What are you interested in?

If men could only know each other, they would neither idolize nor hate.
- Elbert Hubbard

Sometimes, when I get together with people I see regularly, like my friends, boyfriend, even family members, we seem to review the conversation we had the last time we talked. Who is each person dating and how is that going? What are the current problems or solutions at work? How are the respective kids and hubby doing? Oftentimes, after reviewing the same conversations more than twice, with very little headway, I get bored, zone out and probably come off as being a very rude friend who acts upon her obvious lack of interest. In the past, I’ve complained about the recurring topics but really did nothing to include more interesting tidbits of information into our regular conversations.

Then a couple of days ago I was riding in a car with a friend and we got into Venezuelan politics, before I knew it my friend was talking up a storm, shooting off statistics that support her personal opinion like a fine tuned machine gun. Although I try to keep current on the political comings and goings of Venezuela, I am nowhere near as knowledgeable (or devoted) as my friend but I found that her passion made me want to learn more so that we can discuss the issues when we see each other again. It was like finding a treasure I thought existed but had never ventured to find. This experience with Gaby made me realize that many times we are content with the superficial small talk that reviews what we already know about the person, and that getting off the dizzying loop may mean finding out what they are interested, doing a bit of reading, and bringing it up when you see them again.

Welcome to Venezuela

Don’t get me wrong… I love my country. When I have a chance to get away for the weekend and do a bit of national tourism I am always taken aback by the raw beauty of our beaches, the power of the rivers that carve their path through clusters of green mountains, the height and density of the trees that line the winding roads. I love the fact that my sister goes fishing for the weekend and returns with a live video of her petting an anaconda that was sunning itself on a branch by the river bank, that you can land on a beach and have it all to yourself for a day or the entire weekend, that patches of thick rainforests are no more than a stone throws away. Yet today’s Venezuela is not the place I remember in my infancy, or even the country I moved to in 1999. The most important and beautiful tourist spots are now owned and run by foreigners, Europeans, who set their prices in dollars, making them inaccessible to the majority of the native population. I admit that everything works more smoothly than it used to, some places even with the timeliness of a Swiss watch, but at the expense of the Latin warmth, camaderie, anarchy that made those Europeans set their eyes on this place. Our beaches are no longer ours, but a European oasis within this chaotic jumble, where blond men and women come to sunbathe, topless, while everything else falls apart.

Yet today I wonder what will happen to these Europeans, how will they run their businesses, survive in a country that (in spite of all its wealth) lacks basic foodstuff like milk, eggs, sugar, cooking oil and soon pasta? And for us, it is no longer a matter of keeping our best tourist places in-house. Slowly but surely we are less citizens of our country, Venezuela, as we (productive men and women) leave our parents behind to make a better life somewhere else, as foreigners. It is obvious that Venezuela needed a change that, for once, included the needs of the majority of its impoverished population. We all wanted to make the change. It was a beautiful idea; it would have been an incredible dream come true if Venezuelans had prospered as a country, if social class lines had not been turned into the trenches of a civil divide which has taken us from fear, to hate, to madness, to loss.

Book Review: "Leaving Microsoft To Change the World"

“Leaving Microsoft to Change the World” is the story of John Wood, the founder of Room to Read, a non-profit organization that builds schools, libraries and computer labs on a global scale, in addition to giving scholarships to girls of the poor communities where the schools are built. Wood relates to the readers the different events that changed his life 180 degrees, taking him from an important executive position in Microsoft, with all its perks, to the fonder/creator of a charity whose goal is to increase the literacy rate in countries that have no resources but put a high value on education. Wood not only describes the culture of this global monster (Microsoft) put also explains how different values of the company aided his success with his non-profit endeavor. Unlike other charities, people who donate to Room to Read know exactly where their money is going and have an opportunity to visit the schools to experience, first hand, the contribution they are making to other people’s life. The fluidity of John Wood’s writing style makes it possible for readers to forget they are learning about someone else’s life, and get caught in the midst’s of the author’s torn feelings about sacrificing a life of fame and luxury for one of public service. I highly recommend the book.

Missing Mindy

Finished on Wednesday, October 24^th, 2007

Shauna always comes bearing gifts, except this time it was not a gift (as such) but and event. She had planned everything down to the very last detail… the white church flowers, the choir, the order in which each of us would enter, her speech followed by the long anticipated solo. Shauna has always been a big giver; weeks of preparation and stress are meant to show Mindy how much she cares, how special and unique she really is. But as life would have it everything that can go wrong does. The decorations never make it and the twelve person choir begins the mass with the wrong song. In the confusion, we are caught on different sides of the church, running along rows of mahogany benches each of us attempting to tie a different loose end of a snarl of strings. I see thin lines of disappointment along Shauna’s eyes and mouth. My heart goes out to her because I know she has worn herself thin to plan this mass for Mindy, maybe hoping that if she can just do everything right God might give us a break and spare her, spare Mindy from the sharp clutches of cancer, of melanoma. It is illogical to feel that way, but I know Shauna, I know how very high she sets her expectations and the self-berating she will put herself through for not reaching them. But the show must go on; the minister speeds us through the ceremony, stopping at the sermon, at which time Shauna walks to the front of the church and talks about Mindy, how free she was in high school, how she succeeded in bringing this group of five together… I’m fixated on a Shauna’s neck; she cut herself rushing around the church. She is bleeding but doesn’t even notice. I stay put, watch in amazement as she does her solo (none of us knew she could sing) applaud and meet her as she walks off the podium. I bandage her wound and see her go off with a throng of people to sit and rest. Mindy is among them, a thin fragile skeleton surrounded by family and friends who take turns keeping her up, like a beehive of trained worker nurses that communicate through dance. She wears loose clothing; a gauze of a dress that falls of her tiny body like the too-small hospital gown she has worn in the past.

I silently walk around the church admiring the tall ceilings, brightly colored statues with gold details, inhaling the smell of polished wood. I don’t necessarily like going to mass, but I like the feel of a church, the way remnants of good intentions and prayers stay within its bounds and give newcomers hope and peace. It is the only place I know where the temperature is cold but one comes out feeling warm inside. I think of Shauna. I know she will be ok because what matters, what shines through are her engulfing intentions, the size and purity of her love for Mindy. Before we exit the premises of the church, the next group brings in the paraphernalia of their own event, a nativity scene. Keeping with the rules of this sanctuary, people fly by me in silence with boxes of red and green bows. Even the two dogs dressed like reindeers walk by their owners delicately and well-behaved as we (the last group) shuffle out quickly. The dogs make me chuckle. They look unhappy and uncomfortable in horns, hats and neck ruffles. They make me think of Mindy and how great it will be when we can sit around someone’s house and just say: “Do you remember when you had cancer? That was so weird and scary.” It would be like a memory we can acknowledge and then shrug off as we continue to interrupt each other with personal stories, beer dares and cigarette drags. As I rewind and take one last look at the church before me I realize that something is wrong. Mindy is too young and Shauna too worn out. It was like two periods in time had turned into ocean waves, had gained momentum and where now crashing into each other with great force. The cool air of the church was not helping me breathe and the hopes and prayers turned to dust that clogged by lungs. We did not save Mindy. Mindy was dead. I had forgotten Mindy was dead!

At first, I just pulled off the covers. I lay in the dark trying to grab the tail end of the dream and change its outcome or maybe stay away from reality for a bit longer. But sleep had left me, so I went to the kitchen to grab a glass of water and wash away the dust that was lining my throat. When I went back to bed I saw that I was not alone, my boyfriend was rolled up under the covers by my side. I cuddled next to him for warmth, put my arm around his healthy body and broke down crying. I didn’t want to wake him but I was at a loss for air, even the deepest, strongest, longest breaths did not succeed in bringing oxygen into my lungs. “What’s wrong?” “I had a bad dream.” “Tell me about it.” As a walked him through the dream, through the event and the church I got it, I got the point, the meaning behind the story in my dream! Death does not matter. It doesn’t matter what is it, how it comes or when it comes. Life matters. Life is fleeting moments of friends, lovers... perfect happiness. Living life is about holding on to those moments and enjoying them while they last. I held unto him tighter, appreciated his breath, his skin, his temperature. I swore that I would remember this moment forever. He made me feel safe, warm and happy. With a mixed feeling of sadness and appreciation and like a buoy caught amid crashing waves, I cried silently until I fell asleep.

Unannounced

Finished on Wednesday, October 31, 2007.

Mindy was one or the other… the quiet, somewhat distracted, teenager unnoticed in the back of the class or the lanky ball of chaotic energy that would burst through doors and disrupt assemblies with a loud and obnoxious laugh; wallpaper or bull in a china shop. It seemed as if all that energy could only be channeled in sports. She excelled at field hockey, lacrosse and ice hockey because she rammed into players of the opposing team with the force of three grown men, scoring with impeccable aim. No one would have guessed that the clumsy pale girl was the player to fear, especially because she was always greeting everyone in such a friendly manner. Mindy was not a good student. I think she enjoyed learning, but loved making friends and just being a clown. She was adopted by the girls in the older grades, her sister’s year, who took her to high school parties before any of us knew what was going on. In our class, she seemed to hang out on the margins of every group waiting to include the girls who broke the unspoken social rules and were ostracized from their pack. She was everyone’s friend but had a soft spot for Joan, a serious individual determined to be accepted by the most selective clique in our class. Mindy stayed by her, took her in when the others rejected her valiant efforts, giving her unswerving friendship.

I was shy, and thus watched from a safe distance how relationships where built upon commonalities and crumbled easily because of differences. My Venezuelan background, my accent, my mother’s strictness made me different from the beginning, so in a way I was safe from being accepted and rejected by the people I would have to see day in and day out for consecutive years. Sometimes I was jealous, but mostly thankful that I could always keep my individuality, even at the price of loneliness. I had friends, individual friends, but not a group that would engulf me when I walked the hallways of our all-girl catholic school. I admired those girls who felt at ease talking to everyone, making a temporary friend for a long weekend, or even asking the smarter girls to tutor them on an upcoming exam. I identified with the awkward and shy smart girls who were very willing to please without ever needing to belong to more popular cliques; their lives seemed to be full of family gatherings and extracurricular activities. Mindy was extraordinary in that she was neither, or she was both. Or she was just herself to perfection.

I became friends with Mindy during one of those lonely moments when my Venezuelan roots would not let me fit in, but I was unwilling to cut them for good. She approached me, spoke with comfort and ease, and before I knew it I was spending the weekend at her house. From the moment I took a step into her life I was surprised by the differences between our families. She lived with her mother and older sister and they treated each other like adults. Mindy, in high school, was free to make her own choices and thus live with the consequences. To me, it was a breath of fresh air, and a fact that made it possible for me to comprehend Mindy’s free spirit on a deeper level. Even in the midst of such freedom, Mindy’s priority was making sure her younger siblings (kids from her father’s second marriage) were always ok, speaking about them with limitless love and tenderness, much like a parent. It was this characteristic that made Mindy such a unique person in my mind… she was free-giving.

Someone said to me once that Mindy was not meant to live that long. I waver between thinking that it is but a comforting excuse of an early death or thinking it is actually true. Even in the margins, Mindy suffered, was saddened and disappointed by people who entered and exited her life in the blink of an eye. Her approaches were always sincere, meaningful and pure. She really did want to be friends, and to prove it she would appear at your lowest moment. Classes, sports, friends, boyfriends, etc. always kept Mindy and I on different pages, but at some point we always seemed to get together. Those moments were always filled with laugher, chaos and beauty; she remained from that first moment the deep breath of fresh air that made me smile even when she was not around. Just like she did, her memory barges into my brain unannounced and always leaves me with a sense of being a deeper, better person for knowing her.

Behind the Swinging Door

Material things, like antique silverware plated in gold, have power; the power to define a couple’s social status, the power to glorify a special occasion and the power to divide a family. I leaned against the frame of the kitchen door and watched siblings who grew up together loose control over plates and forks, knives and soup bowls. One said that it is impossible to split a set because a couple of plates are simply not enough when one is throwing a dinner party. None of them had actually ever used any of the utensils they were fighting over, for they had been kept locked in a glass menagerie. Their parents refused to use them even when they had guests, a graduation from college or their first grandchild. Lack of use had made them more valuable, magical, or maybe just cursed. They loved each other dearly, but not one of them would relinquish their claim to the plates and silverware they had never touched. I knew that they, too, would never use them, but place them inside a more modern menagerie in the dinning room of one of their spacious apartments. And just like them, their children would peer through the glass at the shinny pattern, the intertwined letters of their grandparent’s last names and the different colored wine glasses made from French crystal. Untouchable, unusable, useless except to reflect victory over the others and a definite social status that stretched, now, into the second generation. Their family had become established, blue blood, no longer nouveau-riche, the plates and silverware reflected that and whoever kept them would be considered, automatically, a wealthy person with impeccable taste.

The kitchen door swung open, through which came a prim maid dressed in a bleached white uniform offering coffee with milk and sugar on a silver tray. I held the door open as she went back into the kitchen. When I let go, it remained ajar enough so that I overheard the phone ringing and the maid’s ensuing conversation with a close relative. I became drawn, completely absorbed by her words, her story, the stark contrast of her reality with what was happening in the adjacent room. Through tears of joy, she told her niece she had finally found a job which enabled her to send money back home to her family so that they could buy food and clothing. She related how over the last two years she could not even afford the bus ticket into the city to look for work and she was ecstatic and kept thanking God and all the saints for her good fortune. Fortune. As I stood there, in between these two worlds separated by a hollow swinging door, I grasped the meaning of relativity, the dividing power of material things and the beauty of true wealth. I left silently through the kitchen and thanked the maid as I walked out of the marble covered mansion.