Artist or bust

I have made a decision. I am a writer. First and foremost. To all of those who see me as a lawyer first, you’re wrong. Or as a wife, daughter, caretaker or sister, you’re wrong.

A writer. That’s me. I write to breathe. To remember. Sometimes, to forget. The high is better than anything in the universe.

There are times, I have buried things. I write to excavate them.

My childhood was me making stories in my head to escape the chaos. I became a writer then. Or maybe I was born one.

It’s only taken me a decade to see I am who I am. And I shouldn’t be afraid to tell people of my dreams. I’ve always had big dreams. Many of them came true. But this writing thing. It’s a doozy. The opposite of easy.

Yet, I can see it happening sometime soon. I’ll break away from the day to day. Give up my nine to five. Sit on my ass. Put fingers to keys. Or maybe even pen to paper.

And just write.

Eulogy for my brother in law

Note: I struggled with whether to post this but when I asked my husband, he wanted me to. This is for you Gabe. RIP.

My name is Juanita Estella Mantz and I am married to Gabriel’s younger brother Adrian. I have known Gabe and Adrian for more than 25 years. 

I was 20 years old when I met my husband and later his family. Albert the father, Orieta the mother and Gabriel, aka Gabe, Adrian’s older brother. The Pelaez family was whole back then and a small but close knit and beautiful Argentine family. Small but proud. 

And so cultured with their traditions. I was brought into their family and in fact, Gabe was not just a brother in law to me. He was my brother in heart for the last 25 years of my life. 

And the cost of being part of this beautiful family has resulted in heartbreak. First, the heartbreak of losing Adrian’s dad Alberto some years back and now, the unthinkable in losing Gabe. Gabe was only 54.

Losing Gabe, it quite truly broke my heart, all of our hearts, into pieces. The pieces are still there on at the floor of the hospital at UC Irvine Medical Center because Gabe was too young, his son Nicolas was too young, and it was way too soon. 

And my husband and I and his mom didn’t have all the adventures we were meant to have with Gabe. It is as if a projector broke in the middle of a movie.

Joan Didion wrote a book on grief after losing her husband, the book is called The Year of Magical Thinking, and in it she says, “Life changes in the instant… The ordinary instant…”

“Confronted with sudden disaster,  we all focus on how unremarkable the circumstances were in which the unthinkable occurred.  The clear blue sky from which the plane fell.The routine errand that ended on the shoulder with the car in flames…he was on his way home from work, happy successful healthy, and then gone”.”  End quote.

I think that quote captures how I feel. It feels surreal. Like Gabe isn’t really gone, like this is all a bad dream, one we will wake up from. Like that horrible day did not really happen. It is as if he could reappear if I pray hard enough.

It truly is a mad world. That was Gabe’s favorite song. He would always burst out singing it and say, "I love this song" when it came on the radio. We would be laying out by the pool at the house in Oak Hills listening to the 80’s station and he would start dancing and singing and we would tease him. "You like Tears for Fears?" 

But the song was prescient in that the song’s first refrain says it all and is very applicable to today.

“All around me are familiar faces

Worn out places

Worn out faces

Bright and early for their daily races

Going nowhere

Going nowhere

Their tears are filling up their glasses

No expression

No expression

Hide my head I want to drown my sorrow

No tomorrow

No tomorrow.”

Unfortunately, Gabe did not get a tomorrow. And, that mad day, the horrible day, at issue here with GABE was Feb 13th, the day when the unthinkable happened. The day before Valentines day and one moment, it was a sunny beautiful day and Gabe was at the auto shop (Prestiege Mercedes Benz) and he was fine, a healthy man of 54. Then, the next moment he wasn’t fine and after four days of fighting to stay, he would not recover. 

That instant, the ordinary instant, with a bright blue sky and all, changed my life. 

It drastically and tragically changed Gabe’s 13 year old son Nicolas’ life and Nicolas’ mom Sally’s life. 

It changed the lives of all of his friends and loved ones. It altered the life of anyone who was close to Gabe. Everyone who is here had their life changed in the instant when Gabe left us.

And it changed the life of my husband Adrian, Gabe’s only brother. My dear devastated Adrian who can’t even speak and can barely walk he is so full of grief. 

As is Gabe and Adrian’s 84 year old mother Orieta, Gabe was her firstborn, 

Both Adrian and Orieta are so devastated with grief. They have wept and wept and so I am here to say what they cannot even say. Because to say it makes it real. 

I am the voice of both Adrian and Orieta today.

But it is hard for me to breathe right now. It is almost as if I do not want to breathe because breathing means living and you’re dead. Gabe, you’re not here with us. And we wish you were. Oh how we wish you were here.

AND THE ONLY BRIGHT SPOT I CAN SEE IN THIS MADNESS IS THAT MAYBE GABE IS LOOKING AND LISTENING AND SEES HOW MUCH WE ADORED HIM AND SEES ALL THIS LOVE FOR HIM

But is Gabe truly gone? There is an old saying, in the midst of life we are in death (Didion mentions this saying in her book as well). 

Does Gabe’s death end his life or does he live brightly and shine in our memories of him? Perhaps Gabe continues to live within us in the memories of his infectious laugh and smile. 

The way he would whoop with delight.  "Whooooo" he would say when we played dominoes. He was happy and confident and full of life slapping down his tile with gusto. 

Does Gabe live in the memories of his charisma and in the love he showed his family not just in words but in action. Gabe visited his mom every day and had mate with her. 

Orieta lives with us and every day I would open the door leaving for work at 8 am and there he would be. Our dogs Frodo and Chewie would jump all over him and Orieta would walk out of her room rubbing her sleepy eyes and he would say, "Mom, you’re like a mummy, get up." 

Then he would sit and heat up the water for their Mate tea and pour it in the cup and they would share the straw they call a bombija and then he would toast the bread and butter her toast for her. Every morning. He never missed a day. 

And I remember when I was on vacation, I recall grumbling when the doorbell rang everyday and saying in my usual sarcastic way, “I bet it’s Gabe”, because I was sitting on the couch all sleepy with no bra on, in my pajamas… and the doorbell rang every day that week and I would open the door and there Gabe was smiling saying, "Is my mom up?"

That memory shines so bright it almost brings Gabe back to life in my mind’s eye. I can see him in that memory. I really can. Gabe lives there, I swear he does. And he lives here in our hearts.

And how he was with his dad Alberto. They were so much alike. Both charismatic and passionate and strong. Both Libras, both talkative and opinionated as heck (I am a Libra too so I know). They worked together for years at the shop and they loved one another.

Gabe also lives on in the memory of how much Gabe adored his son Nicolas and saw him as much as possible. Anyone who knew Gabe knows how much he treasured his son. It was really all Gabe ever wanted to talk about, his boy Nicolas. Nicolas’ mom Sally was reminiscing to me how Gabe would call every day to talk to Nicolas at 2:45 when he got out of school. 

And I remember watching Gabe with Nicolas and thinking that other than my own father who loved his daughters fiercely, I had never seen anyone love a child the way Gabe loved Nicolas. It was truly the most unconditional love I have ever seen. Nicolas is beautiful with his dark wavy long black hair and  those deep brown eyes and that Pelaez dimple. Gabe will always live in Nicolas we know that. 

But we also know Gabe was broken hearted by the loss of his son Andrew who was hit by a car many years ago and at the very least it gives me some peace to know they are together now.

Gable also lives in the memory of the relationship he had with his brother Adrian, who he helped support when the family and Albert had issues. Gabe was in high school and he became a surrogate dad to Adrian, he is ten years older than him you see. And he took on the responsibility at a young age. 

They were ten years apart but close. When we were young, Adrian and I worshiped Gabe and Sally. They would take us everywhere, Vegas, Big Bear, Laughlin (never asking us for a dime because we were poor as church mice) and I always thought they were the most beautiful couple. Looking at the pictures, I see that they were majestic and luminous. 

A couple of years back, when we lived in Hesperia, and Gabe was living with us, we all went on a cruise and we had the best time. It was me, Adrian, Orieta, Gabe, Sally, Nicolas, my mom and my twin Jackie and her husband Joe. 

And a couple of Christmases ago, we got a cabin with my family and Gabe and Nicolas came along and I just remember Gabe showing up with bags and bags of meat to prepare. Because that is how Argentines show love, through food.

Gabe also shines in our memories of him being willing to give the shirt off his own back, much to his detriment at times. So generous. And giving. 

In how big he lived, never settling for easy. Always speeding through life, much like the fast cars he loved so much, he lived big and bold, working hard to be a better Gabe. 

How talented he was with cars. Gabe could literally build a car from scratch and did. He could fix anything and he loved him a Mercedes.

Was Gabe perfect? No. But Gabe’s imperfections are what made him so human, beautiful and true. 

In the end, I think what we can remember and even learn from Gabe is to appreciate each moment because it might be our last. And to take time for our family and friends and loved ones. And we need to butter our mothers’ toast for them, whenever we can.

I will end with the lyrics to last refrain from the song Mad World, 

"Hello teacher tell me what's my lesson

Look right through me

Look right through me

And I find it kind of funny

I find it kind of sad

The dreams in which I'm dying

Are the best I've ever had

I find it hard to tell you

Cos' I find it hard to take

When people run in circles

It's a very very

Mad world

Mad world."

Notes on grief

The last four weeks have been a zinger. My brother in law had a massive aortic rupture without warning. We were in the ICU in Orange for days.

Open heart surgery that lasted twelve hours. We were brimming to the rim with sadness and anxiety but we couldn’t break.

No sleep, so much grief, heartbreaking decisions, and it all felt like a bad dream. Then he passed on the fourth day. I fell to the ground. “Must get up,” I thought. So I did.

Funeral to plan. Collages to make. Still had to go to work. Every day.

My family shattered. Glass on floor. Husband in pieces and 84 year old mother in law a zombie. Then clothes to bring, photos to copy for montage and a reception to plan and much more. His 13 year old son to comfort.  A eulogy to write. I didn’t cry, not even once, that week. I read Joan Didion’s “The Year of Magical Thinking” straight through (not my first time).

Then funeral.  More hazy moments. Friends in the seats are the only thing that kept me sane. I felt my family shrinking. I spoke. But felt weightless and floating over myself. Watching it all.

Reception. I couldn’t eat. Beer then more beer. Too many (exemplified by me saying “This is for the homie” with tears in my eyes pouring beer on the grass.)

The worst was the next day.

The sinking in of grief.

My house felt like a tomb.

What I Am

Something is going on with me. It’s why I haven’t written a blog in almost a month. I keep restarting. Maybe I have nothing to say. Or maybe too much to say. And no way to say it.

I am tongue tied. My thoughts are in flummox. My anxiety at an all high. Therapy is helpful but no one but me can really help me.

It may be that I feel aimless. Like a compass whose needle is broken, I am spinning and don’t know where to go from here. My heart (i.e., god, the universe, my intuition, whatever you want to call it) is pulling me toward my art and an artistic free lifestyle. But, life (the idea that one should be pragmatic and practical at forty something) is saying calm down, you have it good. I have a great job I love, but there are days where I watch all of the misery in court and want to break free.

To see my many clients in shackles breaks something in me each day. They shuffle into court and many in our courtroom probably don’t see them for who they are. But for me, their humanity is omnipresent. They are children of God. And by participating in the barbaric process of human confinement, am I perpetuating it? My concerns are real and true. To stay doing what I am doing you have to fortify yourself and I don’t want to be so tough that I become jaded or callous.

So what to do? I’m sitting here in Vegas wide awake at 5 am. It’s our Valentine’s trip and I should be having a blast instead of pondering life’s questions. Or at the very least sleeping.

But instead I just keep asking myself, “why am I here?”

In an effort to alleviate a little of the darkness of this piece, I have to quote from the song that’s been running in my head while writing this blog, “What I Am” by Edie Brickell because it seems fitting (and because I just love this song):

“Shove me in the shallow waters
Before I get too deep

What I am is what I am
Are you what you are or what?
What I am is what I am
Are you what you are, or?

Oh, I'm not aware of too many things
I know what I know, if you know what I mean“...

New Year Resolutions

This year, I am in an odd place. I have a fulfilling job, a lovely house, and a supportive husband. But, something is missing.

It seems I spent my whole life trying to get here. And now I don’t know where to go. My dreams of having a baby ended with heartache. That dream is closed for now. Still, I have another dream, a writing dream. My book is still in its gestational stage. For years, I have had a rough draft of my book, but in many ways, I am no longer the person who wrote those stories. Yet, I know in my heart that the story needs to be told.

All of the best stories are based on truth. Maybe not a literal truth always, instead, sometimes, a figurative truth. My story is memoir, but there is also an artistic license one must take at times. It is called creative nonfiction for a reason. My goal is to always capture the truth of my childhood. And, as I’ve said before, my dad’s voice echoes in my head at times wanting to be captured on the page.

For many years, I have put off looking at myself in the mirror. To write about oneself truthfully, one must know oneself. And I may know myself, but sometimes, I don’t like what I see.

So this year, I pledge to see myself and to work on myself so that the me I write about, is who I want to be.

Portrait of an artist

I saw two movies the other day, both about coming of age, Ladybird and England is Mine. The genre is called bildungsroman in literature (by far, the best example is Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man by James Joyce) and is when a protagonist comes to age and significant change occurs. Out of the two, the one that stuck with me was England is Mine. Ladybird was a good movie, but the protagonist didn’t really change. She stayed the entitled brat she was, but just moved to a different location.

England is Mine is the opposite. And very different. It is the story of Morrissey before he was the epic Morrissey and before he was part of The Smiths (which anyone who reads this blog knows is my favorite band of all time). In the film, he is no star yet, just Steven, a young man in early adulthood who hates his job and yearns for something more. He is not entitled because he has little, but instead is scared of not fulfilling his destiny. And above all, he, like James Joyce (and Ladybird for that matter) wants to leave the bleakness of his home town.

Manchester is dark, dank and small. At least in the film. As someone who grew up in her own sad town, and couldn’t wait to leave, I related to this plight. Yet I also know, we always end up right back from where we came either literally (me) or figuratively (Joyce through his works centering on Dublin life).

Morrissey, even back then, is going to gig after gig and writing reviews. Everyone knows Morrissey as a singer but above all he is a writer. The film emphasizes this. Young Morrissey is always furiously writing. Everywhere. At home, at shows, at work, and even on the roof. He is a bit shy and awkward, but he loves music, especially the NY Dolls. He loses himself in it.  Singing alone in his room at first, and then on stage with Billy Duffy (later of Cult fame).

Now some stuff in the film is disputed. Morrissey says he never played on stage with Duffy. But does it matter? The point is that Morrissey is a star up there. You see the brilliance in one short song. The awkwardness falls away and in place of the sad lonely boy is a superstar.

I think, in the end, that is what made me love the film. For it showed how strong that light was, shining inside, just awaiting to be set free for the world to see.

Christmas past

When I think back about my father, who has been gone more than a decade, Christmas memories are often involved. Writing about the past can be tricky. There are tense issues, idealization and memory issues. But writing about my dad and Christmas is easy. I remember it all in bright technicolor.

Dad loved Christmas. I’ve written about his love of it before. He would decorate the house with huge bulbs. Our tree was a labor of love, made complete with tinsel and a chirping bird.

And the food! Christmas dinner was always a glazed ham, a ham so shiny and pink as if fake. Dessert would be his homemade donuts and fruit pies made in the sandwich maker.

Back then, no one ate out for dinner regularly. Dad cooked every night no matter how tired he was. And on Christmas, he put out a huge spread all by himself: that shiny ham, turkey, homemade mash (that I hated and called lumpy so used to instant from the box which Mom favored), potato salad, rolls, cranberries, stuffing (my dad always made an epic stuffing), the list goes on.

And Dad would wake up early to make us all Christmas breakfast. Dad loved a surprise and would chortle with glee as he made pancakes with peanut butter and jelly inside or carefully crafted a pancake in the shape of a heart.

My father was all heart. Dad would always hug me so tight that I would squirm away. He would always say “I love you”. Even in front of my friends. I would get embarrassed and mumble back “love you too”. Then wave him away.

Thinking about it makes me weep while writing this. Dad was so open. He taught me that the capacity to love is in one’s intent. Give love and you shall receive, albeit the truest affection will come later in memories. And written words.

The hardest part of my infertility is the thought that no one will remember me like I remember my dad. In a way, he is still vividly alive in my head. The only way to translate those images in my mind’s eye is through prose.

I so wish I had a child I could show my father’s pictures to. I would start with how he loved Christmas and that his giving unselfish nature was the personification of the holiday.

Then I would end with a huge hug, and say “I love you” just like Dad would.