a peaceful passing, and is out of pain now. He desperately missed his wife, and is with her now.

At Volamino's 80th birthday party in 2006.

I wrote a poem a few months ago I'd like to share and dedicate.



To Lucia and Claudio Braga, may you be happy and together now, for eternity.


Molded by me

My heaven's shape will not be constant;
its fluid sides will undulate
like those giant bubbles I made
in the garden at four years old--
rainbow-prisons that colored the air.

My heaven will smell like mountainous slopes
from long ago, off highways outside Rio--
heady wet soil and wild bouquets
dirtied my toddler hands
as fresh storms filled the air.

My heaven will sound like my sister's fingers
when they fly over ivory and pound
out the melodies I hoard
as notes and silence hover
in the slowly stalling air.

Eu te amo Volamino. Te amo Volamina. Obrigada por tudo. Saudades.

The case of Sherlock vs Elementary

As previously mentioned, Othman and I enjoy following TV shows together.A while back we got into BBC's Sherlock, much like most people with any taste and time to spare. We are eagerly awaiting season 3, said to be coming out next January. While we were quickly convinced by Sherlock, we began watching another Sherlock Holmes adaptation, Elementary, with a bit of a skeptical air. A year or so ago I happened to watch most of an episode of Elementary and was far from impressed. Being the pickier of the two, I've rejected quite a few shows after watching the pilot episode, and was hesitant to even give Elementary a chance. I'm quite glad I did.

Like Sherlock, it's an updated version of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's tales, but moves away from the originals quite drastically. Holmes, played by Johnny Lee Miller, is now a recovering drug addict living in New York City. His absent, rich and unforgiving father pays for a sober companion to live with him after he exits a rehab facility, not giving Holmes a choice about it. Enter Joan Watson, played by Lucy Liu, a former doctor who moves in to keep him out of trouble. Miller's Holmes is significantly older than Benedict Cumberbatch's Holmes of Sherlock, and Elementary is meant to take place after a long tenure of Holmes' with the Scotland Yard. That detail makes the entire set-up rather easier to swallow.


I do not claim in any way to be a Sherlock Holmes expert; unlike little sister Maria I have not worked through the massive collected stories of Conan Doyle, though I have been exposed to various interpretations and original stories from a young age. Already within the pilot episode we see a significant departure from the books (his dad was never mentioned, among the more obvious variations), so one might say the show is more inspired by the Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes rather than based on his stories. I will admit that these changes didn't leave me wholly convinced at first, and may lead others to dismiss the show prematurely. My recommendation: don't let them.

I love TV shows with significant character development. Othman is more intrigued by the story and what happens, while I focus much more on connecting with the characters. It doesn't matter how good a plot is-- if the characters don't have depth and the actors are mediocre, I can't get into a show. Elementary is such a hit in my book because Holmes and Waston, while not really what we might expect, are incredibly well played. In Miller's incarnation of Holmes we can see Sherlock's personality portrayed in a unique light, and he is 100% believable. His tics, battles with addiction and total self-absorption are well developed and considered in the show. There is a psychological aspect of Holmes that isn't particularly dealt with in Sherlock or in the orignals. Waston as well is much less one-dimensional than she could be, the chemistry between the two actors is strong and pleasant, and quite frankly I ended up convinced.

Without giving anything away, Elementary does play fast and loose with many of the stories/themes in Conan Doyle's original, but I for one accept them readily as a novel interpretation of a character that deserves more than one reincarnation.

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I realize that I didn't talk much about Sherlock here, but in my book there's not much point in that, because everyone already loves it, right? Just defending the underdog I suppose. ;D

The First.

And voila, I'm making a third entrance into the blogging world. 

Though I've considered starting up a blog in which to note down my thoughts for many years now, the impetus just was never there. But lately I've been bugging my family with long, drawn out emails about traditional Moroccan holidays full of pictures, sending my mom things for her blog, and wishing my Flickr had a space for thought-sharing, so I guess now is the time. The more I see my friends be able to express themselves in their own little corner of the web, the more I realized how I've really ached to do the same. 

I enjoy writing, but don't write hardly as often as I should. This quote that once I found in some long-forgotten place in the web and have saved for many years, sums it up nicely:

The act of writing is the act of discovering what you believe.      --David Hare

That being said, I process as I write, so while I'll do me best to remain comprehensible, forgive me if I'm ever not.

For those of you who have lost touch with what's up in my life right now, or who don't know me, here's a little intro, past to present.

I guess I was always a bit spicy!

With my three beautiful sisters. I reserve every right to brag 
about them as often as possible, and trust me, they deserve it.

More siblings, two of the three brothers. 
Yes, I'm the shorty in the family.

And the missing one, donning a gift from Morocco. 
Somehow we've managed to not take a picture of all 
seven of us for quite a while now. Oops.

I lived in Texas, Kansas, Brazil, New Jersey, Nebraska, and South Dakota as a child, growing up with three brothers and three sisters and a Brazilian mom, and homeschooling on and off. After spending much of my senior year of highschool homeschooling while living with relatives in Brazil, I made my way to study comparative world history at the University of Notre Dame. 

Thanks to ND's Center for Social Concerns, I spent 2 summers doing service projects, one in Albuquerque working at the Boys and Girls Club, and one in Sao Paulo, Brazil. I was beseeched upon to write a blog for the latter, so you can waste some time reading my past ramblings of that very interesting summer here if you wish. (Teaser: a large part of my work was with drug mules, all women, mostly Africans, who got caught at the airport and were thrown into the Brazilian prison system for on average 4 years. I visited them, wrote a guide to prison life for the new inmates after many interviews, helped them correspond with their families, and lived in a halfway house with many on parole. But I promise you nothing about the quality of writing.)

After that I spent my junior year of college wandering around France, writing a sparsely updated and somewhat boring blog (have you got the feeling yet that my previous attempts left me less than inspired? Well third time's the charm, right?), exploring a bit of Europe on a tiny budget, taking pictures of beautiful places, trying to learn French, and meeting my now husband! 

Long story short, I finished up one last semester at ND, graduated in January 2011 a semester early and promptly moved to Casablanca, Morocco with Othman, who was then in the States meeting my family. 

We've been living here almost 3 years now, and got married this past August! We live in a nice little apartment in Casablanca with our two turtles, Chomper and Sparkle. I'm an English teacher at British Council where Americans are sorely outnumbered, and thus have picked up many British-isms (at first I wrote "flat" instead of apartment, oops), and he's a quality control engineer at a big Moroccan mineral water company. Our life is simple, but happy.

Turtles!! Sparkle is the little one, and Chomper is about 
the size of my palm. I guess technically they're tortoises. 
Othman's caption: "He chomps, she sparkles!"

For all wedding photos, credit goes to the lovely Emily Ann Photographer.

My interests: taking pictures of the little things, gluten-free/paleo/GAPS baking, becoming a more effective teacher, reading voraciously (especially historical fiction and nonfiction), writing poems that I think are mediocre but am told are good.

His interests: cars and driving them, computers, enjoying bad TV shows ("for the right reasons" he says) and some good ones too, discovering international reggae bands (and exposing my brothers to reggae covers), having luscious, beautiful, curly hair.