In high school, I had blue black hair and a pierced nostril. I wore a uniform of sorts. A punk rock tee (usually my Sex Pistols one) and red thermals with monkey boots and I put male boxers over my thermals and a men's thrift store bought vest over my tee. I would line my eyes like Cleopatra and add bright red lipstick.
I was trying to morph from goofy goody two shoes to punk rock girl. Trying to change into someone darker to match my insides. Looking back, I was trying to find myself. And find myself I did, discovering myself in the music of that time. I found solace from the chaos of home in bands like The Smiths, The Cure, Siouxsie and the Banshees, The Replacements, The Pixies, Joy Division, The Sex Pistols and of course, the Los Angeles punk bank X. It was the melodies and harmonies of John Doe and Exene Cervanka that attracted me at first. I was always drawn to the melody within the chaos. Then I read their lyrics and it was pure poetry. Real poetry hidden within the music. It captivated me.
While I no longer look the part of a punk rock girl for the most part, my musical obsessions have remained the same. I still try to go to shows as much as I can. It brings something out in me. I feel free and happy at a concert. Like I can do anything at all. All the misery goes away. The pain of my infertility struggles, my dad's death around this time almost a decade ago, my clients' legal criminal problems, the deaths of all my rock icons this year along with the lingering dark depression I have had since my teenage wasteland years. It all goes away, and vanishes with a poof, with the opening strings of a Billy Zoom guitar riff.
Tonight, my husband and I are celebrating forty years of X at the Roxy in Hollywood. I'll line my eyes with thick eyeliner, I'll put on my high socks and monkey boots and my X tee covered by a blue cowboy sweater and I'll scream with excitement when they come on. I'll sing along to every song jumping up and down like a maniac and remember what it feels like to be young under an Inland Empire sun.
Panorama of San Bernardino
Thursday, December 29, 2016
Sunday, December 4, 2016
Mantz Girl
I am finishing up season seven of Gilmore Girls. I happened upon the show more than a decade late, but it has become one of my (and my 82 year old mother-in-law's) favorite shows. There is something about the way it captures mother and daughter friendship and femaleness, as well as music and pop culture. But, in the end, it is most about the character of Rory. She wants to be a journalist and ends up as editor-in-chief of the Yale Daily News.
I had a similar experience in college, albeit on a much less elite scale. I was editor-in-chief of the Mountaineer, my junior college's newspaper. It is an experience that I have written about before. I loved layout, headlines and editing. There was nothing like last minute deadlines to give me a rush. It was my first love and I fell head over heels.
In the seventh season, Rory fails to get her journalism internship and is questioning her path. I faced a similar conundrum. I had to transfer to a four year university and the question was, where to? My advisor on the paper was named Gina and she had worked for the Washington Post. She wanted me to apply to Columbia for journalism, but I was too scared. New York seemed so far away and such a huge city. I was a pink collar waitress girl from the Inland Empire. A high school dropout, I had waitressed my way through Mt. SAC after taking my GED and had gotten almost straight As (damn that Algebra II class that I eventually got a B in after much consternation). It just seemed too much of a stretch to see myself in New York City in the Ivy Leagues.
Now it was time to make a decision that could impact the rest of my life. I could go anywhere I knew in theory. Transfer students with high GPAs were in high demand, I knew this. But in my heart, I was boxed in, I couldn't see a path ahead. How would I support myself in NYC?
I decided to apply to UC Riverside. I got in, of course. They didn't have a journalism program, so I decided to major in English Literature. I never worked on the school paper because as a junior it was hard to break in. But here's the rub. Despite the fact that I chose the path of least resistance, I think I made the right decision. UC Riverside was a wonderful supportive environment. I met two great friends there, Emily and Gina, who were both English majors as well. We ruled the school, at least in our minds. I studied James Joyce under a Joyce scholar. I ended up with a nice scholarship and as a result, in my last year at UCR, I didn't need to work for the first time in my life.
At the end of my UCR tenure of a too brief two years, I applied to USC Law and got in. I was floored. I knew my life would change. And it did. And I can only hope that I ended up in the right place at the public defender's office helping the mentally ill and protecting their legal rights. I am not a journalist, but I am a defender of the US Constitution.
Yet, here I am, twenty years later, my junior college days a mere hazy memory, and I am still writing. My nonfiction has been published in literary journals, I have done readings and even a performance at a real theater. My stories are out there, one was taught in a class. It is unbelievable if you think about it.
That's the thing. Sometimes, your dreams find you.
Despite it all, your dreams find you.
I had a similar experience in college, albeit on a much less elite scale. I was editor-in-chief of the Mountaineer, my junior college's newspaper. It is an experience that I have written about before. I loved layout, headlines and editing. There was nothing like last minute deadlines to give me a rush. It was my first love and I fell head over heels.
In the seventh season, Rory fails to get her journalism internship and is questioning her path. I faced a similar conundrum. I had to transfer to a four year university and the question was, where to? My advisor on the paper was named Gina and she had worked for the Washington Post. She wanted me to apply to Columbia for journalism, but I was too scared. New York seemed so far away and such a huge city. I was a pink collar waitress girl from the Inland Empire. A high school dropout, I had waitressed my way through Mt. SAC after taking my GED and had gotten almost straight As (damn that Algebra II class that I eventually got a B in after much consternation). It just seemed too much of a stretch to see myself in New York City in the Ivy Leagues.
Now it was time to make a decision that could impact the rest of my life. I could go anywhere I knew in theory. Transfer students with high GPAs were in high demand, I knew this. But in my heart, I was boxed in, I couldn't see a path ahead. How would I support myself in NYC?
I decided to apply to UC Riverside. I got in, of course. They didn't have a journalism program, so I decided to major in English Literature. I never worked on the school paper because as a junior it was hard to break in. But here's the rub. Despite the fact that I chose the path of least resistance, I think I made the right decision. UC Riverside was a wonderful supportive environment. I met two great friends there, Emily and Gina, who were both English majors as well. We ruled the school, at least in our minds. I studied James Joyce under a Joyce scholar. I ended up with a nice scholarship and as a result, in my last year at UCR, I didn't need to work for the first time in my life.
At the end of my UCR tenure of a too brief two years, I applied to USC Law and got in. I was floored. I knew my life would change. And it did. And I can only hope that I ended up in the right place at the public defender's office helping the mentally ill and protecting their legal rights. I am not a journalist, but I am a defender of the US Constitution.
Yet, here I am, twenty years later, my junior college days a mere hazy memory, and I am still writing. My nonfiction has been published in literary journals, I have done readings and even a performance at a real theater. My stories are out there, one was taught in a class. It is unbelievable if you think about it.
That's the thing. Sometimes, your dreams find you.
Despite it all, your dreams find you.
Monday, November 21, 2016
Thank You God It's Me Juanita
Thankfulness can be a stretch for me. Every year at Thanksgiving dinner, my little sister Annette, who is not so little anymore at 42, says, "Everyone say what they're thankful for."
We go around the dining table and it always sounds so cliche. Everyone says the same things: thank you for family, for friends, for the food (that's my mom's favorite), for their spouse, for economic prosperity, and on and on. It is one cliche after another. Said with the most earnest of faces. We all clap. And it is heartwarming but as a writer, and as my usual sarcastic self, I yearn for the bitter irony.
Then I thought, how about this year I be thankful for something that feels like a curse? I should be thankful for my infertility. And for not bringing a child into the world who will have to live under the darkest of Lords, akin to Sauron and Voldermort, and the Dark King.
He who shall not be named. Please don't make me say his name.
Before the election, I wept over my childless life. For the last nine or so years, I cried and prayed asking why or why over my lack of little ones. After failed IVF and a miscarriage and years of trying, it is something I have had to reconcile.
My lack of kids has vexed me. Irritated me. Saddened me. It has left a pit of despair in my heart because I am a maternal person. Just ask my two Shih-Tzus Frodo (hence the Sauron reference) and Chewbaca. They are my furry princes complete with red Christmas capes. I am their Queen mother. Up until now, my fur kids have not been enough to fill the void in my heart.
Then the unthinkable happened. And now, I thank God for my unproductive, barren, infertile, dry and empty womb.
Because my child will never have to know what it is like to deal with what is to come. I will not have to explain the hate, the lies, the corruption, the civil rights destroyed and laid asunder. I will not have to tell dark and true bedtime stories of utter terror. I will not have to be afraid that my child will know nuclear war.
This Thanksgiving, we are forgoing family time and going to the den of depravity, Las Vegas. It feels fitting. It suits my mood. And on that day of thanks, I will sit at a slot machine and raise my beer to toast my bunless oven in these worst of times.
We go around the dining table and it always sounds so cliche. Everyone says the same things: thank you for family, for friends, for the food (that's my mom's favorite), for their spouse, for economic prosperity, and on and on. It is one cliche after another. Said with the most earnest of faces. We all clap. And it is heartwarming but as a writer, and as my usual sarcastic self, I yearn for the bitter irony.
Then I thought, how about this year I be thankful for something that feels like a curse? I should be thankful for my infertility. And for not bringing a child into the world who will have to live under the darkest of Lords, akin to Sauron and Voldermort, and the Dark King.
He who shall not be named. Please don't make me say his name.
Before the election, I wept over my childless life. For the last nine or so years, I cried and prayed asking why or why over my lack of little ones. After failed IVF and a miscarriage and years of trying, it is something I have had to reconcile.
My lack of kids has vexed me. Irritated me. Saddened me. It has left a pit of despair in my heart because I am a maternal person. Just ask my two Shih-Tzus Frodo (hence the Sauron reference) and Chewbaca. They are my furry princes complete with red Christmas capes. I am their Queen mother. Up until now, my fur kids have not been enough to fill the void in my heart.
Then the unthinkable happened. And now, I thank God for my unproductive, barren, infertile, dry and empty womb.
Because my child will never have to know what it is like to deal with what is to come. I will not have to explain the hate, the lies, the corruption, the civil rights destroyed and laid asunder. I will not have to tell dark and true bedtime stories of utter terror. I will not have to be afraid that my child will know nuclear war.
This Thanksgiving, we are forgoing family time and going to the den of depravity, Las Vegas. It feels fitting. It suits my mood. And on that day of thanks, I will sit at a slot machine and raise my beer to toast my bunless oven in these worst of times.
Sunday, November 13, 2016
A recipe for the times
In the book 1984 by Orwell, there is a famous quote, "If you want a vision of the future, imagine a boot stamping on a human face - forever." That is how I feel this Sunday after the election. Stomped upon. My hope is almost nonexistent. Now, I do not know if Trump is the next Hitler or Mussolini, but what I do know is that there is the very real possibility that America just elected a fascist dictator into the White House.
I always say that if you want to know who someone is, just listen to their words. And we have listened and listened to Trump. We have heard him scapegoat and rant on Mexicans, Muslims, the undocumented, women, and most of all Hillary. And we have watched his actions. We have seen Trump raise his hand in a Nazi style salute to his crowds. The violence and hate, it was all too crazy at first to even believe.
And Hillary, poor Hillary. She played by the rules and had proper decorum. But, if I know one thing after representing people in 1368 incompetency proceedings, it is this: you cannot argue with crazy, and Trump is crazy. A crazy egomaniac, former reality television star billionaire, who just was elected to the highest office in the land.
Now there are those who say, just wait and see. Wait and see what? Am I supposed to wait to see if he is who I know he is? What am I, are we, waiting for?
For the boot to fall? For the presses to be silenced? For the retaliation to begin? For the mass deportation? For Newspeak (see 1984)?
What is left without hope? Faith, prayer and action. Yes, I am a believer. This punk rock girl is a lapsed Catholic (of the James Joyce variety) who somehow found her own kind of all tolerant and inclusive faith and belief in college after taking a class called Bible is Literature. In that class, I learned that the Bible is all parable and metaphor and the God of the Old Testament is an angry God. But, the New Testament was different. Jesus was all about the love. To me, whether one believes Jesus was a prophet or the literal son of God does not matter, because his words and actions were what mattered. Jesus told us not only to love our neighbor, but to also pray for those who persecute you. (Matthew 5:43-44) And to let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good deeds. (Matthew 5:16).
So that is what I will do. Faith, prayer and action. A recipe for these times. Because I have to believe that they know not what they do. (Luke 23:34)
I always say that if you want to know who someone is, just listen to their words. And we have listened and listened to Trump. We have heard him scapegoat and rant on Mexicans, Muslims, the undocumented, women, and most of all Hillary. And we have watched his actions. We have seen Trump raise his hand in a Nazi style salute to his crowds. The violence and hate, it was all too crazy at first to even believe.
And Hillary, poor Hillary. She played by the rules and had proper decorum. But, if I know one thing after representing people in 1368 incompetency proceedings, it is this: you cannot argue with crazy, and Trump is crazy. A crazy egomaniac, former reality television star billionaire, who just was elected to the highest office in the land.
Now there are those who say, just wait and see. Wait and see what? Am I supposed to wait to see if he is who I know he is? What am I, are we, waiting for?
For the boot to fall? For the presses to be silenced? For the retaliation to begin? For the mass deportation? For Newspeak (see 1984)?
What is left without hope? Faith, prayer and action. Yes, I am a believer. This punk rock girl is a lapsed Catholic (of the James Joyce variety) who somehow found her own kind of all tolerant and inclusive faith and belief in college after taking a class called Bible is Literature. In that class, I learned that the Bible is all parable and metaphor and the God of the Old Testament is an angry God. But, the New Testament was different. Jesus was all about the love. To me, whether one believes Jesus was a prophet or the literal son of God does not matter, because his words and actions were what mattered. Jesus told us not only to love our neighbor, but to also pray for those who persecute you. (Matthew 5:43-44) And to let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good deeds. (Matthew 5:16).
So that is what I will do. Faith, prayer and action. A recipe for these times. Because I have to believe that they know not what they do. (Luke 23:34)
Sunday, October 9, 2016
That joke isn't funny anymore
As I listen to my mother in law snoring, I think about where I am. Where I've been. And, where I'm meant to go. I sit legs outstretched typing this story on my phone while sitting on a cold bathroom floor in a rundown hotel in state line.
Escapism has always been my modus operandi to quell the anxiety sitting on the edges of my brain. I want to be happy, free and joyful, but the last couple of days have taught me that the old joke, the one where I escape my life through partying, is not so fun or funny anymore.
I'm tired. I'm 45 and overweight but I'm working on that. I want to look good and feel good and I'm realizing that a healthy lifestyle is not just about calories, but about living clean.
Last nite, I yearned for my dogs and cuddling with my husband in my warm bed at home and wondered silently, what is so wrong with my life that I'm trying to escape from? Nothing is the answer. My life is good. It's just that self destructive bent in me that needs to see how low the bottom of self despair can be.
On the outside, I am a happy person. I need to get there on the inside. I need to realize that this life is all I have and I need to grasp it with both hands and shake it into being.
And then maybe, just maybe, I can see that there was no joke to begin with. And there is nothing to run from. Only to.
Escapism has always been my modus operandi to quell the anxiety sitting on the edges of my brain. I want to be happy, free and joyful, but the last couple of days have taught me that the old joke, the one where I escape my life through partying, is not so fun or funny anymore.
I'm tired. I'm 45 and overweight but I'm working on that. I want to look good and feel good and I'm realizing that a healthy lifestyle is not just about calories, but about living clean.
Last nite, I yearned for my dogs and cuddling with my husband in my warm bed at home and wondered silently, what is so wrong with my life that I'm trying to escape from? Nothing is the answer. My life is good. It's just that self destructive bent in me that needs to see how low the bottom of self despair can be.
On the outside, I am a happy person. I need to get there on the inside. I need to realize that this life is all I have and I need to grasp it with both hands and shake it into being.
And then maybe, just maybe, I can see that there was no joke to begin with. And there is nothing to run from. Only to.
Friday, September 23, 2016
Confessions of a Goth Girl Turned Lawyer On All Hallow's Eve
I love Halloween. Let me repeat that. I love Halloween. I love the pumpkins on doorsteps, the skeletons hanging from doorways, the witches with cauldrons, the costumes, the candy, and the scent of fall in the air which smells like cinnamon and leaves crushed together.
As a former goth/punk girl (at least my exterior does not show it, inside I remain the same), my adoration for Halloween might be called cliché, or at the very least expected. Mind you, I do not care if I am judged. This is my holiday and I relish it every year, awaiting the sight of the big orange banners tied across the rented storefronts proclaiming that Halloween has arrived. I have even been known to clap and yell aloud to my husband, "Yes, it's here! Halloween is here!"
Every Halloween, I decide on a costume theme and execute it to perfection. Last year, along with my husband and our best friends, we were The Munsters and The Adams Family. I wore a long black dress with spider web sleeves and a long, black mistress of the dark wig. The year before, we dressed as characters from The Rocky Horror Picture Show. I proudly twirled in my gold top hat and sequined top with short shorts as Columbia (although I did not tap dance). My best friend was the mad maid Magenta. The year before that, my husband and I were Danny and Rizzo from Grease (I am no Sandra Dee). Before that, we dressed as Alice in Wonderland characters. Before that, super heroes. Every year, it's something new.
I don't know if it is the process of reinvention that I adore, or whether it is the spookiness of the dark nights of this pagan All Hallow's Eve that I react to, but what I do know is that there is something magical about it all. As if everything could change in an instant and transport me into another portal.
As a lawyer, I put on a costume every day in order to have the authority that my USC law degree entitles me to along with my suit of a costume (I feel sorry for those lawyers for whom it is not a costume, because I would much rather be wearing jeans and a punk rock tee most days). I appear before a robed judge on a bench and make requests, arguments, even demands. But, there is a deference I must have. I must play by the rules. Decorum is everything. And, I believe in the formality of it all. It is like church. After all, these are people's lives I am dealing with.
Yet, sometimes, I want to scream and shout in the courtroom at the absurdity of it all or laugh out loud like the Mad Hatter. And, other times, I want to cry over the sadness and misery of it all. But, I do neither.
Instead, on Halloween I reinvent myself. And for one day a year, I get to play someone other than myself.
As a former goth/punk girl (at least my exterior does not show it, inside I remain the same), my adoration for Halloween might be called cliché, or at the very least expected. Mind you, I do not care if I am judged. This is my holiday and I relish it every year, awaiting the sight of the big orange banners tied across the rented storefronts proclaiming that Halloween has arrived. I have even been known to clap and yell aloud to my husband, "Yes, it's here! Halloween is here!"
Every Halloween, I decide on a costume theme and execute it to perfection. Last year, along with my husband and our best friends, we were The Munsters and The Adams Family. I wore a long black dress with spider web sleeves and a long, black mistress of the dark wig. The year before, we dressed as characters from The Rocky Horror Picture Show. I proudly twirled in my gold top hat and sequined top with short shorts as Columbia (although I did not tap dance). My best friend was the mad maid Magenta. The year before that, my husband and I were Danny and Rizzo from Grease (I am no Sandra Dee). Before that, we dressed as Alice in Wonderland characters. Before that, super heroes. Every year, it's something new.
I don't know if it is the process of reinvention that I adore, or whether it is the spookiness of the dark nights of this pagan All Hallow's Eve that I react to, but what I do know is that there is something magical about it all. As if everything could change in an instant and transport me into another portal.
As a lawyer, I put on a costume every day in order to have the authority that my USC law degree entitles me to along with my suit of a costume (I feel sorry for those lawyers for whom it is not a costume, because I would much rather be wearing jeans and a punk rock tee most days). I appear before a robed judge on a bench and make requests, arguments, even demands. But, there is a deference I must have. I must play by the rules. Decorum is everything. And, I believe in the formality of it all. It is like church. After all, these are people's lives I am dealing with.
Yet, sometimes, I want to scream and shout in the courtroom at the absurdity of it all or laugh out loud like the Mad Hatter. And, other times, I want to cry over the sadness and misery of it all. But, I do neither.
Instead, on Halloween I reinvent myself. And for one day a year, I get to play someone other than myself.
Friday, September 9, 2016
Dreamland
They tell me I have anemia and they prescribe iron which causes constipation which causes in turn, a urinary track infection. They give me pills that turn my pee orange to dull the pain and make the bladder numb. I think to myself, if only they had that for my broken, beating heart.
A couple weeks ago, I twisted my foot and hit my heel hard on my stairs resulting in fat pad syndrome where the heel of your foot is painful and tender whenever you walk. Taping my feet with athletic tape, I shake my head at myself and go buy Dr. Scholl's sandals and wear them instead of my monkey boots. Welcome to middle age. It should be called muddle age because you're forced to muddle through.
Many of my friends are sending their kids off to high school and/or college. I am still dreaming of a baby. Or at least a toddler in my arms. Lately, I've been dreaming that I am pregnant and walking around in dreamland elated singing lullabies. Every night at 3 a.m., I wake up from the dream sweating as my pre-menopausal hot flash self and am sadly disappointed. Yet, I am also disappointed in myself for feeling disappointed. Buckle up, I think to myself, you should be used to this dull ache by now.
Still, I feel as if I am living two lives, one in my dreams, and one when I wake up.
Wake up, get up, is all I can tell myself. Accept this life, with all of its limitations. But, sadly, or not so sadly, I have never been one to settle for anything less than what I really want. The reality I crave may not exist, or maybe it exists only in dreamland, but I can still hope and pray that change is on the horizon.
A couple weeks ago, I twisted my foot and hit my heel hard on my stairs resulting in fat pad syndrome where the heel of your foot is painful and tender whenever you walk. Taping my feet with athletic tape, I shake my head at myself and go buy Dr. Scholl's sandals and wear them instead of my monkey boots. Welcome to middle age. It should be called muddle age because you're forced to muddle through.
Many of my friends are sending their kids off to high school and/or college. I am still dreaming of a baby. Or at least a toddler in my arms. Lately, I've been dreaming that I am pregnant and walking around in dreamland elated singing lullabies. Every night at 3 a.m., I wake up from the dream sweating as my pre-menopausal hot flash self and am sadly disappointed. Yet, I am also disappointed in myself for feeling disappointed. Buckle up, I think to myself, you should be used to this dull ache by now.
Still, I feel as if I am living two lives, one in my dreams, and one when I wake up.
Wake up, get up, is all I can tell myself. Accept this life, with all of its limitations. But, sadly, or not so sadly, I have never been one to settle for anything less than what I really want. The reality I crave may not exist, or maybe it exists only in dreamland, but I can still hope and pray that change is on the horizon.
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