Restroom

Of the two stalls in the restroom outside my room in Dodd-Mead house, I always preferred to use the stall closest to the wall because it felt much more secluded than its neighbor.

I had just received my mother's phone in the mail. It was now mine. My Subscriber Identity Model (SIM) card made it mine. The phone slides up to reveal a full keyboard and a small camera.

Hunched over with my pants around my ankles, I would look over the 20+ pictures of Mariana over and over. These few images were about all I had from my daughter. I could only visit her vicariously through family and friends whose chance encounters with my daughter were brief.

Though I excreted, I remained emotionally constipated.

It was a huge change to have more than pictures, pixelated video, and sound bytes of Mariana. She's right there, in front of me.


I've tried keeping a blog updated before, and I've found it hard to do because there is often nothing interesting to share or if there is, I prefer to keep it private and unwritten.

With Mariana, it's hard to choose what to write about because a day spent as simply as sitting at the apartment most of the day affords so many views into Mariana's developing world.

Is this what being a parent is about? Any time I have something to talk about, it is a normal occurrence in people's lives, but it is my little Mariana whose poop the day before smelled like a full turkey dinner.

She was the one who became an expert roller-over.

Her laughs are what I love waking up to as my mind plays catch-up with the day's hour.

She just went camping, there is a wealth of material right there.

Goodness, goodness, goodness. What a change:

Small pictures in a small bathroom stall then, being peed on by a naked Mariana sitting atop a boulder overlooking the mountains and river streams now.

The Motorway

Flying into Sacramento, I knew that I would not be able to drive around without another licensed motorist, i.e. either of my parents. I had failed to pass the behind the wheel portion of the license exam twice, but on the third, I emerged barely victorious, having used up all fifteen of my allowed mistakes. The examiner tallied the penalties, told me to be more aware, and I headed inside to take my picture.

I am a new driver on the road and I am surprised how comfortable I've become driving around. I was always nervous about driving around our daughter since I could barely manage to drive myself around without breaking into a nervous sweat. Just yesterday, however, I drove. Grandparents, mama, and little Mariana packed into the truck (manual transmission) and we headed towards the bay area without my driving anyone off the road.

Mr. Cool Breeze: I felt so good driving I didn't even feel the need to keep both hands on the wheel. Nice and smooth, I was comfortable even through heavy traffic.

I felt bad for Mariana though, because this is the longest car ride I have ever been in with her and when she's grumpy, even the stretch of Highway 50 between New Dawn and V st is unbearable to her.

Brooke: "I mostly nursed her on the way there, that's probably why she was mostly quiet."

I had mostly become tense for the destination and not so much the drive there.

We were visiting my Abuelita's grave. It was the first time I had been ever been able to visit.

I had hoped that Mariana and Abuelita Norma would be able to meet, but cancer claimed her life on April 9, 2008. I was still in Chicago with a lot on my mind.

On July 17, 2009, Mariana and I sat in front of Abuelita Norma's grave and I couldn't say much more to Mariana other than "this is your Great-Grandma Mariana. You would have loved her too."

On the cemetery lawn, Mariana played with a clover she had picked, enjoying the open space, the nearby geese, and all the flowers adorning the heads of these plaques in the ground. It was strange seeing so many representatives of people that once were, and that a person I had been so close to was now laying among them. Seeing the plaque reading TELLEZ, our loss had become so sharp and so real. Mariana had to go play with Brooke for a while while I spent some time alone with my Abuelita.

I know that I too will one day go and rest among the eternally sleeping. I will one day have to leave my beautiful daughter and trust that her life will continue to be just as rich and fulfilling. I hope for so much in my finite time, I realize that there is much work to do.

I have chosen to return to Chicago to complete my remaining two years at the University of Chicago. It pains me that my departure, albeit temporary, is approaching. Conversely, I am filled with so much optimism for this decision and for the man I am becoming as the journey towards these remaining two years continues.

It was very difficult and awkward leaving my daughter the autumn she was born. Back then, there had been so many unspoken conversations and many more miscommunications. The road forward looked steep and unforgiving. 2008-2009 had left my shoulders two hunched rocks on either side of my neck: I had felt so much weight over my shoulders and a constant stream of uncertainties and consequent heartbreaks.

Though I've lost a wonderful Abuelita, I am much more whole. The clouds hurdling over the mountains opposite the cemetery blocked any view of the horizon. Strangely, through the clouds, the future had never seemed to clear to me.

I know the things I must do. I know it could mean more tension in my shoulders and deeper bags under my eyes, but there are sacrifices to be made.

The nonexistence of my Abuelita leaves us all wondering what it is she would have been happy to see and what would have made her proud. She loved all her family, but if her favor fell on any of us, we felt so honored because her opinion mattered so so much to us all. I don't know that the path I'm on is necessarily what any of my family would like for me.

I do know however, that my Abuelita was always interested to hear about what I was doing. I had flown the coup. I was among the first in the family to head off to school, and the first to have gone so far away from home to do so. I have two years of University under my belt and a 10 month old Mariana.

In her own, private sort of way, I think she would be proud.

You would have been able to see it in her eyes.

Ignition. Brake check. Mirrors and seat belts. Headlights. Let's go.

Day in the Life of Mariana: Breakfast

Teething

There is a little tooth punching its way out of Mariana's little gums.

Toothless wonder: she has no teeth, yet she has one of the brightest and most beautiful smiles.

Brooke has been anticipating this little bud since Mariana was three months old, while I was away contemplating not just about the one specific tooth, but the entire Mariana who had been such a mystery to me for so many months.

Watching her sleep, I find that I am grateful for the few minutes of leisure time while she lays with her eyes half-open and swaying like ice in a water glass. I am grateful for so much, especially for the short amount of time I have had with her (one-third of my allotted summer break), though I wish it was more.

Brooke wrote to me saying that "our histories are written into our bodies," which I had agreed to when I peered over my limbs: some scars here and there, and much more muscle than I had remembered ever having. Until September 12, 2008, our histories were exclusive to our own bodies when Mariana came into this world and showed us that our collected history could cry, pee, and poop.

Like Mariana's tooth, her beginnings do not start to show right here and now, but with time, her mother and I hope not to knife out Mariana's history in a gruesome sort of way, but let it bud out and grow naturally, without forcing anything we aren't ready to show or admit.

I have always told people that Mariana already has quite the story, and until she can tell it herself, here we are, Brooke and I, laying out what went down once upon a time and what is going down right here in the now.

As Mariana continues to sleep, I hope I do not do the same: I hope to become disciplined about updating from my end because I am a father; whether I am near or far, asleep or awake, there is a little girl who I have helped create and for whom I am going towards the Midwest to make something of myself. I am one more father who must go far away, and not another father who merely forgets about his spawn.

Twenty years old, full-time university student, varsity rower, young adult, and papa,

Signing off.

She's gonna fight like a girl

Love like a girl. Scream like a girl. Kick ass like a girl. Cry like a girl. Compete like a girl. Eat like a girl. Be tough like a girl. Play like a girl. Survive like a girl.

24 weeks and counting.



Your Baby: Your bundle of joy is looking more angelic every day, gaining weight (she's over 16 ounces or .45 kg), growing longer (over 8 inches or 20 cm) and filling out! Your baby is also starting to produce white blood cells, which will help fight infection after she leaves your body and enters the world. You may be surprised to notice that your baby responds to the sound of your voice or even the touch of your hand on your tummy by quieting down or occasionally increasing activity as a way of communicating with you!

She's also kicking up a storm in wombland, and I can't wait for her to start walking so she can start kickboxing. She likes the Junebug Waltz the most so far of the lullabies I sing to her and seems to be stronger and more rooted than I ever much imagined.

at last, something hopeful

fertilized the second garden box with super less than organic miracle grow, as i can't afford to fix the truck and haul in a truckload of soil. maybe pumpkins, melons, eggplants, peppers, and cucumbers will grow, maybe not. but i like getting dirty. it was almost five years ago that they were built in the heat of the day with smoke and beer in the air, my father drunk and cursing. one of the last times i saw him before he died. it's good to interrupt the barren soil and remind myself the power of growth. that little seeds can steal some life in soil overused and the box frames rotting and broken, broken and rotting uncared for. all the ambition wrapped in the mission of a little seed. he was happy in that sad way he would often carry himself. half-drunk to bury his shame of all the things he failed to do, but dreaming of how things could have been, if he had chosen to be someone else. he beamed with that absent pride, trying to fulfill a legacy he neglected. and we got our hands dirty, breaking into the soil that was treaded without dreams of growing anything else besides invasive crab grass. i was hungover from smoking weed for the first time, serotonin flooding my virgin synapses with plain joy pouring out of my awkward body. that hot sweating summer day we built something, strangers with tangled genetics. and today i stand trying to build something, positive memories of phantom fathers haunting my conscience. i resurrect these broken boxes, full of seeds and less than chance conditions, hoping for growth. resurrecting the days we never knew we'd value so firmly. trying to envision that elusive unknown role, fatherhood... what does it encompass?

and i give these seeds to the soil wondering if it's safe to feel hopeful.

double life

sometimes there only things you can do in your dreams. like tell your dead father he's going to be a grandfather. i wonder if there are bars in heaven that he can brag to all the other mortorcycle gangs to over beers and hard liquor.

i was at one of those old rusty shanty houses filthy with dust and age. the common addresses he'd occupy in between living on the road, or from farm property seasonally. antiques litter the walls right along side pictures of nekkid women. there's skulls they've picked up from the outside dessert waste, and everyone's gathered around, the family. imagine "the family" being said with a thick italian accent, that only a rough and devious grandma can really capture.

my estranged father beams with all the unaccounted for pride that he can muster. asserting his interest as well as shame and insecurities in his simple demeanor. he would like to implicate he is responsible in some unacknowledged way for this being perfectly imperfect, and he is very pleased with the arrangement.

i am relieved. he doesn't try to kill anyone. the men of the family drink, the women oblige their habits and gather to gossip. somewhere in the backdrop my cousins are hiding smoking weed comparing who has the best quality this time, whose dick is infinitely bigger.

he doesn't look sick at all. not like the whithered malnourished death soaked body i recall from spending weekends in the hospital, where he couldn't form sentences only streams of free flowing conscious and curse words. he was planning his escape and i feel guilty for not assisting him. for whatever reason this dream never turned lucid so i could rightfully say goodbye and i'm sorry i wasn't the one that busted you out and let you die in dignity, with some bourbon and a marbolo at a nekkid bar.

my cousin from my mama's side is strangely placed in the mix. i am worried because she is on methadone and 7 months pregnant though she's not showing at all, she says she is well and she can feel the baby move. i can't stop feeling worried about it and i want to talk to her for longer about everything as much differences as we have there is this bond now. i hope her and baby will be well.

my sister and i go off the adventure the streets. but now the scenery resembles the old town of mendocino. we go to a fancy dessert shop and buy cookies shaped like butterflies in a rainbow of colors, she critiques it like a true food snob and i miss her terribly. wonder what she'll be like when she moves back from the big city of the eastcoast to the big city of the westcoast. she'll be a grown up i'm afraid, and still as lovely and magical as ever.

i'm supposed to eat liver. i've always had an aversion to eating the organs of animals, particularly the liver. i'll have to have my brother expert chef teach me how to prepare it, buy it organic and add lots of onions... vitamin C helps with the absorption of iron, and i want to believe onions have it, because at least they have enough flavor to distract me from the texture of organs. i will think of liver's processing all the toxins of the body, these sacred organs that break down poisons to components our bodies can work with. i'll think of my dad's failed liver. i'll think this is a gift for baby to grow strong.