Gypsy Dreams

Things like that were never meant
for gypsies like us
mama said.
I had always been fascinated by architecture,
beauty of arches, columns,
decorative elements in homes, in particular.
I used to
draw houses when I was a kid.
make elaborate columns in crayon and colored pencils.
color in gardens of bougainvilleas, oleanders,
climbing ivy and rainbow colored roses.
I lived in my masterpieces.
They were more tangible to me than any real house on a real street.

Acoma, Ocotillo, Turney,
Baden, Jefferson, Roosevelt,
Taylor...Names of tucked away streets
where I played with long forgotten friends,
haunted homes where the ghosts of my past still live.

On Taylor Street,
I found my dream house while flipping through
an architecture magazine
I bought for a dime
at the Tolleson library.
The wrought iron fence with
its delicately forged roses
and vines that
formed an archway above its open gate
which invited me to walk the terra cotta path
that lead to the massive wooden front door—ten feet tall.
On either side of the door were two potted trees,
each home to a string of white lights
which would begin to sparkle come nightfall.

The door opens—
the warmth of the hearth,
embers singing, burning
living vibrantly and quickly dying
in the fireplace.
Spicy sweetness of cinnamon
and brown sugar hangs in the air…
a slight scent of basil and rosemary
simmering in a marinara sauce
adds a savory balance.
Candles flicker in their places across the room,
two in the corner opposite a heaven-reaching potted palm.
Terra Cotta tile floors give way to
travertine, marble counters, hardwood flooring.

Masterpieces—a Crayon stick-figure family
and two finger-painted dogs
lived vividly behind glass panes
in gilded frames
proudly displayed
on the walls.

French doors open
outward to reveal an outdoor fountain,
cozy dark wicker furniture,
A vast green garden.
Rows of climbing roses,
ivy, grapevines, clematis
sweet peas and lilies
and vines of juicy, ruby red tomatoes
—just waiting to be plucked.
A wooden sandbox full of toys,
sits among the blades of fluffy green grass;
a tire swing sways in the breeze.
A hand built
stage stands in one corner of the yard,
curtains drawn, just waiting for
budding thespians to preform
and an audience to sit--enthralled.

A family lives here—rich in love.
A family lives here and makes it home.
A home. MY home.

I tear out the glossy pages,
fold them up and hide them
in my favorite book,
A Tree Grows in Brooklyn.

For the next three years,
anytime I need to
hide
to run away from
my reality,
I take the well worn pages
from the hiding place
and unfold them, escaping—
I return to my dream home.

I see my children running in the yard,
pushing each other higher and higher on the old tire swing,
reciting Shakespeare and singing for me
on the little stage
I built with my own two hands.
I watch myself tend the garden,
even swollen with pregnancy,
I nurture bell peppers, chilies,
and tomatoes—
always tomatoes.
My faceless husband helps me to my feet.
Dusting the earth from my overalls,
I waddle off with my husband
through the French doors,
I carry a basket overflowing with the fruits of my labors
Squash--yellow and green,
juicy ruby red tomatoes
and fresh basil,
perfect for the night's marinara.

One day, mom and dad
tell us that we have to move again.
I understood why, but I grew angry anyway.
I didn't want to leave.
This house on Taylor Street was the closest thing
to a real home I had ever known.
I cried and cried.
I flung open A Tree Grows In Brooklyn
and sought escape
once again.

I unfolded the pages.

Only cold, shiny pictures stared back;
reminding me I was still
only a Gypsy.
Silly girl,
Gypsies don't have homes.

I tore up the glossy fantasy
and threw the pages
in the alleyway dumpster.

I pulled the rusty gate closed
behind me and
walked past the underwear hanging
on the line
and quietly slipped back
into the house.

Gypsies Like Us

Things like that were never meant for Gypsies like us
said mom.
As soon as I was aware of my poverty, I longed for finer things.
I read voraciously from the time I was one—
anything my little hands could get a hold of
menus,
old instructions on the operation of a Sony VCR,
and my favorites
discarded books
and
magazines
from the library.
Bon Appétit! Cucina Italiana!
I drooled over glossy gourmet meals,
I imagined dining on homemade gnocchi
in a savory tomato cream sauce
While I sit, sipping a frothy cappuccino
in a lively Roman piazza
in an outdoor cafe, people watching
There! An artist and easel…
Painting the Pantheon
Under Roman skies
Warmth of the caffeinated cup of heaven
in my hands
Taste the pancetta
in a bite of sauce--divine.

Brother bangs
on the bathroom door
Get out now!
Because he had to go
Number two.
"Oh shut up, Javie! I'm on my period."
That would shut him up.
I bought myself five more minutes
in paradise.
The dingy shack
on Taylor Street opened to the cobblestone Via Argentina--
Rome. Italia.
I walked along
Winding through side streets,
A church comes into view
Santa Maria Sopra Minerva
Turn the corner-- Piazza della Rotonda
And the Pantheon. I was there.
If only for a single moment.
“Get out!”
I flush the moment away.
Damn it.
I left the bathroom as Javie
slammed the door behind me
I opened the rusty screen door
Walked barefoot onto the scorching concrete
Past the washing machine
Over to our droopy clothesline
and grabbed a clothespin off the line
with a squeak.
I squeezed the clothespin between my fingers
and took in the setting sun in desert sky.
A color wheel
The teals and oranges
Artists brushstrokes
mixing the violet and scarlet
reflecting off of tufts of clouds
still hanging above me.
Silence.
I envision the Roman piazza
Across the sea
The exquisite meal waiting there for me.
Squeak.
The artists in front of The Pantheon
Squeak.
Paint on a canvas
Squeak.
Sipping wine in a glass
Squeak.
I’m not there.
Silence.
Squeak.
I began to sob as I remember
Mom said
We were Gypsies.
Reality sank in
I looked at the shabbiness that surrounded me.
"Things like that were never meant for Gypsies like us."

But didn't Gypsies live in Rome, too?

Stargazing, Stumps and Bullets

Arizona sunset
Hues of azure, violet and orange
Slowly gave way to blackness
And out popped the stars.
The sultry desert wind
Kissed my hair
As I sat on my stump seat in our front yard.
There was the Big Dipper and Orion’s Belt.
Stargazing…Interrupted.
My sister and brother decide to watch a movie.
They beg me to make popcorn and watch, too.
Mom grabs her purse and walks to the corner store.
Dad is sleeping in the bedroom
And the baby is toddling around the living room.
Cruella DeVille plans to skin puppies
And outside the living room window
The yelling begins.
It drowns out Cruella.
My sister cries.
Men are screaming
Then there are gunshots
The rest is a blur
Of ricochets and shattering glass.
I grab my brother’s leg
Reach for my sister’s arm
and drag them onto the carpet.
I pin the baby down
I scream-
I feel a sharp pain and wetness on my belly
I landed on my glass of water.
I hear the neighbor boy running past the living room window
Toward the side of the house
They are trying to kill him.
He wants a place to hide.
Brother holds the baby down
While I crawl down the hallway
I throw my body against the back door
And scream for my father.
It takes all I have to hold the door shut
As the neighbor boy screams and Goddamns me for
Not opening the door. He bangs
On the door and white paint chips
Fall like snowflakes onto my black hair
Dad sees me holding the door
and throws his weight against it, too.
The neighbor boy gives up
and runs through our backyard
He tears through the laundry on the line
Dad’s white shirts are lying in the dirt
He hops the fence, tearing my honeysuckle vines
We hear the gang chase after him.
Gradual Silence.
I have held my breath for an infinite minute
and am stock still until
The baby shrieks and I shake and begin to cry
Dad holds me for a moment
Then we crawl to the living room.

Outside there is silence
Soon broken by sirens
The phone rings—mom
Still at the corner store
Wanting to know we’re ok…
She heard it all and started to run toward home
but was held back by the Chinese lady and her husband
Who owned the store.
We walk outside—
There seem to be stars on the blacktop
Shell casings sparkle in the night
Softly illuminated by street lamps
Police lanterns shine
Soon we see a campground on the street
On the sidewalk
In our front yard
Little orange tents number each casing.
Dad’s car tires are flattened and there are two bullet holes in the door
Our window is broken and a bullet went through a wall.
Dad thanks God that no one died.
My stump seat is full of holes.
The next week we pack up our things
And leave Taylor Street.
I never stargaze again.

Tamales

Dad has on his bandana
Mom has on her gloves
I’m standing in between wanting to
Get into the thick of it
Tia Irene takes up the rear
The raggle-taggle assembly line would no doubt impress
Henry Ford himself.
Dad smears masa onto the corn husks
And hands them off to mom
Who fills them carefully
With cheese and green chile or beef in red chile
Then folds them deftly
Mama’s Mexican origami--
Tia Irene swaddles each
In virgin white wax paper
Right out of the dark blue box
I stack each one and soon I have a fortress of tamales
Stacked and waiting to be steamed
Waiting to be savored
I drool a little after lifting the lid
Of the steamer.
Mama smacks my hand and reminds me
That these tamales are
Waiting to be sold.

Life.

I live my life in such a way that I try to share love...I try to love anyone I meet. I feel compassion and love daily. I try to be as understanding as possible. There are times when I can love and be loved. I love so deeply and purely--I cannot even begin to explain just how deeply...

The mere sight of someone suffering can send me reeling. The thought of someone being alone or in pain makes my soul ache. I see a homeless person and I weep. I see pictures of children in third world countries and wish I could just give every one of them a home, love, food, an education...everything they need. I read stories of heroism and sacrifice and again, I weep. When I worked for the Church, not a day went by where I didn't weep. I would weep for the women who came in hoping to get help paying a bill, help with food or diapers...or the elderly man coming in because he needed help to pay for his wife's heart medication...I'd see the light of hope in their eyes and I was desperate for a way to avoid snuffing out that light. There were days I succeeded, and days I failed. I couldn't be trusted to have my own cash on hand because I would have none at the end of a day--I likely gave it to a young mother to buy some formula for her newborn baby or to a man who needed a bit of gas just to make it to work the next day. I once used money I had set aside for my wedding to buy a tombstone...obviously it wasn't my own. I knew a wonderful gentleman who had died. His wife could not afford a headstone for him...she got the bill and just couldn't pay it. She had come in about a year or so after he died...and looked really down...I finally got the story out of her. She was too ashamed to tell anyone else. I wrote a check to the cemetery company right after she told me. I couldn't bear the thought of someone being buried without being remembered...what if it had been my David buried without a headstone...the very thought of it made me weep for hours. Father Andre once had to take me aside to lovingly scold me over lunch, because I loved so deeply and cared so much that it was affecting me emotionally and mentally. He said I had the "gift of tears." With that gift there is a responsibility to keep yourself in check, because you can get too carried away.

The thing is, I absolutely love humanity. I love humanity so much, in spite of itself. I try to look beyond the worst bits of humanity. I want to see the good, but sometimes, sometimes I can only see the bad.

I can carry love in my heart for just about every living creature, even the lowliest of criminals, but for a select few, I cannot feel anything in my heart except revulsion and anger. There are things I can accept and many things I can and will forgive and forget...but betrayal and manipulation are two I can never forgive. The worst part of this is feeling so conflicted. I don't want to hate anyone. I just cannot bring myself to do otherwise when it comes to certain people. It hurts, but something inside will not allow me to forgive or forget certain wrongs. These grudges, I’m afraid, I WILL carry forever and a day. I will not forgive anyone who maliciously uses others to get what they want. I will never forgive betrayal of trust or betrayal of love. I will never forgive manipulation and malice. I revile pettiness and shallowness. I loathe falseness. I hate that which is not borne of truth or love. This may not justify my feelings. This may make me, in the eyes of some, the smaller person. I don’t care. I will not be moved.

Perhaps this is the downside of loving too deeply. The opposite abyss is just as deep and infinitely darker. In my struggle is reflected humanity--at its best and its worst.