Well Worth the Sacrifice

My mother is a saint.

Growing up, she was the kind of mother who would literally give up the last morsel of her favorite food to give it to her children. She sacrificed her dreams of becoming a doctor to be our mom. Like many other mothers, she became our taxi driver, short-order cook, fashion designer, hair dresser, sounding board, therapist, nurse, advocate, among many other things that are too numerous to list. If you were to look up the definition of mom in the dictionary, you would find a picture of my mom in it. As she usually says: "There's just one mother, and that's me".  But a lot of sacrifice went into being that kind of mother, and that's why to me, she is nothing short of a saint.

A lot of the mothers I have been blessed to know are like that. They are perfectly happy to sacrifice their own wishes and dreams on behalf of their children's.

Not me.

I am a selfish mom. I love my kids beyond all limits of imagination, but I cannot fathom giving up so much of my own self for these two little creatures that sometimes just don't appreciate ANYTHING.  No, I won't give you the last bite of my cupcake just because you want it. No, I won't clean up YOUR mess just because I'm mom and I'm supposed to. No, I will not change the channel to watch yet another mind-numbingly boring Disney show. No, I will not sacrifice my summer to your desire to play summer baseball...

And then we have a weekend like this weekend, which was long and, ironically, full of my sacrificing my free time to shuttle little critters back and forth between multiple sporting events. A weekend full of pressure, as oldest child tries out for one of the much coveted spots on the all stars baseball team, and tries very hard not to show how anxious he is about making it. A weekend made all the more stressful after a game where said child's Sunday travel team was slaughtered and said child overheard an adult in the other team call them "the crappiest team ever".  And when he tells us with his little voice breaking up that he felt hurt and offended at that comment, well, heck, I was then hurt and mightily offended myself.

After a small part of me was secretly harboring a desire not to have to run all over God's creation to take this child to the many tournaments that making this team would entail, I now felt a raw, very personal ache for him to make that team. Because, lets face it, he is a good kid. A kind, decent, hard-working boy who actually asks very little from anybody, and all he really wants is to play ball. So, when we finally got the news this morning that he made the team, I could not wait for him to get home from school so I could tell him. And his reaction was well worth all the sacrifices that are sure to come.

I'm a happy mom.

The Point of No Return

Tuesday, January 7, 2014.  The morning routine starts a bit out of whack, thrown off by the Polar Vortex that transformed the usually mild winter of our little corner of rural Maryland into a frigid wonderland, with sub-zero wind chills. In the continental United States, the weather was the news of the day.  But it was news from another, faraway place that froze my heart solid.

The news came of yet another murder in Venezuela. Another number. Another statistic that colors my homeland in ever darker hues of black, as if that were even possible. But this time it was a public figure. The news came of the murder of Monica Spears, a 29-year-old actress, former Miss Venezuela, and above all, mother of one. I didn't know her. I didn't even ever watch her soap operas or saw her win her crown. And yet, I cannot erase the image in my mind of such horrendous turn of events, the image of a 5-year-old found injured in a car, next to the dead bodies of her parents, who were shot dead in front of her.

The Venezuelan diaspora—those Venezuelan citizens living abroad—is estimated at 1.2 million people. That is 3.5% of the population. By all measurements and statistics, the Venezuelan migrant has been characterized by being highly skilled, educated, and professional. This exodus, better known in Venezuela as "brain drain," has intensified in the last 14 years, the result of young people fleeing a country that no longer offers them a future, a country whose government—or lack thereof—has strangled entrepreneurship, innovation, opportunity, safety, decency, and security out of the lives of ordinary citizens. Our rich and prosperous history as a country that became great by welcoming immigrants from all places, a country that opened its arms to all people, is long gone. We are now a country that exports its most precious resource: its young people. The world is now peppered by 1.2 million people who work hard, and usually succeed, at adapting to their new homelands, but that even as they are grateful for the opportunity they have, cannot help but to live their lives longing, yearning for that which is familiar, for those 912 thousand Km² that beckon them to come back, that whisper in their ears, late at night, when no one is watching, asking them to return. And like sailors following the sound of the siren's song, you make plans, you buy tickets, you get on a plane, full of dreams, and hopes, in the company of the family you have formed in your time abroad, giddy at the idea of showing your children everything you have been telling them about since the day they were born, when the first lullaby you sang to them was Gloria al Bravo Pueblo. You bring your husband, and your U.S. born daughter to spend the holidays home. Your home. You proudly show her the beauties of the mountains, of the plains, of the terrain that makes your homeland the true wonder that it is, that makes you believe in the existence of a Creator, because such magnificent beauty cannot be the result of an accident. And while you traverse its landscape, fate decides that you should become one more among the thousands of people who fall victim to the crime that is crippling the nation. Your car breaks down, and while you wait for help, death arrives, in the shape of misery, ignorance, indolence, and impunity. Six close-range shots aimed at you and your family, including your 5-year-old daughter, because you locked yourself inside your car when they came to rob you. Only your daughter survives. And for all your efforts trying to instill in her your love for the motherland, the last memories she will ever have of your home are memories of horror, distress, and desolation.

Venezuelans have many traits that set them apart. Tenacity is one of them. Some may call it stubbornness. We are dead set on maybe someday returning. We all harbor the hope of going back, even if for just a little while, to rekindle that fire, that invisible, primal connection that keeps us attached to the homeland, and that doesn't loosen its grip, no matter how long you have been away. But, like an old childhood friend now living in Australia said, one by one, we are beginning to discover, that there are some things that signal our own personal "point of no return."  That one event that tipped the scales for you. That one thing that told you, once and for all, that there is no going back. That the land of your dreams, the country of your past is forever gone.

This year will mark 20 years since I left. Twenty. Half a lifetime. On Tuesday, January 7, 2014, I read the news, and I heard the sound of a door closing behind me, and with that sound, my soul shattered in a million little pieces. I was left bereft.

On Tuesday, January 7, 2014, I reached my point of no return.

Good Byes

A friend of my friend just passed away, and I am heartbroken.

It's odd, because I have known this person since I was young, and hard as we tried, ours was a cordial relationship at best. Most times we did not quite see eye to eye, and other than for the mutual friend we had in common, we probably would have never even turned our heads to look at each other.

In the maturity and insight that comes with age, I have come to recognize that I grew resentful of her, because in a way, I felt that she somehow stole my friend away from me. You see, I was the childhood friend, the very first one. Me and my friend met at the age of 3 & 4, and grew up together, went to school together, went through the hardships of teenagehood together, and then, before we knew it, the time came for us to go our separate ways. We went to different colleges, and that's when Maria Elena came into the story.  She was the college friend, and she was engaging, fun, confident, and she truly cared for my friend. I resented that.

The years went by, and our lives took all of us in different directions. We all moved thousands of miles away from home and from one another. We built families that kept us busy, and we didn't speak nearly as often as we'd probably liked to, but it didn't matter, because the love was still there. Oddly enough, I felt peace of mind knowing that my friend still had a strong relationship with her "other" friend. Being so far away from home and family, it is comforting to know that someone still has got your back. I know I am not a very communicative person. I am not one to pick up the phone and make a call. That doesn't mean that I don't care. It is just the way I'm wired. But because I know my failings, it gave me a measure of comfort knowing that she was still there, that she would do the things I wouldn't. She would pick up that phone and make that call, just to see how things were going with my friend. I am grateful for that, because my friend has had a few rough years, and that support has meant the world to her. She hasn't told me so, but I know it.

And now I find out this terrible news, and I am surprised to find myself feeling very sad. I think of her family, the young kids she left behind, and I cannot help but to feel an immense wave of sorrow. Her daughter, in the throngs of teenagehood herself, lost her mother when she most needed her, but at least she will have memories of her, and of the sunny person she truly was. In a few years, her young son will probably have next to no recollection of his mother, a thought that tears me up, as I look over at my own little guy, and wonder what if... the idea is too daunting to bear.

I am grateful that my friend was able to flight to her bedside and be with her just hours before she passed away. I know this made a huge difference to her. She was able to show her friend just how much she loved her. She was able to show her in the way that matters most, that she was a beacon of light in my friend's life, that her life was meaningful in so many intangible ways, that she truly touched other people's lives, and for that very reason, her short time on this earth was not in vain. She lived a life of purpose, love and laughter.

I am sad. My loved one lost a loved one today.

Technology, Blessing or Curse?

WhatsApp is great!  It may just be one of the most genius inventions EVER!! I mean, imagine being able to text (who needs to talk? That’s soooo 20^th century) with anyone you want anywhere in the world, and not having to pay one single cent for every message you sent. Genius.

And to someone like me, whose family is spread out far and wide (and I mean FAAAAR and WIIIIDE), the neat opportunity of finding out what everyone is up to at the single touch of my fingertips, just makes family feel so close (without the added inconvenience of actually having to be close to them, yah know?). So, it stands to reason that I felt eager to have the little app added to my iPhone, and myself added to my beloved family unit’s group. Instant gratification. As soon as the app was on my iPhone, the first ‘ding’ took less than 2 minutes to be heard. Oh! A message!!  So, I go and check it out, to find out immediately that it was one of my nieces sending a message to another one of my nieces, half a world away, but since I’m part of the group, I get the message too. I spend a very entertained afternoon reading what the younger lot of my family has been, is, or will be up to… and the evening, and the early hours of the morning, and noon…. and the darned thing doesn’t. Stop. Dinging!!!... And not a single one of the messages is actually for me. That’s what I get for trying to be interested in my family.

But, when the one niece in Spain is sending texts at 9:00 AM, just on her way to school, to the other one that is in L.A., just getting ready to party at midnight, with input from the gallery in Washington state, south Florida, and lord knows where else, it wakes the fudge up of this ole lady who is trying to sleep at 3:00 AM (what? None of you sleeps with their cell phones next to them??). Whoever thought it was a good idea to be THIS connected?!? Especially when you have a gang of girls (and one lonely guy), ranging in ages from 12 to 23+ in your family. And that is excluding the ones under 10, which I KNOW are just bidding their time to come out and deliver the final blow that will off us all.

And, yes, you could very easily just turn the phone to silent mode, but then, the light goes on every time a message comes through, and no matter how much willpower you think you have, the lure is just too strong. You can’t help yourself. You just need to see what the last ditty is about!! Believe me, I have tried. I am like a drug addict: I know this is not good for me, but I just can’t help it. And I know I’m not the only one. People have been known to have gone insane within this crew. Legend has it that my poor aunt down in Venezuela was last seen pulling her hair out and throwing the danged phone into a pond to “make the voices stop!”  

As for me, I found the feature to mute them all (yeay!!), but the longest I can mute them for is one week. One week of silence. One week of blessed peace… and then, the closer we get to the end of the week, my eye starts twitching, my breathing becomes fast and shallow, my skin is clammy, my hair disheveled…. “Are you feeling ok?,” some concerned stranger asks. “Oh, she’s fine, it’s just that the voices are about to come back,” my 9 year old answers…

The Emperor Has No Clothes!

"So now the Emperor walked under his high canopy in the midst of the procession, through the streets of his capital; and all the people standing by, and those at the windows, cried out, "Oh! How beautiful are our Emperor's new clothes! What a magnificent train there is to the mantle; and how gracefully the scarf hangs!" in short, no one would allow that he could not see these much-admired clothes; because, in doing so, he would have declared himself either a simpleton or unfit for his office. Certainly, none of the Emperor's various suits, had ever made so great an impression, as these invisible ones.

"But the Emperor has nothing at all on!" said a little child." -- (Hans Christian Andersen)

During Maduro's campaign, he had to resort over and over again to showing a video of Chavez during his last few days before he left for Cuba, anointing him as his successor, and asking people to vote for him should he become incapacitated to govern. He called himself the "son of Chavez" and tried to imitate, without success, his "father's" speech style. He had to do so, because he knew he had no merit, no qualifications, and none of the charisma of his predecessor. He had to do so, because he knew that he was in the position he was, not because he deserved to be, but because he was lucky enough to have been handpicked by a dying man. 

The chavismo movement was well aware that the chance they had to continue in power was a slim one. They knew that they had to appeal to the heartstrings of people still grieving from the death of a figure that, like it or not, became larger than life, revered and idolized by many. They knew that in order to stay in power, they had to capitalize on that grief, on that undying loyalty. To solidify their self-styled revolution, they had to obtain a solid win. It had to be a wide margin. Wider, if possible, than the one Chavez himself got in October's presidential elections. They had to show to the world that the whole country was behind them. That's the only way they could legitimize that which cannot be legitimized... and they blew it.

If nothing else, April 14, 2013 will go down in Venezuelan history as the date when Chavismo was shown to be naked.

Let's pretend for a second that Maduro actually won the elections -- we all know what actually happened -- can such a narrow victory be called a victory at all? Instead of winning by a landslide, as it was necessary -- imperative even -- for chavismo to survive, they did it by a margin as thin as a single hair. This "win" only puts in plain view a fractured movement, a movement that is plagued by internal distrust. And, as it has been plainly said, Maduro is no Chavez. The absurdly dire conditions in which the late president left the country, will be the undoing of his own revolution. Maduro cannot, and will not be able to lift the country from the hell-hole that he, his master, and his cronies have dumped it into, and sooner or later, the other half of the country, the one that still placed some vestiges of trust in the revolution, will wake up to the truth. And then, he will have to answer to them. Look!  The Emperor has no clothes!!

The Death of a Man, the Re-Birth of a Country

Give a man a fish and he eats for a day. Teach a man to fish and he can feed himself for life.

Since December 11, 2012, a whole country and a good deal of the world has been expecting this day. That was the last time anyone saw and heard from Hugo Chavez for the last time, right before his last surgery in Cuba in a vain attempt to stop the unstoppable. Since then, the man that had just been re-elected to lead the country with the largest proven oil reserves in the world went silent, and given his penchant for televised speech marathons of upwards of 8 hours each, that should have been the first clue to his devout followers that things were not well, that their idol was not coming back. Since then, the government has jumped through hoops to make people believe that Chavez was, in fact, involved in the active government of Venezuela from his hospital bed. The fact that his followers actually believed such absurdity speaks volumes of the level of blind idolatry the man enjoyed from half of the country.

In a way that is perhaps a lot more morbid than we would like to think, the opposition has been expecting this day since far longer. In fact, many in the opposition have been hoping for this day for almost as long as the man had been in power. Even I, although ashamed to admit it, at one point hoped for the man to suffer a heart attack so that he'd die without anyone having to commit murder. It wasn't a heart attack, but nonetheless, my macabre wish was granted.

For as long as we have been waiting for this day -- at least to me -- the news of his death was oddly anticlimactic. I always imagined myself rejoicing, celebrating, crying with euphoria. And yet, none of those things happened. I do not feel overjoyed, I did not celebrate, my happiness was barely affected by the news. What I felt was a mix of relief and a great deal of dread. Relief because there are no more lies, because no matter how hard the government tried to pretend the charade could go on, the truth finally broke the chains and made itself known. Now we can begin to build the path to get out of the limbo our country has been living these past three months. Now we can finally allow our constitution dictate what we need to do, because there is not parapet to hide behind. Relief, because for better or for worse, it is always better to know than to speculate. Within the next 30 days we will elect a new president. For better or for worse.

And yet, despite the tremendous sense of relief, I have to admit that my sense of dread is 10 times lager.  As much as we would like to believe that the man was universally hated, you can't cover the sun with just one finger. We know better than that. Let's face it, all those elections that we would prefer to believe he won thanks to fraud, he won mostly fair and square. The man was formidably charismatic, and was able, like no one before him, to connect with the masses -- mostly poor and uneducated, but also middle class and professionals. He saw the opportunity, and seized it. He saw the discontent, the disenchantment, the disenfranchisement that a great deal of Venezuelans felt, and he grabbed unto that, he fed their sense of having been wronged, he did more than others to meet their most basic needs with gifts and hand-outs. He found a scapegoat and fed it to the masses. The rich, the educated, those were to blame for the ailments of the poor. He gave the poor masses someone to blame, someone to hate, while keeping them dependent on his largess. The strategy worked. And it worked, not only on the poor, uneducated people of Venezuela, but also on the poor, morally void leaders of Latin America.

Charismatic people like that, with such phenomenal pull, are very hard to come by, and that's why, when one emerges, such person becomes the stuff of legend, and his name goes on to be part of the annals of history. For better or for worse. He could have done such great things. He could have made a country that had many reasons to be proud, into a country that had no reasons to be ashamed. Instead, he used his power to divide us, to turn brother against brother, mother against daughter, enemies one and all. And in the process he squandered our resources, buying favors and loyalty from lapdogs from all over the region, making the very same people he purported to defend more impoverished, less educated, more enslaved, less free.

If everything works according to the constitution -- and we all know that is not always so -- we will be electing a new president in 30 days. My dread is that the damage this man did to our country may now be irreversible. He taught a whole nation to expect a fish, but never how to fish for itself. My dread is that the next president will be chosen by a country full of beggars.

A Well Deserved Praise to an Amazing Kid

Ever since Daniel started Kindergarten, he was taught that the first thing he had to do as soon as he got home from school, immediately after he stepped through the door and put his backpack down, was to sit down and do his homework. Anyone who knows me, knows that I may bark a good deal, but at the end of the day, these boys know how to manipulate me like silly putty, and get away with murder. Homework, though, is the one area where cajoling, begging, or whining will produce absolutely no results. When it comes to homework and schoolwork in general, I am like the Rock of Gibraltar, unmovable. So much so, that for the longest time, he thought it was "the law". I did not disabuse him of his belief, but eventually he figured out the truth. Too late, though. By now, it is a matter of habit. The poor kid does it automatically, without thinking. He comes home, he sits down, he does his homework, period.

I have wondered on occasion if I am too inflexible when it comes to school work. Am I being too strict? Am I pushing him too hard? Have I praised him enough? I would like to think that, rather than just pushing him to study, I have been instilling in him the desire to reach for excellence, to push his own limits and seek what is beyond, to always believe that he can do better. The one thing his father and I have been very careful to stress to him is that natural talent is a good thing to have -- and all too easy to waste. We have made sure he understands that success belongs to the one who seeks it, not the one who thinks it is his birth right. Smarts will only take you so far. Effort and dedication are the golden ticket, and that's where he needs to keep his sight on.

So, in a way, I cannot say I am surprised about the amount of work he puts into everything he does. If he likes something, he will go after it, with a passion that is a bit intimidating in someone so young. Everyone knows he wants to be a professional baseball player. He has said so to anyone within hearing range that will sit there long enough for him to tell them. I don't know if that will be in his cards, but one thing is certain: that dream hasn't changed in 4 years, and his determination to be better, play better, learn more hasn't wavered. The funny thing is, I always thought that this kind of dedication was reserved to baseball only. But then came basketball, and his determination to get better was exactly the same. We're now swimming, which in and of itself is an amazing feat for a kid that just last summer was still afraid to go too far from the edge of the pool. He knows he's nowhere near close to being one of the good ones, but he's already committed to getting better. Much, much better.

Academically speaking, if I think back on this past school year, I realize that I have been loosening the reigns quite a bit. I don't have to be on top of him to do things. He's doing them of his own accord. He has had an extraordinary school year (even if he cannot, for the life of him, keep quiet), with next to no involvement on my part, and that is exactly what I was aiming at with all those talks. The ones I thought were going in one ear and out the other. As it turns out, something must have stuck, because he works hard, very, very hard to get those results. And they are amazing results.

I don't know if I have praised him enough. I am certainly extremely proud of him. If I were to be any prouder, I may very well burst. But I do have a feeling I may have underpraised him a bit. I am just so weary of the constant praising kids get these days for just about anything. How are they going to learn when something is actually worth the effort, if they keep hearing "good job, Johnny" for doing things that should be second nature and require no effort? I dunno, I guess I just don't want him to stop striving for more.

So, in case I have done a poor job at showing my child how grateful I am to be his mother, here it goes (in hopes that he will someday read his mother's ramblings):

Daniel, you are a blessing to your daddy and me. We are so proud of you. Not just of your accomplishments, although those certainly make our days and bring a thousand smiles to our faces, but of the person you ARE and the promise of the man you are growing up to be. We love your passion and your dedication. We admire your humble hard work. But most of all, we absolutely revel in your kindness, your good nature and your compassion. With kids like you, this world has a tremendous amount of hope and a very bright future. You're a beacon of light, and we are grateful to the good Lord that He saw fit that we would be the lucky pair to guide your steps.