Daughters of Rutgers

junior year at Rutgers 
our first apartment off campus
inherited from floormates a year older 
our first time
we did it together
 . . . 
our attempt at a homecooked meal
falafel with fava beans
soaked first then mashed 
no food processor in 1992
the aroma of onions, parseley, red pepper, 
salt and cumin
filled our two-bedroom flat
 . . .
almost like Sally's lebanese restaurant 
in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn
my roommate spoke of 
her family's legendary feasting tradition
. . . 
crisp fattoush salad
ingredients from the local co-op 
where she rented a plot of land for veggies
lettuce, cucumber, red onion, grape tomates, 
radishes, mint, lemon
so fresh we could taste the dirt and 
the rainwash from the produce
and pita chips from the middle eastern bakery 
on george street
. . . 
breaking bread together in our first apartment
relishing our strength and independence
and sister love on the banks of the ol' Raritan
. . .
'tis then the daughters of Rutgers meeting
brush mould'ring dust from mem'ry's screens
and deep in faith renew our greeting,
for love we bear to Queens'

All the feels

The past two weeks have been all about reconnecting with my past lives as an educator and artivist. It's been surreal to engage in discussions where I haven't played an active role in 14 years. As much as those ideals have continued to govern how I parent and choose to be involved in my current communities, I haven't been in those spaces in a very long time. Difficult conversations about race relations, solidarity, how Filipinx and Black lives intersect . . . we are still having the same chats we were having in the mid-1990s.

I am grateful that my closest friends -- artists, nonprofit leaders, parents, professors, and public servants -- keep me posted on their work. I have missed being around brown, sassy and smart folk! They keep me woke to the compassionate work that continues within ourselves and the social justice that continues through day-to-day actions in our communities. 

To my reawakening, those ideals that I put long hours into are still a part of me. From one zoom gathering to another, I've been processing all the feels, reuniting with fellow activists in those spaces where identity informs art informs action informs reflection. Where dialogue happens, there's a chance for individual and community transformation, and a conscientization practice. Hello again, Paulo Freire. It's been a while since we were introduced. 

With deepest gratitude to NYC cultural organization arkipelago and organizers and panelists of 1SANG BAGSAK AS VERB. (Isang Baksak gesture literally means “one fall” in Tagalog but is figuratively understood as “things can't get done if people don't communicate and work together”.) 

ISANG BAGSAK!

Miss the honeysuckle

I can't smell the spring honeysuckle. I usually delight in the aroma on our back deck or on my hikes. Have I lost my sense of smell? Or have we been hunkered down too long, and the sweet scent just passed me by? With the world on pause, shouldn't it be bloomimg ramapant like the deep lavender fullly bulbous American wisteria vine along our fence? 

At this time of #physicaldistancingstillsocial, I miss the honeysuckle, the tight affectionate squeezes of far away family and embraces of good friends, especially when we've had to mourn loved ones. Grateful to be home, safe and healthy with my daughter and partner, of course. 

Miss the honeysuckle. 

The first hint of it in the spring comes as a familiar treat like the season's first order of clam strips at our favorite Keyport fishery that we take to eat on the bay's pier or the first custard cone of the summer along the Jersey Shore's boardwalk. Miss the honeysuckle like that back in the day school's almost over! feeling when on the first warm evening, Mr. Softee truck sounds his musicbox (my nine-year-old self used to imagine a monkey hidden in the freezer truck cranking out the tune), and I gather any change I can find to afford a vanilla cone with rainbow sprinkles. Now in northern Virginia, I look forward to the woodsy honeysuckle as much as my almost eight-year-old looks forward to her first dip in June's outdoor pool. 

Lots of misses this year as we figure out this summer's joys amidst the pandemic. I see more day road tripping than usual. More sprinkler running, backyard swinging, hoseshoe throwing and cornhole too. 

Though lots of misses for sure the rest of the year, so important for me to be mindful of how much more there is too. Even with distance learning/crisis schooling, more time to explore what's not typically part of the curriculum like the other American histories. Certainly more family time than we've spent than when on vacation. More time for blackjack 21, movie days and nights, grilling and firepit weekends - s'mores included, and putting up the tent which has been previously reserved for snow days. 

In the meantime, I'll bathe in the woods and soak up the treeoil and some vitamin D as much as I can. 

So here's to more . . . until we make it to the other side.