Supermarket Leeches, NYC: the city of 3 million battles

4:16 PM

There’s nothing I hate more than those attention-hungry leeches equipped with a clip board and a handsome smile ready to jump out at you the second you make eye contact with them. You know the people I’m talking about, right? They usually hide behind bushes at your local Trader Joe’s or Whole Foods, wear a khaki or lime green apron, and are more often than not super good looking? I’m speaking of the ever annoying advertisers, trying to sell you a grocery delivery service, or collect data for a recipe app or get you a free haircut? To be honest, I don’t really know what they are trying to sell—because I’ve never spoken to them. But they ALWAYS try to stop me. They’ll try to reel me in with a phrase like, “Can I ask you a question, how do YOU cook?”

I will never have enough time to stop to talk to them. Usually, my trips to Trader Joe’s are squished between a commute from work and dinner. I’m ravenous and have the grocery list categorized by isles for efficiency. The only thing I have time for is the predictably 25-minute- long checkout line, which I don’t really have time for either—but I make up for by answering emails on my phone.

I do however, often consider going up to them and asking them to give me the contact information of their Business Developing team. I seriously need to talk to the marketing professional who thought it was a good idea to harass innocent Trader Joe’s customers as they are trying to purchase their favorite frozen-isle meals expediently. What makes you think that I want to talk to you?!?!?!? You are literally standing in the way of a very specific mission-oriented trip that has nothing to do with speaking to strangers about how often I get my hair cut.

Has this marketing team ever thought about negative associations? If I were ever verbally molested (yes, I’m using strong terms but I am trying to get a point across) by a person standing in the way of me and my Peppermint Joe Joe’s Ice Cream trying to sell me X product, the next time I came across X product, I would immediately be turned off by it. Like that one Chris Evans movie where he can’t eat Captain Crunch cereal because when his mom left him as a kid, she left the goodbye note pasted onto the box of the delicious treat. (I really like Chris Evans ok? Despite all of the terrible projects he’s been involved in that now crowd my “Because You Watched ‘What’s Your Number’” on Netflix).

I’ve also considered yelling directly at them “Don’t come near me!!!!” or “Stay away you handsome devil!!” or sign to them in ASL that I can’t hear them. However, I’ve failed every time. I’m crippled and my raging anger transforms into the gentlest grandma and says “I’m so sorry, I’m in a rush!”

The moral of this story is that in New York and in this world sometimes you have to pick your battles. Should I scream at the man on the subway who keeps miss-swiping his MetroCard and causing delays or take a deep breath and file a complaint to the MTA for its outdated system once I get home? Do I send a strongly worded email to my grandma pleading her to stop forwarding me catholic prayer email chains or do I take a deep breath and defend my sister during the inevitable Christmas dinner attack? Every time I see a handsome man in a khaki and lime green apron, I want to chuck his clipboard against the pavement until it comes apart in a million little splinters. But every time, I just, don’t.

Teotihuacán (Travel Diary)

10:22 PM

A plant can’t grow without its roots. The roots anchor the plant to the ground, provide it with support, and feed it the nutrients that it needs in order to flourish. I—and probably you too—am a plant that has been violently ripped off of its original ground, has been placed in a new environment, and has been forced to acclimate to a completely new ecosystem.

I have gradually found the aspects of American culture that I like and have chosen to adopt, but down to the core, to the root, I am Mexican. And proudly so.

This summer I went on somewhat of a heritage trip to Mexico with my family. It was the first time I’d visited some of the most beautiful Mexican cities that are considered to be “Pueblos Magicos” or “Magical Towns.” We stayed mostly in Central Mexico and toured around the vibrant and historically-loaded cities of Querétaro, Guanajuato, San Miguel de Allende, Mexico City, and the ancient Mesoamerican city of Teotihuacán.

The latter was my absolute most favorite stop of the 3-and-a-half-week journey. Teotihuacán is an archeological site that dates back to 200 AD. The massive pyramid structures and ancient monumental temples provide every visitor with an authentic time warp into the pre-Columbian Americas.

Who built Teotihuacán remains a mystery, although in later times it would become conquered by the Toltec and Aztec Empires.

There are three pyramids that define the city’s layout. As I was hiking up the 230 steps to the top of Pyramid of the Sun, I could imagine the Teotihuacano people climbing up these very same tiny steps on their way to perform their religious rituals.

Once atop the pyramid, at about 210 feet above the ground, I had a magnificent view of the ancient city一worthy of only the most powerful emperor in all the land. To the right, I could see the Pyramid of the Moon at the end of what is called the “Avenue of the Dead.” To the left was the temple of Quetzalcoatl named after the Aztec feathered serpent deity, the primordial god of creation.

The massive structures defy all means of production of the time, proving the technological advancements that these people developed went beyond their immediate capabilities. Staring out into the impressive complex, I felt an ounce of pride. Where these people my ancestors? Am I a product of years and years of modernization rooted from these promising soils?

It seemed silly to even try to place myself in the same timeline as the people that lived here over 1,800 years before me, but as I learned more about who they were and how they lived, as I walked through what used to be their living compounds and heard about their internal wars, I really wanted to integrate myself into their story. I was eager to belong to such a rich culture, to be a part of a continuation that was probably too many times interrupted.

Whatever happened to the ancient city of Teotihuacán is unknown. The city faced collapse and some of the royal structures were burnt down, although the cause remains a mystery. The Spanish would eventually pass by it, the civilization around it would change dramatically, and finally, it would become a part of the World Heritage List, a widely visited tourist attraction protected by UNESCO

Whether I was a part of the lineage of the people who broke their backs building this incredible complex, I would never find out; but I decided it didn’t matter. It is a part of my history now. Standing here atop of the Pyramid of the Sun I am a part of this. I, along with every spectator of this monumental piece of history have incorporated ourselves in the timeline. We have been brought back into the world of these people, that almost two thousand years away, remain as present as ever in our minds and in our hearts.

Although my roots have grown in certain soils, what will sprout from them is ever changing. I decided I would choose my own history. In the process of doing so I’ll adopt the Teotihuacanos, their insight, their dreams of greatness and innovation, their magnificent creations and stories.

They preceded everything that I am, but somehow, they simultaneously exceed everything that I dream to be.

An Unsteady Bike (A Personal Essay)

6:12 PM

I have been wanting to write about this for a while, and I came up with this creative writing piece that ended up being a sort of healing process for myself. It stirred a lot of emotions in me and in the people in my immediate circle who I shared it with, so I thought I would share it with you all :) (I took out the names and the people I wrote about gave me permission to publish).

I woke up at 6 am purely by instinct on the morning of my last birthday. I am known for sleeping in, especially on summer days when responsibilities are few and laziness is an option. I reached over to my night stand to pick up my phone wondering if Facebook birthday posts were starting to flood my notifications. What I saw were many posts and messages from my closest friends. What I read was not what I expected.

I ran to my parents room; I was staying with them for the summer while I was home. My dad wished me a happy birthday and I instantly said, “Dad, I need you to drive me to the hospital right now.”

This particular birthday got me thinking about my 10th birthday, which also brought a bit of a surprise. My mom arranged for a birthday party at theme park on the beach, with roller coasters and ice cream and everything that my ten-year-old heart desired. Her minivan was parading the rest of my guests, one of them being by best friend, riding in the back of her dad’s Ford Explorer. We set up a grill, showed off some cartwheels, and took advantage of our Unlimited Ride bracelets. Later in the day, my friend and her dad went to pick up something from the back of their car. When they came back, they were steering the most beautiful purple bike I had ever seen towards me. It had sparkly ribbons hanging from the handles, pink pedals, and no training wheels. For the rest of the day her and her dad were teaching me how to ride a bike for the first time. They would hold the bike, push it forward and cheer on me until I couldn’t balance anymore and had to put my feet down to stop myself from falling over.

I don’t remember a birthday that I haven’t spent with her to this day—not my 15th when we visited New York City for the first time together, or my 13th when we stayed in her aunt’s condo in Puerto Vallarta, or my 6th when my mom rented out an inflatable bouncy house and put it on my grandparents back yard.

On this birthday, I was running over to the hospital because my best friend’s boyfriend had just flown across the windshield of his friend’s car; he had actualized every mother’s worst nightmare and had fallen victim to a drunk man’s carelessness. He had lost a lot of blood and was being kept in the trauma center of the hospital where his dad worked. They needed blood donors. Clean blood that would complement his, and mine was a match. When I walked into the waiting room I saw my friend sitting on a couch looking frail and pale. Her characteristically slim bones looked weaker and thinner, it seemed as if there was only a strand of thread holding all of her tender parts together. Shock defined her gaze, there was little that could be said to console her.

I watched patiently as my blood left my bloodstream, waiting for the moment when I could tell him that there would forever be a part of me running through his veins. I thought that was pretty cool, in an eerie way. I was celebrating another year of my life with the only hope that he would too. I left the donation room and sat with my friend. I felt the need to be extremely optimistic, I think we all did.

I took her home and lay in bed with her. Her back was towards me, and as we both laid there in silence I could hear her throat draw to a close, her lungs cramp and her tear ducts fill to the brim. Her shoulders moved with the rest of her body, and her head shook in disbelief.

She had always been the leader of our friend group. The smart, witty, authoritative part of the pack that served as the glue that kept us together. She usually is the strong one, she holds a stern attitude towards enemies or anyone who tries to mess with someone that she loves. Confident, reserved, particular. I considered her a protector when I was little; there’s not much that I would do without her. Yet today I was reminded that leaders sometimes lose their direction. Her eyes didn’t know where to turn, and I had to assure her that her hand would be held along the way no matter the outcome.

We were banking on a couple of decades of friendship here. She and I held on together from the womb and into the wild. We moved to Europe after high school and discovered life and its disappointments hand in hand. We did develop individual personalities eventually, and we found new friends, and boyfriends, that complimented and respected our new identities.

We let each other grow and take on different paths. But when doubt would overcast our thoughts, when events would complicate our trajectories, when no one else would understand what was haunting us, we would come together and talk about it.

And here I was, hearing her weep. I was holding her hand making empty promises to replace fate, and the odds were hardly in our favor.

My birthday wasn’t a day of balloons and birthday wishes. I didn’t blow candles, or get serenaded by my father’s guitar. It was a day of lessons. Like that 10th birthday of mine, except it was my friend on that unsteady bike, and today it was my job to cheer her on, to push her forward until she could ride on her own.

After two weeks I was there next to her at the funeral. We were suddenly not kids anymore, we were dealing with adult situations, feelings that I thought we wouldn’t experience until we were dyeing our gray hairs. But it happened to my friend, therefore it had happened to me. Clasping her hand with mine, wiping my own tears with the other. My friend heard stories about her boyfriend as if they were distant memories, and I became aware that love is feeling other people’s feelings as if they were your own. Caring unconditionally is wishing you could change circumstances so your friends don’t ever have to hurt, or cry, or feel loss.

Now we’re far away again, living on opposite coasts. Every year on my birthday will lie an important reminder to value life and its fragility. But more importantly to value the people that make it so heartbreaking, and the people that stick around to make it a little less so.

New Yorkers Close-up: Amy Leon

3:19 PM

From Harlem to the Stage: a Road Paved by Words
By Maritza Rico

Images taken from www.amyleon.com

Poet, Singer and Actor, Amy Leon has paved her own way to artistic autonomy. Ever since the second grade when she participated, and won recognition, in a New York Time’s poetry contest, Leon has tackled issues about race, identity and social struggles through her impeccable play on words.

Leon’s road to creative expression was a difficult but inevitable one, shaped by a tumultuous upbringing, encouragement from supporters, but most importantly an early developed sensitivity and awareness of her reality and place in the world.

Leon grew up in Harlem, and lived in several different foster homes until she was adopted at the age of 13. Her experience in the foster care system was marked by various forms of abuse and instability, which she wrote about in the 10^th grade in a poem titled “Product of the System” which Leon considers to be her first “serious” piece of poetry. Leon believes that her circumstances were always preparing her to become an artist.

“It was difficult but I don't think I knew just how much it was impacting me,” Leon says about her childhood. “There's no one moment that made me decide to become an artist, but because of where I am from, I had no other option.”

Amy Leon has made a career out of her life experience. She thinks that by celebrating herself as the young, gifted, woman of color that she is, she will help people similar to her achieve great things.

“My work focuses a lot on identity, race, and the brown girl experience because it is all I know,” she says. “When I come to know something else, I will write about that too.”

Leon has a natural gift for performing. Her presence on the stage is impossible to ignore. Big, unruly curly hair, signature blue-colored lip stick, and thrifted vintage dresses in bold colors contribute to her unapologetic image, an image that she has curated with time after she was able to afford her own clothes, she says.

“I dress the way I do because chunky black women are not a part of the fashion narrative and I am doing everything I can to change that,” she says.

Image taken from www.amyleon.com

Leon’s confidence is transported into the spotlight, making her performances even more touching and emotive for the audience. Leon has made a home out of the stage.

“It feels like I’m walking into my living room and finding a bunch of people waiting to listen to me,” she says about the stage. “The audience is always generous with their emotions, even if the room is silent I feel the vibrations coming from the room and the people in it. I don't quite know what that is, but I love that.”

She recently shared the stage with Sabryna Fulton and Rosa Clemente, two women of color known for their advocacy in social justice issues, at “Portraits: Show up” a New York University event by the Center for Multicultural Programs. Leon considers this to be on her top 3 favorite performances.

“I couldn't believe who I was sharing the stage with, and that I was looked to as an artist to fit in with these incredible women, [Fulton, Clemente] what was I doing on stage with them?” she says.

“That performance made me realize how successful I have been with my work. To be associated with social justice, politics and activism as an artist at this point in my career, fills me with joy and excitement for my future.”

The poet narrated an extremely striking incident in her life, a time where she experienced racism first hand and was appalled by it. While on a trip to Boulder, Colorado for the College Unions Poetry Slam Invitational, she was walking back after being out with a group of people. During the walk, some passersby rolled down their car window and yelled “Nigger!” to Leon and her peers. She recalls being called that word twice again in the same week.

“I was shocked because I had never been so plainly addressed with such disrespect,” Leon says. “It got me thinking about my birth mom and how she will never in her life experience what it is to be called a nigger.”

“It made me angry, but mostly sad,” she says.

This experience inspired Leon to write her favorite poem of her collection, “Learning This Skin,” that was adapted into a short film directed and produced by Matthew Puccini and Tyler Rabinowitz and nominated by HBO’s Project Greenlight for the “Most Unique” award and was part of the Official Selection of the 2015 Langston Hughes African American Film Festival.

Learning this Skin from TM Productions on Vimeo.

“It is definitely important to me because it was the first time I address the topic of being biracial,” Leon says about the poem, “and the first time I addressed my relationship with my mother in the present. I always refer to her in the past, so it was kind of a big deal for me.”

After self-publishing her first book, a collection of poems titled “The Water Under the Bridge,” Leon planned a 6-week, 20-show tour around the United Kingdom where she sold her books and globalized her artistry.

“I performed all over and met the most incredible people” she says. “My work was very well received.”

Leon believes that the purpose of her life is to share her story and create an impact on the people who hear it.

“I honestly believe that all of the things that have happened to me did because I will tell the world of my pain and somehow find joy in it, and by finding joy in my own life while sharing these stories of abuse and social and racial inequalities, people are often moved to find the joy as well,” she says.

“I think that’s my goal with all this: to help others and myself find the joy.”