Writing 101: Happy (Insert Special Occassion) ???

I thought about which special occasion I would talk about for today’s challenge, and I had trouble choosing one that would help me express my own voice. I come from a large, expressive family in a very traditional Hispanic Catholic sense. Our lives were a duality of experiences, and it seems like everyone has “story-telling” in the blood. I needed to chose one that came from me, my memories, and not heard from others so often it became my own.

I ended up choosing Thanksgiving, a time of food and laughter. Even harsh feelings don’t stand a chance in the face of succulent turkey and buttery homemade mash potatoes. Couple that with my mother’s song voice, and it becomes…bliss. Pure bliss.

Thanksgiving has been my personal favorite holiday for a long time, but no memory stands out so much as the first one I began to connect more with my family. As a child I was too wrapped up in my own world of books and writing, I didn’t really know my cousins and family that would come over. I was polite and courteous as my mommy taught me. I said hello and hugged family I hadn’t seen in some time, but I quickly turned back to my room or a quiet spot to bury myself in myself. I wanted to have peace, and tranquility; being the youngest of six with more than twenty cousins, aunts, uncles, and all of our padrinos and madrinas and compadres and comadres…I was drowning in a sea of faces. Yet Thanksgiving was a time of grace, thanks, and family conversation without the pressure of presents and being good.

When I began to break out of my bubble, I began to enjoy the time of crowds and loud conversations. My cousins were hilarious, and we all had a unique view on our parents. My nieces, Brenda in particular, were my babies in that sense. They were the ones who showed me the most, the fun of being a child. I had always felt like a mini-adult (albeit shy beyond compare).

Playing in and out of the house, flitting through various conversations as I travelled through the yard, patio, and common areas. The living room was by favorite. You could catch snippets of laughter, advice, complaints, and a variety of stories from both present and past.

The food was beautiful, and my mother carried that tray of turkey to the table with grace and a welcoming smile. We would all gather at my mother’s command, and make the most odd looking, wobbled “circle” as we held hands and said grace. Hearing my mom’s melodic voice praying el padre nuestro and santa maria followed by words of thanks is soothing, and my loud, rowdy family would calmly listen and pray along.

After the eating was done, and the coffee was brewing or the beers were being passed amongst the adults, my Tio Jose would start a song. Tio Jiame and Tio Juan would pick up the tune and my momma would join the fun. The accordion would come out, the guitar, sometimes even a mic or two. Last, but definitely not least, cousins were pulled out to dance and sing or laugh along. It was always my favorite.

Time has passed, cousins have married and moved away. Some aunts have passed away, and now its pretty much just us. Now, by no means are we a small group. We have merely replaced some of the components of our past Thanksgivings with new events. We still have prayers and our lopsided circle of held hands.

Me and my siblings (with their children, and grand children) now compose a group of more than thirty with our parents at the crown being not only grandparents, but also great-grandparents. I still get to see my Tio Jose with the microphone or accordion at most family gatherings, and now my children get to sing alongside me and my mother. My sisters and brothers, their kids and more, all under my mother and father’s roof. A house that was never a house. My parents’ house is and always will be a home. All of this love has surrounded me in the best and worst of memories, because my family for all its faults is supportive. Thanksgiving brings us together in a way that feels more sincere and genuine; it lingers in my heart and makes me smile for weeks and months after.

Thanksgiving is around the corner, and I can’t wait. I anticipate it, as if clinging to the edge of a cliff on Mount Everest. I know the fall will be glorious and long-lasting.

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Writing 101: Point of View: Perspective

In a library…

She sits behind her desk and waits for the student to ask her about her friends on the shelf. She cleans, stacks papers, fixes the stapler, and sharpens the pencils. Meanwhile, all those young minds rot staring at one digital screen or another. Free wifi has become the bane of her existence.

From up top, it glances at her best friend fidgeting at her desk. It can feel the restlessness radiating from her anxious hands, and shuttering gaze. It is a book, only one of so many that is almost falling into the stage of deep slumber that so many of her neighbors have succumbed to. Book’s spine is stiff and brittle, while book’s pages hunger for a touch on the corner, as the reader turns to another scene, another twist in the plot.

“Excuse me,” the whisper leaves her thoughts before she can reign it in. Clearing her unused voice, she tries again, “Excuse me.”

The librarian, startled out of her reverie, raises her eyes and smiles at this tiny, shy child. “Pardon me, was there anything I could help you with?”

The smooth melody of it’s friend woke it up, and energy tingled through. Could someone be searching for me?? Please, let me be what she requests, I pray to have a hand reach up. I can be a good friend…

“Yes, I was looking for a treasure,” at this comment shy would not be the word to describe Lily. No, the sparkle in her eyes came alive, already awakening because of the hunger for another adventure. “Yes, ma’am I would like a recommendation, please.”

“Of course, of course,” Mrs. Diaz tucked her hair behind her ear, “I have just the thing. Unless you’re worried it might be too much for you?”

“Never, books can only lead to another adventure, another exploration,” Lily whispered as if she were holding the key to a state secret. No one would call her dramatic, but her whispers carried more weight than all the chaos of her fellow pre-teens taking up the space at the outlets and computers.

Book stood at attention, trying to look intriguing. Book wanted to be picked up once more. Would Lily pick me? Mrs. Diaz, please help Lily pick me.

Mrs. Diaz smiled, like a kid with a plate full of chocolate cake, with Lily and led her to her favorite spot. Book perked up as the heels clicked closer and closer, before it knew what was happening a tickle went up it’s spine. Mrs. Diaz smiled and handed it over title facing down, and when Lily turned it over, there was a collective silent gasp.

Lily left with a new friend, and Mrs. Diaz was happy that there was still hope for the kids around her who seemed pale by the glow of the electronics.

Writing 101: Death to Adverbs: Sept 23: Blood on the page

(Okay, this day required a death to all adverbs, I have to admit they are my weakness. Instead of writing a new piece and going somewhere to observe strangers, I decided to attack an old piece and edit. Hope you like how it came out, I think I need to develop the story further for this protagonist.)

Flipping her bangs to cover her face, she rushed to her favorite spot at the back of the classroom by the window. Banging her backpack onto the chair in front of her, so no one would sit nearby. This girl loved her solitude, and being buried in her cyber world was more than a past time, it was a necessity.

Head down, eyes half-shut, she opened up her bag and retrieved her pen and spiral notebook. She didn’t make the mistake of leaving her spiral behind anywhere. Oh sure, she bore a spiral with her name on it like anyone else in class, but that was the decoy. That was kept up to date merely to amuse her teacher and maintain her common passing average.

With the strength that whispered in her soul, she clicked the pen and began to make the page bleed. Her drawings, her poems, her secrets spilled out of her onto the page. This spiral was no forgery, it was her, she was the paper and ink. Although more tattered and worn, it was more valuable to her than any diamond ring or stolen kiss.

On the page no one judged her, no one scorned her, no one made her cry. If she shed a torment of tears, she did so in the privacy of her spiral. No lock was needed on this treasure, because no one knew its worth.

Cindy glanced at the boy at the head of the row, and smirked. He was an ass, but adorable nonetheless. Good thing he was transferring to another school, their paths would never cross again. She would not be a “star-crossed” lover in a melodramatic play. She would be W-O-M-A-N. No longer the shy, overlooked child with a hesitant smile and blushing face.

This year is her year. She wrote, and never looked up as he stared at her one last time.