Mommy Tears

“Mommy tears” I call them because there is no other way to describe this rush of wetness to my caruncles as I swell with pride and emotion.  Unless you are a mom, you will never know.
Our usual bedtime routine:  I cuddle you, change your dirty diaper, play “stinky feet” with you, and put you into fresh pajamas – today a white onesie with a cute elephant on the front.  (You look amazingly beautiful in white by the way.)
I then football cradle you across my chest with your head relaxed in my left arm and my right arm between your legs to keep you still and secure.  You look so comfortable. 
Two rounds of “You Are My Sunshine” as you gaze into my eyes transfixed on the melody.  It was always my favorite song growing up that my Mami sang me.  My inner emotions swell every time I sing it to you.  You will never know how it feels to pass this along to you, along with all the cosquillas Mami used to give me.
After our moment of lullaby cuddles and rocking, it’s time for our nighttime prayers.  We always pray for your safety and for you to not have any nightmares.  For God to protect you and for Him to send His angels to keep you safe and protected overnight.  And we always pray for Daddy to come home safely from work.  (Shh…. Don’t tell him, it’s our secret.)
I put on the shusher to help you drown out any background noise and today, as I lay you down on your belly as usual, you flip over.  You stare at me in the eyes so innocently and reach for my hand never leaving my gaze and just asking gently for my comfort.  I give you my hand and you pull it close; grasp my thumb, and hold my hand against your body.
Mommy tears.  All five thousand of them. 
Two more rounds of “You are my sunshine” because my heart can’t leave you.  But I know you are tired.  I whisper “I love you” more times than you will ever know.  My tears don’t stop as I walk out the door and immediately turn on my phone to watch you on the monitor.
You fall asleep in less than ten minutes.  All I can do is watch you; happy, filled with sadness that you are growing so quickly.  But also so much pride that you are my daughter.  You are my firstborn.  My joy.  I am so lucky that you made me a mommy. 
Thank you, Gabriela.  Thank you.
Thank you for being my daughter. 
Happy Mother’s Day to me, indeed.

Your Name

Gabriela Ruth – Both strong characters who God found favor with and chose to be part of his lineage and spread His message.

Gabriel:

• Means “God is my strong man”
• Angel Gabriel who announced the birth of John the Baptist to Zechariah in Luke 1:11-25
• Gabriel also announced the virgin birth of Christ in Luke 1:26-38
• Also explains visions to Daniel
• “He has a favored position as an angel who “stands in the presence of God” (Luke 1:19), and he was selected to deliver important messages of God’s particular love and favor to individuals chosen to be part of God’s plan.”

Ruth:

• Means: “Friend”
• “Ruth is an example of how God can change a life and take it in a direction He has foreordained, and we see Him working out His perfect plan in Ruth’s life, just as He does with all His children (Romans 8:28). Although Ruth came from a pagan background in Moab, once she met the God of Israel, she became a living testimonial to Him by faith. Even though she lived in humble circumstances before marrying Boaz, she believed that God was faithful to care for His people. Also, Ruth is an example to us that God rewards faithfulness: “And without faith it is impossible to please God, because anyone who comes to him must believe that he exists and that he rewards those who earnestly seek him”.
• Faithful to mother in law and loyal to her family.  A “woman of noble character”.  (Ruth 3:11)
• She made a covenant with her mother in law and God which she stuck to.  God can work in our lives to always influence the lives of many even when we come from different backgrounds (Ruth was a non-Israelite).
• Gave birth to Obed who was part of the lineage of Jesus Christ.

For My Wildflower

My dear Gabriela Ruth –

“In a field of roses, she is a wildflower.”

As I seek to find the words to write you now turning 37 weeks pregnant and on the eve of your arrival, there are so many things I wish to tell you.  But today, I hope my words inspire you for the entirety of your life and encourage you to always live out the desires of your heart that God has miraculously instilled in you – divine dreams for your life that only our Creator can magically dream up and bring to fruition.  He knew you before I knew of you and He knew that this world needed you, for this day, for this moment, and for this year.  Every breath you sustain is His will and I know that though you are my earthly daughter (my wildflower) you are eternally His daughter.  I submit your life to Him and before Him. 

My beautiful wildflower, I want you to know that this nickname for you is one that I chose carefully and prayerfully.  I know that while wildflowers may be seen at times as senseless and erratic in nature, they are actually quite skillful and independent illustrations of flora.  Consider how they grow – wildflowers do not look to the left nor to the right when blossoming, and most times are not intentionally planted or seeded.  Yet these flowers sprout purposefully and faithfully in many flawed circumstances.  They do not plan their arrival or growth based on how the flowers or blades of grass around them thrive, but instead rely only on their own internal compass and upward faith to continue flourishing.  They are fierce, autonomous, and liberated.  Each one an individual and unrestricted by the conformity that lay around it.  They are open and uninhibited.  I imagine you one day living a life uninhibited by what society may tell you, what classmates or teachers or bosses might seek to instill in you, but still you remain unfettered.  I pray you always know whose you are – a daughter of a mighty King.  A King who has given you purpose beyond society and beyond the naysayers you will encounter in life.  Be a wildflower, my child.  Be free of all but Christ in your heart and you will find that happiness will prosper.  Be bold and fierce; encouraged by the spirit that lives within you and guided by the light that shines within (Matthew 5:13-16 NIV).  Like the wildflower, He will never leave you or lead you astray.  Do not worry about those voices on the outside, remain steadfast on the voice on the inside, the voice of the Holy Spirit.  Like a wildflower, your nonconformity to society and secularism will shine your uniqueness without fear and attract many that are drawn to your glimmer.  Just as a wildflower trusts in God to sway and propagate in whatever weather God sends it, so my prayer is that you too trust in Him to provide through whatever you may face.  “Consider how the wildflowers grow. They do not labor or spin…”  Luke 12:27 NIV. 

My child, “you have come to your royal position for such a time as this.”  (Esther 4:14 NIV)  You are chosen as an untamed beauty; wondrous in all your splendor and wind-swept ferocity.  Choose to standout, my baby girl.  Chose to be a wildflower – even in a sea of roses.

I love you forever, I love you for always. 

Your Mami,

Raquel "Daisy" Jordan

Brickell Blues

**Dedicated to my city friends**
I struggle to envision heaven as an urban city - with highrises, concrete structures, bright lights, and busyness.
Blue graffiti coloring the worn gray walkways,
Hundreds of cigarette butts adorning the dirt and broken rocks which used to be grass,
Sod replacing the once naturally growing green blades,
Dull blue ocean water trying to clean itself with every crest, but instead discolored by oil, gas, and human waste. 
Its waves fall and crash into the city walls with a heaviness reminiscent of sadness.
A deep breath in of crisp ocean saltiness in Brickell and instead my nostrils are welcomed with car fumes and rotten fish water reminding me that this world is so far from God's design for Eden.
We've tainted earth for our own use and forgotten that true glory happens only through His name and striving to live His walk.
What world are we leaving our next of kin if not a world of lush green pastures where they can believe in His promises?
After moving from the biggest city in the country - New York City - working in yet another city reminds me how far sin has caused us to fall. 
So much corruption, no place of silence, no rest, nowhere to Sabbath or spend quiet time with God.
I ask myself time and time again why many flock to cities when the solitiude and introspection you recieve by spending time with nature and God eludes its inhabitants.
Perhaps cities and Christ are difficult paradigms unable to coexist?
I find it difficult to see Jesus within the busyness and corruption of urban life and unable to find His voice with so many distractions. 
I know He is ubiquitous but do we allow Him inside our office spaces and taxi cabs? 
Do we move beyond the guise of politically incorrectness and usher Him in?
My experiences in the last seven years of corporate urban life says otherwise. 
We are quick to disregard His word, forget our faith, and justify ourselves with what society and corporate wants.
I am not a city gal, never have been nor never will be.
But lately I wonder - is God welcomed in our cities?  Do we make room for His presence?

Balanced

Almost six months into our marriage and the best word I can use to describe our life is “balanced.”
Synonyms like calm, tranquil, stable, and steady elaborate on its context.
We are very much all of those words amidst the biweekly grocery shoppings and weekly laundry cleanings.
Our days are filled with routine but a calm harmony exists between the walls we call home…
Arriving from work, eagerly awaiting my husband’s warm reception when he returns from his day on our old grey couch that sinks in and hurts our backs,
Waking up to his breath, and never wanting to leave the warmth of his strong soft chocolate skin and entangled legs,
Going to the bathroom in the middle of the night and having him say "Babe, when you come back, hug me."
Savoring the youthfulness of Sunday morning pillow fights and “tag, you’re it” running up and down our stairs.
This is our home.  Our first home.
And our first year of oneness.
We are your average husband and wife seeking after His kingdom.
Choosing daily to get past our disagreements and arguments with conversation, forgiveness, and grace.
The home we are cultivating is one that will be drastically different from our upbringing – a life where neither one of us had a Christ-fearing marriage couple as an example for our lives.
We choose daily to be that transformational generation for our family.
The Jordan home - always seeking more.

Marriage Real Talk

Real talk for a second: This process of marriage is really showing me how selfish I can be in some areas of my life. I woke up analyzing myself and doing self reflection.

I feel like God is revealing a lot of things to me and areas of my life where I need so much spiritual growth. A question as simple as "how are Rondell and I going to get to work and school with one car?" Turned into me thinking he needs his own car, then analyzing why I wouldn't let him use my car, and then me trying to figure out why I see it as "my" car to begin with.

I am seeing these objects as possessions instead of as a financial blessing that God has given me to use for His will. If God were here, it wouldn't be a question if we could use His car. He would give it to us even if we were the worst drivers, or if we crashed His car, or if we never returned it. He would forgive each and every one of us if we did any of those things and came to Him with a heart of remorse and regret. He gave us all His possessions and even His only son!!!!  He was completely selfless!

It amazes me... The more I analyze things, the more I know that marriage is about becoming more Christ-like and holy.... pushing us as individuals to become more like Him. Dying to our own selfish needs and desires to put someone else first the way Christ gives to us so freely.

It is a little scary and overwhelming. It feels challenging and I know I have a lot to learn. But I am so grateful for Rondell's patience and grace with me even when I am thinking the wrong way. Marriage is going to be a journey and I hope to share and be as real with you all as possible!  If I can help one of you the way Brittany & Everett or Darlin & Bleigh have helped me, it's worth it!  It's always good to have spiritual mentors who have walked through what we have and are open to share.

The Fate of Our Love

"Do you think this will work?"

He asked me earnestly, and with eyes-wide looking lovingly towards me. 

I wondered, will it?

Do we ever know if it will last forever? 

Or, do we make our best attempt to find a partner who we are willing to fight for; someone who despite life's challenges, you seem to continue to gravitate towards, and desire to please them and make them happy?

If I am honest, I don't believe in "the one."  I haven't for awhile. 

Don't take this as a jaded view or as someone who doesn't believe in love.

I am a true believer of love, but not love as most see it. 

Not an interim, contrived love, but a love that fights - with full-on MMA gloves.

A love that will be challenged various times in the lifetime of a marriage.

A love that will not always be happy or feel loving.

But a love that endures because it chooses to. 

It chooses over and over again to put itself on the front lines of the battlefield knowing full well that it will be hurt, scarred, and broken. 

That love may not want to get up at times, but it chooses with its last ounce of strength to ALWAYS try again.

So do I know if this will work?

No.

But what's the fun in knowing the future anyway? 

All I know is that I am willing to fight - fight hard without seizing - every day I am alive, and always put you first after Christ.

I love you - always more.

Enthusiastic Surrender

The natural course of life includes birth, breath, and death.  When the days come to an end each evening, and the moonlight illuminates the sky with stars, we accept that tomorrow the sun will rise once again to shine on the earth.  It is natural, and expected.  We do not question the inevitable and we come to terms with the state of reality fairly early.  So many facts of life have become our truth yet when we encounter another person “quien nos da chispa”, we tend to shy away from the spark because it is deemed foreign.  It ignites our inner core and is unfamiliar from the monotony of truths we have reclaimed as our reality.  When the chispas (“sparks”, for my gringo followers) fade, and the scars heal from their colorful embers, sometimes we are left with nothing but a burn corroding our new reality.  But in rare cases, when the chispas wane, what is left is a memory of the luminous eruption, and the everlasting twinkle of a connection that well, just works.  It is not contrived, but instinctive in a way.   Effortless, real, and sincere.  But most of all, enduring.  Why in these moments do we negate the existence of the glimmer?  Why is it so difficult for us as adults to see the glow and accept it as truth in our life?  We hesitate, test the waters, and question its legitimacy.  If only we could be as children in this aspect: moving towards the gentle glow in submission with enthusiastic open arms...

Joy to the World

**This post was inspired by my dear friend and my honey.  I love you both.**

I once had a close friend say to me that she did not know how to write in her times of happiness.  I never understood her; how joy could leave a writer, usually so verbose in her language and descriptive in her text, devoid of the lexicon to express her bliss.  She is a writer by trade, which confounded me even more.  Her blog consistently keeps my fervid attention and fills me with curiosity.  A few years ago she had gone through a deep depression after sour medical news turned her weeks into monotonous days of mindless work and bottles of wine into blurred nights.  A depression which had her torn, and as her friend I tried desperately to keep knitting the pieces together.  Her blog and writing flourished then; it was a conduit for her grief.  Less than a year later, she succumbed to the “institution” (as she called it) of marriage, and unbeknownst to her at the time, her husband was her buoy.  He turned her wounds into wings, allowing her Venus-like beauty to flourish in ways only Botticelli could depict.  She was reborn into herself again.  It was during those times that I would refresh her website hoping for a new blog post to get a glimpse of her newfound emotions and partake in her life journey, yet her pages went empty for a few months as she reconciled this novel feeling she was experiencing.  It was when she was truly happy and at peace where she struggled most to find the words to place the sentiments.  Her emotional resurrection left her mute.  She admitted this to me on of our monthly wine and cheese outings.  I was frankly, shocked.  Why?  Wouldn’t this be when your emotions run high?  When the words spill out vehemently and a renaissance would take place?

I too, am a writer of thoughtful, inquisitive, and often depressing prose and poetry – of unrequited love, of relationships lost, and of familial tension.  It has been months since my last poem or blog, more than a year since my last painting, and even longer since my last choreography.  It feels as though the right side of my brain is decomposing.  I can’t help but question why: Is my new relationship changing me?  Am I balancing my time correctly?  Am I losing my touch?  All self-deprecating deliberations my mind is mediating on lately.  The answer came to me after remembering my friend’s comment.  The words simply do not come anymore.  I, like her, find myself in a healthy, steady, honest relationship.  One that makes me smile, allows me a peace in my heart, and a calmness when I lay my head to rest.  He is unlike my past – tumultuous, destructive, and inflamed.  He is composed, wise, sympathetic, and welcoming.  Our relationship is unlike any I have ever experienced; I sought out the impassioned relationship, full of extremities of emotion.  The emotions during those times fed the right side of my brain for an outlet to process the excess which my heart could not.  My writing developed and my artwork became the canal I used to sieve my emotions into a healthy instrument.  To be honest, for years my canal was flooded and overwhelmed with mood swings, sensitivity, rage, and most of all, vulnerability.  My levees could not withstand the dramatic force of this inflamed pressure. 

When I moved to Miami a year and a half ago to find my inner nirvana, my canal experienced a waning of pressure.  The ocean breeze and warm translucent waters filled my spiritual core.  Less than two months into my stay in Miami, I met a man who also kept my waters even and sought to abate the lingering waves from my past.  He was gentle, reassuring, soothing, loving.  A love that persisted and covered me in his strength.  My canal was no longer agitated, but the water ran through it steadily, comforting my days.  My artwork diminished and my words also quieted, but my waters were full of a calming caress.  I now can understand and appreciate why my friend’s blog went on a hiatus during those blissful relationship and newlywed years.  She was no longer trying to quell the fiery waters, but instead enjoying the tranquil and idyllic ride as she floated through these new emotions.  They were unfamiliar, but received with a colossal embrace.  Part of life is to enjoy the journey.  Our happiness is one we are still learning to process, but embracing fully as we travel through this voyage.  Our words have stopped and our lexicon put on pause, but our bodies, minds, and souls are very much involved.  My creativity will return once I have formed the intellect to comprehend my senses and the novel expressions of tranquility and love in my heart.

In the meantime, I’m following the waters to my happy...

Organic Chemistry

The energy between two locked eyes brought me back to the nucleus of fervid passion, lustful desire, and an uncomfortable vulnerability.

My balance of protons and electrons suffered an immediate magnetic moment – spinning its epicenter of mass at cosmic haste.

My internal equilibrium could not rationalize itself nor keep up with the electrifying tremor that permeated into my marrow.

The trauma assaulted my red blood cells as its white counterparts failed to preserve my health from the raid;

A violent and forceful invasion which left my body feeble, limp, and borderline anemic.

My pupils wanted to erase the image, look to another target, and distort the figure in front of me into an illusion incapable of retrieving.

But my optic nerves resisted the deception and refused to blur his likeness.

All it took was his eyes... 

A steadfast, intent gaze which created a vacancy in my electron cloud, allowing him to bond ionically to my heart, soul, body, and mind.

Ionic bonds exchange their electric charge with each other to adhere their atoms together. 

Their opposite attraction keeps them together as a unit.

His charged eyes grabbed mine, magnetically pulling me in with no prospect of resistance.

Chemistry, they call it.  Passion, they say.

Terrifying, hypnotic, and unquestionably debilitating, I say.

A Heaving Hurt

I ate my words as soon as they spewed out uncontrollably and haphazardly.

Vile words that invaded the room – words full of insensitive bile, undigested fragments, and aggression.

Much like the putrid smell of vomit, my words raided the air space and lingered restlessly. 

They attacked the recipient of my words with a stench of decomposition,

And decayed his outer layer of trust, affection, and confidence.

The words that spilled out in a moment of frustration, a moment hoping to entice and force the receiver of the words into action, instead pelted across his aura with an acidity damaging to his heart, mind, and very being.

An act of desperation, of a woman fishing for words, for answers, for a fight, instead threw the most critically lethal words which in turn finished the battle without a single confrontation.

The piercing sting of my words is not easily reparable nor is its biting acidity something I intend to overcome quickly.

The rancid odor of vomit undeniably loiters before restoring its victims to normalcy.

And while the fabric layers of a damaged loom of carpet will take steaming, deep cleansing, and special treatment to clear its contamination, with enough love, grace, and will, I pray my words will also be forgiven.

Slow: Proceed With Caution

Tears.

This time, tears which reflect my fears of being unworthy…

Fears that have compounded through years of failed relationships and a youth full of domestic violence and abuse.

As a woman I have been taught that I am a man’s unequal; that as a woman I need to adapt and submit to his needs and his dreams.  I am secondary.

The tears that tremble down my face now at hearing that he loves me, scare me knowing how deeply that he means it.

Tears that know that this man is here for the long haul; that he is fully invested in our relationship and future.

Tears that force me to question my own aspirations, hopes, and worldly desires.

Tears that know he is the “real deal”; a man so genuine, honest, loving, and giving that his open heart and unassuming mind give me peace, happiness, and a calm love.

He is more than what I have imagined, more than I could have dreamt, and more understanding than any thoughts I had of the man for my future.

I can see us sitting on the beaches of Phuket laughing, planning our next trip, our next life goal, and our next step together as a couple.

I can see us touring the streets of Rio drinking caipirinhas and dancing samba with the locals.

I can see us living together in a beautiful home in Miami pushing each other to succeed, grow, and move higher professionally, emotionally, intellectually, and spiritually.

“I have your back 100%,” “I’m not going anywhere,” and other affirmations of love and affection overwhelm me and allow me to  break down my walls of distrust and confinement.

I have used my strong demeanor, personality, and attitude as my partition to fend off men.

This man has listened, understood my inner emotions, and the catalysts for my reactions.  He is first my best friend, my teammate, my partner, and more importantly, my equal.

My tears reflect my nerves, anxiety, worries, introspection, and most of all my vulnerability.

You have my heart teetering precariously. Please proceed with caution.

Comfort in an Uncomfortable Realm

In 2005 a Spanish professor at my high school by the name of Senor Luis Gomez took me on my first international trip which would be the catalyst for my insatiable desire to travel the world.

I have always been interested in my own culture, history, and past but like many other children, I knew only what I heard in my house – Fidel Castro was a murderer, Che Guevara was his accomplice, and though Cuba was my “home,” it was a home that I could never visit.  A country that held my past, my family who never sought refuge in the United States, and a life that I would hear anecdotes about growing up but never be able to experience for myself.

Being 100% born and raised “American” (what is the appropriate word for someone from the United States?) is a cultural mystery to me.  Who I was growing up was loosely defined by a set of anecdotes, old family tales, salsa music, my first tongue (Spanish), nine years of Catholic school, and pollo guisado con arroz, frijoles, and platanos maduros.  As a baby I was not given your all-American Gerber baby food, but instead Mami would feed me her own concoctions of blended rice, beans, and whatever meat the adults were having that evening.  Chef Mami will one day teach me her tricks of the trade when I have a child.  My cultural identity was being defined before I even had the chance to object.  This undeniable “Latina” girl would soon lose her native tongue as her parents had decided it would be better to assimilate than to endure hours of ESL courses and missing important English literature classes.  Personally, I wish I knew what was happening as I could have stopped them and at least given myself some chance at being fluent in Spanish (not just colloquially but professionally) but also giving myself the opportunity to be seen as a “Latina” beyond the curly brown hair.  When I went to high school at a predominantly all-white preparatory school in New Jersey, I knew nothing about what it was like to be around others of different cultural backgrounds.  I had gone to a Catholic school for nine years where diversity was not something that was discussed, and we were too young to know the significance of such loaded terminology.

High school was a blur.  I remember joining volleyball in the fall of 2002 and being embarrassed that I had never met a black person before so I couldn’t tell the difference between two of my now closest best friends when we first met.  I had no idea that I was teetering on the edge of offensive when I would ask questions regarding their hair.  All I knew was that they were my best friends and I was curious.  I am grateful now that they were patient and understanding.  Needless to say, my parents were not happy that I was not “assimilating” the way they had hoped.  I was banned from joining any cultural groups –therefore was not a part of Umojaa like the rest of my friends were and was not allowed to join Mi Casa (the Spanish club) for my parents’ fear that I might stick out like the refugees we were.  I never fully understood their view and still struggle with it these days but I know we have come to a mutual understanding between us.

I ended up having a variety of friends – my boyfriend in high school was a white football player who introduced me to his artsy friends who came from all backgrounds – Chinese, Indian, and Caucasian.  I naturally spent most of my time with them towards the latter part of my high school years.  Yet something always felt like it was missing.  A part of me yearned for a deeper connection to my past.  I started to seek it in my artwork.  I was part of the International Baccalaureate (IB) program in my school and I enrolled in the IB Studio Art class; a two year class focusing on advanced techniques, studies, and research to improve the depth and quality of your work.  As I scan through the pages of my old workbooks, it is obvious that culture was my missing link.  I became obsessed with creating pieces of work towards the second half of my junior year and all of my senior year with different cultural artifacts after the eight-day trip Senor Gomez took me on to Costa Rica.

I painted an oversized ox-cart wheel synonymous with those found in the farmlands of Costa Rica; a way for farmers to recognize their specific ox-carts and to show off their affluence based on who had the best designs.  I also painted an oversized matador and bull midway through the bullfights you’d see in Madrid as my father’s family comes from Spanish bloodline.  I painted my depiction of Dia de los Muertos with acrylics on canvas – a festival in Mexico to honor and celebrate the lives of those who have passed.  I sculpted a calavera, painted flamenco dancers, tango dancers, and even a samba dancer.  Culture was my muse. I never thought much about my obsession until college when I applied to live on the Latin American Residential Program in Harnwell college house (UPenn’s fancy way of saying, "dorms").  I knew I wanted to find out more about myself and much to my parents dismay, I got into the program living with two suitemates – one international student from Colombia, and another local Dominican student from NYC.  I was happy to see that there were two other freshmen males living next door to us – an Argentinean student from Boca Raton and a Puerto Rican student from NYC.  After seeing the pictures of who I’d be sharing my year with, my parents insisted on referring to the Puerto Rican and Dominican students as my “black” roommates.  I didn’t know what to say except, “But they’re Latino…” I had never met a fellow Latino that didn’t have my pale white skin color and as funny as it sounds reading this now eight years later, I am embarrassed and horrified that I was so ignorant and therefore had no response to my parent's allegations.  As I became closer with my roommates and hallmates, it was pretty obvious that I had made the right choice – I finally felt like these people understood my struggles.  They knew what it was like to always have rice, beans, and platanos with every meal.  They understood that a chancleta was reason to hide from your parents growing up.  They knew that on Saturday nights, it was Abuela’s turn to the TV to watch her weekly dose of Don Francisco on Sabado Gigante.  I had never felt more accepted and I was finally growing into my own.  This family and my Onda Latina family (my dance troupe) molded my self-perception and sense of identity more than I will ever have words for.  My sophomore year I knew I wanted to study culture, race, and identity in a closer depth.  I enrolled in race studies classes with the best UPenn professor and advisor I could find – Dr. John Jackson.  I ended up majoring in Communications with a concentration in Culture, and minored in Latin American and Latino Studies.  I had learned more about the social constructions and history of race, skin color, identity, and ethnicity in one semester than I had learned growing up in a whitewashed house.  Why had this been hidden from me?

The answer to that question is one that I am appalled to admit – I asked my mother one day why they insisted on shielding my culture and identity from me and my siblings (all of whom have not really found their place as “Latinos” in this world and who only loosely identify with the term).  Her answer frustrated me – “I wanted to raise you white.  I didn’t want you to go through the same struggles I went through growing up as a Cuban in Newark not knowing English.”  Years later, I can see as a parent why she would want to shelter her children and based on her own experiences, why she felt this was the best way.  But it wasn’t enough for me.

I met many people in college from all over the world – sparking my interest and eye in world travel.   After Costa Rica, I was afforded the once-in-a-lifetime chance to travel to Colombia with my roommate.  We lived abroad for two months.  One of the best experiences of my life; and one day I will be back to see the family that housed us as part of our homestay, relive my nostalgia on top of Monserrate, La Calera, go for a run in Simon Bolivar Parque, and finally experience Andres Carne de Res.

Living abroad or even changing locations is daunting for many, but I find it liberating in a way.  Naturally I have always been a social person, so building relationships with those around me has never been a challenge thus far.  But moving to a new location affords you the ability to fully detach yourself from your previous abode and create a new persona.  As Jhumpa Lahiri writes in her novel, “The Namesake”, it is that uncanny ability to “both fit in perfectly yet remain slightly novel.”  “Reinventing [your]self, without misgivings, without guilt.”

For the last four years since graduation, I have been reinventing myself with every trip and experience I have abroad.  I have travelled to eight different countries so far at the ripe age of twenty-six.  More than many at my age, but still not enough for me.  I find myself constantly yearning for a new cultural experience to expand my horizons, challenge my viewpoints, and push me outside of my comfort zones.  I strive to find comfort in uncomfortable places – in relationships, business, or cultural exploration.  Over a year ago I started to date a man from Trinidad and I fully embraced his culture and identity.  More than a year after we have stopped dating, I have still adopted parts of the culture as my own – in particular the music and food.   So much so that I have gotten asked the question “Are you Trini?” more than once.

I am a true cultural mutt.  In 2013 I made my longest international trip so far to the United Arab Emirates.  As I disembarked from the plane after a fifteen and a half hour flight, I landed in a space that was decidedly foreign.  The men in their thawbs and keffiyehs frightened my Western mind as I had only seen images of men covered in white on the news and media in negative portrayals.  The men came across as intimidating and I could not help but look away as the man in customs asked me questions regarding my trip.  It took me less than a few hours to realize I that I needed to get over myself and push my limits of comfort.  As I took the subway from our hotel to the Mall of the Emirates by myself, I was confronted with new cultural experiences – a train which separated men from women, the public recitation of the Qu’ran during holy moments of prayer, prayer rooms within the mall, no trace of pork anywhere, and everything coming to a halt during the time of salat.  It was so much for me to take in and absorb.  I had never seen so many women dressed in abayas, niqab, and hijabs before.  It has been a year since I pushed the bubble of my lived world, and after reading ten different books about Islam and the Middle East, I still thirst for more.  I am mesmerized by the rhythmic chanting of the Qu’ran and the level of respect I have for the religion and Allah is on par with my level of respect for Jehovah.  But then again, I believe they are one in the same.  One day I will venture the courage to ask a woman covered in hijab about her place of worship here in Miami and I will ask to attend with her.  I would like to worship my Lord in every way possible; why not give Him the joy to see me revere Him in every religion?

People like to categorize and ask me if my move to Miami was part of me placing myself back into a cultural identity with which I could associate – the life of a refugee and growing up in a country that was not our own.  Miami is undoubtedly the city of Cuban-American nostalgia and hope.  But when I quickly rebuke their statement, they are surprised to find out I actually disassociate myself with Miami Cuban-Americans for that exact reason.  It is not what I grew up with, nor do I have a deep seeded desire to belong to their exclusive cult-like clique.  Miami Cubans are very far from what I consider my own identity.  I do not enjoy speaking Spanish as my primary language and I definitely do not ascribe to their narcissistic perception of self.   The way they reproach other cultures, races, and people nauseates me.  I would much rather associate myself with a mixed cultural identity – a bit of Cuban, Middle Eastern, Colombian, Trini, Dominican, American, African-American, etc.  I continue to adopt and accept new customs and traditions into my own life with every journey to a foreign country and with every person I encounter.  It keeps me fresh, renewed, and constantly challenged and changing.  The plasticity of my identity allows me to reinvent the whitewashed customs I grew up with and color them brilliantly - just as the ox cart wheels I encountered in Costa Rica and later painted my own adaptation through my own mixed cultural gaze.  I cannot and will not be classified; a fact that gives me ambiguity, elusiveness, and allows me to retain my own variance in a world that is too concerned with classification.

My Biography

I’m one of those people that likes to experience life fully.  I’ve never been one who is complacent sitting back, looking at the world, and watching it pass me by.  I like to fully immerse myself in the world I am living and surround myself with love, happiness, and peace.  I like new cultures, new religions, learning about race, identity, and travelling to new horizons.  God has given us an entire Earth to explore, discover, and push the limits of our own comfort level to grow and learn.  I want to be like a sponge on this planet – permeable, flexible, and absorbing everything around it. 

I will never understand people who are ok with living in a self-constructed bubble.  I want to experience every facet of life – breath in new air in a foreign country, hear rhythmic hymns and chants in a temple, bring a smile to a child’s face, and immerse myself in someone else’s shoes.  We were given the power and the love within us to transform a life and more substantially, this world.  I firmly believe that good people exist.

I am a cultural mutt.  I have been told I look Italian/Puerto Rican/Middle Eastern my entire life.  I love it and fully embrace my cultural ambiguity.  As a matter of fact, I would rather not identify with one “culture” per say as I am a bit of thief when it comes to music, food, religion, and language.  I take what I identify with; no matter if it is deemed culturally “Indian” or “Caribbean” or “African American.”  I do not ascribe to traditional categorization and I will continually rebel against labels.  I am Raquel; a cultural parasite who takes what she associates with, what calls to her heart, and is constantly learning new rituals and traditions that will expand her “bubble” of reality.  Call me Dora the Explorer, as my old coworker used to call me.

Life is a joy.  By fully immersing myself in the moment, I always try to use all five senses and commit my experiences to memory, as I know in a few years, I will be unable to recall sights, smells, and sounds exactly as they are in the moment.  Videos and pictures are my only hope.  It troubles me that I even fail to recall many of the experiences on my first international trip to Costa Rica when I was seventeen; merely eight years ago.

My college friends call me “paparazzi.”  I secretly love it.  I love capturing and remembering moments.  Some will argue that by capturing a moment, I am missing the very essence of being “in” the moment.  I disagree.  I have done both and will continue to live fully AND remember fully.

I have an esoteric mind and a depth that not many can understand.  I think deeply and critically with regard to my relationships with people, my interactions, and my love for the world.  Yes, I am a dreamer and a lover.  Perhaps I was born in the wrong decade.  I will always choose my heart and often times fail to think rationally as my heart is not a rational organ unfortunately.  But I wouldn’t have it any other way.  Regret will never be in my vocabulary.

I fully love my life.  Every day, every hour, every minute, every second.  No one can take my thoughts, my inner joy, my heart, or my hope.  Those are the seconds of my watch.  Those are the ticks that keep my arms flying and my legs sailing.

Bon voyage to a new adventure.  Dream big, keep your wanderlust fervent.

Sail away.

God's Paintings

Flamingo pink,

Lilac purple,

Faded lemon yellow,

Ocean blue,

And a radiant deep watermelon red,

Brush the sky as the sun slowly retreats behind the swaying dark green palms.

Clear skies tonight with only one purplish pink cumulus cloud interrupting the blue canvas of our atmosphere.

Sunsets are God’s daily artwork to mankind for us to relish in their glory and be stunned by their opulent colors; every day altered yet ever impressive and ephemeral. 

A quick camera snap fails to capture the majesty of His work.

Sometimes I wonder if you see the same sun setting as I do on life’s canvas and if you are as stunned with the beauty of life as I am. 

You are on my mind always.

Ignorant Heart

As I sit at the Delta gate ready to board my flight "home" to Miami, my heart does not feel like it left the one bedroom apartment in NJ that it just cohabitated for seven days.
I can feel it throbbing under the thin reversible navy blue comforter aching for its body to come back and keep it alive.
An outer body experience, as my eyes see airplanes, Hudson News stands, and luggage, but my heart, nestled in the bed we shared, feels warm, familiar, and safe.
My heart resisted leaving the strong doorways that slammed shut behind my body forcing me step by step to my chosen life in Miami.
It hopped out stubbornly from my chest, and with each sequential heartbeat, it pumped and jumped from the front door to the bedroom...
lub-dup... lub dup...
Squirting a bit of blood with each beat, a trail of A- blood is unapologetically left over each cold speckled tile in the apartment.
My head feels faint from the lack of oxygen being pumped to it and I can feel my limps slowly losing functionality.
It takes only six minutes without blood for your body to begin deteriorating and your brain cells to begin to perish.
My body wants to go back and collect its stubborn heart - tell it that this is the path I must take, tell it that this is the choice I made, and tell it that this is not my time yet.
But then the engine starts and the car starts to drive away...
The rain outside is a serendipitous parallel to my inner body - empty, cold, and sorrowful.
As we reach the highway to the airport, I know there is no turning back.
My body will have to live sans heart for a bit...
The heart is an ignorant and illogical organ.
It does what it wants and thinks what it wants. My rational head cannot contain its independent nature.
One day I pray that my heart and head will finally agree and be at peace.
My head obliges as I walk onto the plane - "I will see you in July, my stubborn heart."
Enjoy the warm embraces, DJ music, curry chicken, GTA games, and all the laughs.
Please report all of your stories, adventures, and memories back to me in seven months.
I will be eagerly waiting.

The Wait

1268 miles.
One thousand two hundred sixty eight. Twelve sixty eight.
Eighteen hours and sixteen minutes.
Those last grueling sixteen minutes separate the normalcy and monotony of life with bliss.
Waiting patiently…
17 days – 408 hours – 24,480 minutes.

Secrets

In my head, I believe you are mine.
I'd be lying to you if I told you that I didn't think about you every morning and didn't want to hold you every night.
I want to lay on your couch holding you close watching Netflix and eating sandwiches from the bodega down the street (or corner store, as you call it.)
I want to watch rereuns of Grey's Anatomy and hear you talk about how when they killed George you were angry.
I want to have deep intellectual conversations with you -
Discuss science, race, religion, and what our future children will look like.
I yearn to tell you that I love you every time we hang up the phone.
I wish you understood that I would never knowingly hurt you nor wish any harm on you.
I want to give you the ripest fruit of my gardens and the richest honey of my ethers every day.
With every thought of my future and every major decision I make, I imagine what you would tell me and what your advice would be.
I secretly wish you would move to Florida or I would move back north.
Home to me is in your arms. No other location has ever felt so safe.
A man like you is a rarity.
I pray for you all the time.
Your future success is extremely important to me. What woman doesn't want to see the man she loves succeed?
I want to be your loudest cheerleader and most trusted wingwoman.
I want to see you happy. You've spent too many years unhappy and your time is coming. I can't wait.
I sometimes dial your number and then don't press send.
I usually wait for you to call me so that I know I'm not bothering you.
Listening to soca music makes me feel more connected to you and your culture.
I love Trini culture now.
My dance instructor calls me "Trini girl" and my heart smiles.
Never would I have imagined eating shark and I would have said no if anyone but you had asked me to try it.
I've tried for a year to move on without success.
I compare every man to you - your good heart, old school morals, your relationship with Christ, your intellect, and foresight.
I've prayed for a man with certain characteristics and qualities for years. You have all of them.
I have dreams of living the rest of my life with you.
I can't see myself ever not talking to you.
I always wonder what you think of me...
Every new experience I have I wish you could experience it with me.
I want to share my happines with you and always lift you up higher.
I want to cook you dinner and pack you lunch with a cute note inside your bag since I know how much you hate Subway sandwiches.
I wish I could meet your mom and tell her what a fantastic son she has raised.
No other man compares to you.
If I had to chose between your happines and mine, I would always choose yours.
Most of all, I wish you would open your heart to receiving and giving love again. You've cemented walls to keep love out, but you've cemented potential happiness out as well.
I believe in a future with you.
You own my heart and I'm not sure you are aware.
They say in love that sometimes "you just know."
Well, I just know.

Tidal Reflection

There are few things in this world that leave me dumbfound and breathless.
The ocean is one of them.
Its waves drown my thoughts and fill my lungs with gratefulness.
As I stand by the foamy ocean edge looking into the vast curved horizon, I am reminded of my grandmother - a selfless and caring warrior who is no doubt surfing in the magical red, pink, and blue clouds ahead of me.
I can feel her warm smile as she gently blows me a kiss, caressing my beach blown hair and leaving me goosebumps.
These are the moments I treasure and attempt to capture in my worn out memory box.
An old white former shoebox aged by seven years and filled to the brim with nostalgia, hope, heartache, and tears.
A robber would never care to take a box so worn out containing nothing but useless relics.
Yet no gold, silver, or diamond could amount to the emotional sentiment contained within.
I secretly wish I could bottle the wonder and awe of the ebbing waves with the purple blue sunset to store it in my box.
I know however that it would be selfish to keep such beauty to myself...
As I bid adieu to the salty crisp air, blazing sun, white sand, and astounding ocean for the day, know that I am thinking of you.
You are on my mind and I wish you could experience this joy with me.
As I look up towards the sky on the short walk back to my car, I am greeted with the sweet welcome hello of our grandiose satellite moon,
And I know that somewhere you are thinking of me too.

Happy.

Woke up this Saturday morning to the sun shining into my canopy bed warming my face and inviting me to a new day. I step outside onto my balcony and lay in my hammock in awe of the beauty of this earth. The water from the kiddie pool below making a gentle and calming sound to soothe, the hot sun blazing on my cheeks and legs to create a crisp brown tan later in the day, and the coo-ing of birds freshly awakened ready for a day's adventure. It is peaceful out here with no one in sight, empty pools below, and no sounds other than that of nature. Palm trees sway softly in the background with the light wind interrupted only by the rare pigeon landing at its trunk for a rest, leaving me stunned as to how I am so fortunate to live in this paradise. Life is wonderful. This is the state of living I so yearned up north and desperately chased. Peace, happiness, and undeniable joy.