Be Careful with Love

Be Careful with Love

I’ve lost everything I had

to a feeling named Love…

It feels so warm
yet it can be so cold.

It’s being together
and being apart.

Love it’s a white light
hidden in the dark.

It makes you strong.
But fragile and weak;
all of it at the same time.

Is soothing like Spring water in Summer time.
And warm like a bonfire under your hands.

And if you let it Love will burn
a deep hole into your heart.

If you ever experience Love,
Beware!

It will burn you up alive,
then heal you.

It will be caring, but cruel.
So make sure to nurse your wounds very soon.
Because when Love is gone its emptiness will remain within you.
So I urge you dear friend, be very careful with Love!

 

Unanswered: Poem by Evelyn Rod.

Unanswered

The plan, to be myself,
my own unique person.
In reality, we emulate so many.
Confusion is not a stranger,
but more like a close friend.
Anger drops by
and never seems to end.
It hides instead
in the shadows
of florescent lights,
and to the naked eye
is never in sight.
In a theater, we live our daily lives.
Award winning actors
in every shape & size.
 What is this I ask,
Does anyone feels the same?
The question remains!
Why have we all became
so rehearsed and fake?

Unanswered, the questions remains…

Hard Times: Poem by Evelyn Rod.

Hard Times

Sometimes I feel
like my whole world
it’s crashing down;
Everything around me
is spinning so fast,
I wish I could control it.
I wish I could control
all of my surroundings,
But all I can do
it’s just hope for the best.
I wonder why do I
sometimes do the wrong thing,
like choosing what’s more
convenient for me
and not the other person.
Some people think
I’m selfish, arrogant and greedy.
And they say
I only think of myself.
Yes, sometimes I am.
But they forget
I am honest, caring, and a great friend.
Maybe all I need is some guidance.
Maybe all I need is a new plan in life
to help me and guide me
through these difficult & hard times,
we all, imperfect humans, have in our lives.

Lost Identity

Who am I?

Some people have said to me that I have Sofia Vergara’s accent and Kim Kardashian’s looks. I rather think I have fello Boricua Jlo’s look. As I’m Puertorrican, for my mother side and like Jlo I was also born in NYC.

That’s the extent of my knowledge to my roots as I never met my father nor anyone on his family side, have no idea if he was just a dark skin Puertorrican, an Indian, or Morrocan descent man. They stories varied so his name.

All I know is that I’m a beautiful mutt. And happy to be just me, regardless of my Ancestory or genes. Being an inteligent educated openminded woman is enough for me. (Or isn’t. Sometimes I yearn to know more & be more.)

Beside my so ambivalent character I have a constant smile on my face, except when I’m “randomly checked” at the airports and being shoved aside like a criminal by their TSA reps. But other than that I’m someone who is a magnet to others. And I still don’t know the reason for such an unexplainable reaction, except for my pretty good social skills. Being this “different” have many advantages. But also many disadvantages as well. You either fit in or you don’t.  Is not as black and white as you’d think.

My personality fits in well, but sometimes my looks or my accent doesn’t quite work well into fitting in with certain people or groups. And I don’t want to have to try so hard to be accepted. Never had that issue in my schools in Puerto Rico. Why I have to face them now as an adult in the U.S. the place I was literally made. The place where I was born.

Now even when I visit Puerto Rico, I get asked at the airports,  “What are you?” To which I’m inclined to reply, “Human of course!”, “I’m not an alient” (Pun intended). It is so frustrating that even in your own country one is a foreigner, a total stranger.

All because I may now sound or look a bit different. I get asked that a lot, if I’m from Puerto Rico or Dominican or Arab?! Others assume, rightfully so, that I’m probably Indian. Which they are not so far from the truth according to a dear old Auntie.

So the tell is, I’m part Puerto Rican & part Indian/ Moroccan (Meaning Indian or Black?) A question that remains unanswered, like the title of a old poem I once wrote in my childhood But why is his last name Spanish?)

Fake name. Just like himself!

That all my aunt would say about my biological father, over and over. So at a very early age I came to a conclusion all by myself. That that lump on a log good for nothing lier misogynistic abusive bastard was some kind of Indian/Arab/African man.

A buggy man who’s fake name was not allowed to be mentioned in my home, except for his nick name “the devil”. And I hoped one day to face that devil to tell him few word. One of them was “Thank you!”

(Thank you “Father” for leaving us. For running away from your woman and children. You were no good to us, so leaving us was the best thing you could have done to my late mother and to us. To your children. The ones who forgot existed. The one you lost like my late brother Rob. You were dead to us. For that I thank you! Cause to me, you will always be a ghost and nothing more!)

My present concern is not who he was, is more of “Who am I? ” I know it deep inside. I know that I am a smart gorgeous grown ass woman, who’ve build herself from the ashes, literally, like a Fénix. And I have this strong reassuring inner voice that assures me that I am ok. That I am myself and that’s enough.

I am. I think. I exist!

_Everything will be alright.

We are on the tip of the 20th Century and people still concern themselves over such trivial issues of multicultural relations and racial issues. It’s the area of Hate & Racism. And those problems are not as trivial as they should be. We’ve made them important! Our biased humanity made racial issues the center of the attention.

Now I’m under the spotlight because of that. Being Multiratial and Multicultural is my scarlet letter. My sin.

Someone greeted me the other day this way, “Hey Níger How you doing? Then, Do you work in this building?”  (*mouth wide open, eyes about to burt out of its sockets. Twitch on my temples… WTF? almost spat my mouth. Zip it!)

There were two main odd things about it:

  1. He said “nigger” and he was a Caucasian looking male. A Security guard

  2. I don’t look black. And you don’t go around calling people niger Nigga! He probably thought he was being friendly. But he fucking wasn’t it. That’s not nice, not professional.

I never expected a Security Guard, act like that. His plump tomatoe red face was smiling side to side. His eyes were glassy and glaring at me up and down. I gave him my perfect cowboy stare, hand on my waist as if I had a gun ready to start the challenge and battle him to death.

And he did the same. Locking eyes with me.

I simply said in a defensive almost masculine voice, “What?”

He laughed and began talking like a chatter box, repeating his question, this time around without using insulting N word. This time he did sounded friendlier. And showing me his rotten yellow teeth he complimented me on my shirt. I replied it was my first day at INS. He said you are on the wrong parking area. Imma letting you park there today. Tomorrow park on the second parking garage.

I was surprised to such an odd behavior thowards me. And I was more surprised that there was a freaking VIP garage for executives that I as a regular staff was not allowed into. Was it really a VIP parking garage or we were in some other dimmention where I was back in the sixties where women of color and latinos had to use a different kind of bathroom or entrance?

I took a very deep breath. Everything was fine.

I thanked him for the compliment on my shirt. I had chosen it well and was very proud of my pin stripe shirt and fake black pearls. With a fake smile I wished him a nice day, he politely did the same and left with a wide smile on his face. I still don’t know what the hell was so funny. But he certainly had a great time meeting me. Again, I have an irresistible charm.

I did felt like spatting back. “Btw Sr. I’m not Nigger! You don’t call people that. No matter If they are of colour or black. I have a name and that’s not it. I’m Eve, like Adam & Eve!” I didn’t I rolled my tinted windows up on my sports Beamer and drove away, almost almost scritching my tires. With Ricky Martin ft. Maluma on the radio.

When I was a kid in school I was the Newyorrican. I was called India Taína. And few times was confused for Peruvian. I liked being called India Taína. It was a compliment as Native Puertorrican women were very beautiful prefect women. I was proud to look just like them. But since I never met my dad nor his family, my anguish about me being Alf Indian, Native, or Black made me really really upset.

To this day I don’t know WHO AM I?!

My husband and some of his friends have somewhat confirmed the suspicions, that I’ve kept hidden inside of me for a long time. They think I may be part African American. And there is nothing wrong with being that regardless of some of my own family members that had this terrible wrong old idea that being of color or a darker skin isn’t the ideal or the “typical Spanish beauty standard”.

And to my family, I was the exotic creature. The little Indian. Try and think Pocahontas with a suntan, or a lighter version of Halley Berry. And What does that matter? I always asked them. No logic answer. It affected how I view them and how I viewd myself. Because I began to feel the outcast. Like I was somewhat different. Not the ugly duckling but the little Swan who belonged somewhere else.

People and the media lies. They tell you what matters is the inside, and how you feel about yourself. Your confidence. Not if you are skinny or fat. Black or White. But in reality not everything is black and white. There are gray areas too. I happened to be and feel like a gray empty area.

I wish I could find my true self, know the whole truth about my paternal family. But taking an online DNA test for those sites that tells you have such and such percentages of many races, mostly Eastern European, is not the solution for me. My mother is no longer in this world.

So I may die one day still questioning “Who am I?”

I can truly relate with the adopted and homeless children who have no idea of who they really are. A lot of these then have probably a particular way of defining themselves. And they are happy with that, with no issues or problemas about their racial background. But I’m not. Because I am an answer seeker. And I had enough. I had to speak up about. It’s something that I should’ve dealt with years ago. But recently the fact and fear that I may become sort of an “allien” in my own country, without fully knowing the truth about my existence and past is completely hunting me. Maybe one day I may find closure. But I’m not there yet.

Piñatas FOR SALE!

Hello World!,

My sister is an artist and love doing many things. She has created and designed amazing pinatas and I want to share with everyone how amazing they are.

I also offered to her to sell some here for $20 & up. They are great looking pinatas, reusable and they last long.

Just have fun beating up your favorite characters, and getting lots of candy out!

The candies are not included unless you ask for it.

Here are few of them.

 

If you like these pinatas and would like to order some they range from $20 to $45 because of their size. But if you email me here, you get $5 off your pinata’s first order. HABLAMOS ESPANOL!

Eva-Luna

Short Story: My Dearest Uncle!

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“The story I’m about to share with you now it is based on a real story”, said my favorite uncle as I sat on the cold tiled floor of his recently waxed terrace. The floor was smooth and cold and during my summer visits to my uncle’s  and aunt’s home, I loved to sit on the clean and shinny floor of their porches or terrace. I would sit over some colorful cushions, or a long rug or I would laid down over the plain white and black, cookies and cream look alike floors and crossed my hands under my head, with my left leg crossed over my right one, and I would stare straight at my uncle.

I’d say,  “Please uncle tell me more stories, I love hearing the strange and fun stories you always tell.” He would sit down by my side with a thoughtful frown and say, “Pay attention India to this stories. One day will be able to tell them to your children, or nephews, and your grandchildren too.” I was happy that he was ready to start one of his amazing stories, some where about pirates, other about lost small planes landing on his patio, other about huge storms that flooded towns and submerged a big Cathedral under an over flooded lake, other about 3 little pigs that built housed like he did, but not as stronger, and about sirens, fisherman, and sharks.

This time he was telling me the little red riding hood story, a little country girl. (she was the same age as I was then) This little girl got in trouble for not listening to her granny and almost got eaten by a wolf. But thanks to him that was in the deep forest cutting trees and gathering wood, the little girl and his grandmother were safe, and the bad wolf became a delicious meal and a nice pair of boots. I knew the real little red ridding hood story and smiled ear to ear paying very close attention to my dear uncle and how to manage to make each old story funnier and new.

My dear uncle was an old busy man who rarely had time for chit chat. But somehow he made a point of talking to me about anything that come to his mind, as if he was a teacher or philosopher, and a great story teller. So whenever it was time for my uncle and ant to have their rest or siesta, most likely in the afternoon I would offer to comb and braid my aunts silvery blond locks as Uncle Plato began telling us some of the same stories we’ve hear over and over again but each time they were new facts and new and embellished details he’d forgot to mention before.

Some afternoons he reminisced about Hurricane St. Patricio and how it flooded and vanished whole towns, some cities were barely visible even months after the hurricane was gone, to other lands, and the waters had stopped flooding the streets, towns, and small villas. His large town had being almost destroyed by Saint Patricio, much like what Hurricane Maria did to some towns in Puerto Rico last month, on September 19, 2017.

Going back to his recollections of the incidents on that other category 5 hurricane reminded me of my relatives recent accounts of the hurricane Maria. For example, this  town, named Guajataka, was so overflown that its lake swallowed half of the town during the non stopping rains. It is said that the town’s first church and buildings surrounding it are to this day hidden inside the lake. And when there’s low tides, or during the very dry summer days if you go closer to the lake Guajataka you can see from the distance a cross and the roof of that church peering through, right at the center of the lake.

To this day, people still gather on the shore of that lake, to pray for their loved ones and the relatives they lost and throw flowers into the fresh waters. I’ve seen others tossing coins in. I also prayed few time for all the lives lost in that storm even though very few were possibly related to me. Each time I get to visit my late uncles home I see that little girl with short brown hair and worn sneakers running and jumping around my dearest uncles home. Other times she is pensive reclining on a chair or on the floor listening to whimsical or historical stories and legends or sharing some of her inventions or the ones she’d recently learned in school. We both know how Uncle Plato would re-tell the same stories and how we could never guess how the new ending would be.

And every time he had a very good story to tell. Just like other amazing stories I heard from my older sister I was 4 years old and moved with my divorced mother and sibling into a 4 bedroom wood bungalow near my great aunt and uncles. We had a small tv at home, only one radio, not running water, and not many toys either. My aunts sort of adopted me. They taught me many things, lady like things, that I were going to need one day when I became a woman, just like them. My uncles and my cousins also took me under their wings and taught me things a hard working Spanish girl should know. They taught me to pick coffee beans from its own tree and laid them under the sun to dry up to later on be sold, among many other fruits and vegetables at the Weekend Fresh Market.

But during the time my uncle was resting in his old brown hammock that was tied up to his terrace beams with strong farming ropes, the same one he used to tie his cows with, he would lower his strong loud voice to almost a whisper as if he was talking to himself and began his stories. “You see that mango tree by your aunt Lucy’s house over there on that hill?” “Yes I play hide and seek there with my friends there after school.” “Once, many years ago, even when your Aunt’s home wasn’t built yet, right over there, a helicopter  passing by, looking for some bad people, got fire, and it exploded in the air falling down over that tree.” “Wow uncle. But how that happened?” “No one really knows. But big pieces of it feel all over the streets, the tree, and over a neighbor’s roof top.” “That’s and amazing story. Can’t wait to tell my friends.”

“That’s not all”, said my uncle smiling this time. He rarely smiled. But he continued with his story ignoring my questioning little eyes, opened wide as cow eyes. “They said that the Pilot was such a Christian man, and did so many good things for the people he knew, that he prayed for his own life with so much faith that he came out of it unharmed.”Did he grow wings uncle P?” “Not quite. People ran to his rescue and found him hanging from a tree branch with his parachute wrapped around his arms and shoulders, but he was barely hurt by the accident. In a way he grew wings.” “Yes, he did for sure.”

“This means that the pilot was really a man of God. Because he believed even when things were going so terrible for him. You see, he almost died on his helicopter accident but he was not angry at God. He believed God intended to save him and prayed for that. And God in return protected him from the fire and his fatal fall. The pilot, whom no one ever knew his true name, was saved.” “Great story. That’s why I always pray when I’m scared, specially at night. I’m afraid of the dark.” My uncle touched my hair and messed my bangs a little smiling again. He looked happy then. “You will never need to be afraid because I’m here to protect you, and God is up there also watching after you. Just like you grandma and my mother are. They are your guardian angels. Pray to them. And always pray to God, because he listens to his children, specially to such a pretty and sweet girl like you.”

Uncle P. is my guardian angel now, and last night as I closed my eyes to sleep, he told me, “Remember my stories, India? Well it is time to share them. Is your time to pass them along to your children and grandchildren, and other people’s children and grandchildren too. They’ll need this stories as you needed them when you were a kid. This will help them to know that not everything is bad. That their is still hope in this world.” “Thank you Uncle, I needed to hear your words once again. I will SHARE these stories and many more from now on.” I really miss talking to you, and listening to your great stories, my dear Uncle P.

Good Morning from Starbucks!

What can I say?

I woke up with a bad pain on my left neck
and temples. I knew I needed my medicine, coffee. Sometimes is impossible to live or function without it.

So I rushed to a nearby Starbucks and got myself a Grande Cafe Latte, my usual lemon cake, and an egg bacon sandwich taken out a frozen plastic bag and heated up to justify it’s price tag of $3.45, so very typical of the Starbucks brand. But regardless of my disdain for it, I’m also addicted to their lemon cakes.

That frosting that seems to melt inside your mouth leaving your tongue and lips tingling with a rush off tangy flavor and sweetness. The soft almost smoochie cake texture that I like to squeeze between my fingers when it crumbles and the coffee itself bold and strong, almost like Spanish coffee strong but with many different distinct and delicate aromas. However $4.99 a cup, when for a $1.50 I had a huge Grande cup of Cafe con Leche back in my hometown Moca, Puerto Rico.

Yes. I’m whining again. I do that a lot lately.  So boring! But I wanted to share that drinking that strong Colombian bean freshly scented coffee while sunbathing over one of these outdoors chairs previously blessed by beautiful love birds or whatever those tiny white marks were, probably left by the colorful birds my crumbs from the ground…

That coffee was the medicine I needed to start my day. “La medicina ideal para mis dolores”. That could be a great sales slogan for Starbucks’ coffee, “The ideal medicine for all your pains.” It made me chuckle thinking of a tv add announcer saying that “slogan”. I was definitively born a Sales woman. Everything I say or do has a sales ring to it. Well, back to my latte, lemon cake, and sandwich before they get cold. Darn! to late. going for my refill.

Till my next post.

***Like, Comment, & Share if I drew a smile on your face this morning!

Poema- Yo Soy Jesucristo

(Basado en las palabras de un joven en un sueño, que no era nada de Dios por cierto, y que era un desconocido que va se sienta en mi mesa, y me mira bien serio y me dice: )

Soy Jesucristo enamorado de un chico
(Un joven así como tú)
Te voy a contar esta historia
Si no me sale
es que no estaba el decirlo.

Yo soy Jesucristo.
Y amo a todos mis hijos!
Y quiero estar con el mundo
Pero el mundo se me aleja.
No quiere estar conmigo
Por eso no puedo estar contigo.

Por qué tu me niegas?
Yo Soy Jesucristo
Yo soy Jesús!
Y te amo.
Como amo a todos mis niños.