It’s time to talk – At Liz Claiborne Part 1 – Kristin’s Krusade

It was very early in the morning when I sat down to speak with Bill Mitchell. But even at what many deem and ungodly hour, I could see that Bill was focused and driven. The most unfortunate part of our meeting is that his focus and drive come from a place of deep pain and loss. Bill and I met at the Liz Claiborne “It’s Time To Talk” event. His daughter Kristin had been murdered by her boyfriend on June 3rd, 2005. Bill was a victim of this crime that started out as abuse, and escalated to murder. And now it is his mission to spread awareness and lessen the number of victims murdered and victims left behind to mourn.

As is common in abusive relationships, Kristin’s boyfriend became more possessive and controlling as the relationship progressed. I asked Bill if he had an idea as to what was happening. He told me he thought the relationship was strange, but really thought it wouldn’t last. Even Kristin’s friends were telling her that he was no good, but she continued on with him. There is no way of knowing now why she did, or if she was planning on leaving, but her last bit of resistance to his control may have been the trigger for his last heinous act. Her last text message to him was “You are being ridiculous. Why can’t I do something with my friends?” Hours later, she was dead.

I asked Bill, how would he advise parents raising children today to avoid the awful loss he has? He told me he normally is asked what he would do differently, and his usual answer is nothing. He didn’t know any better, there was always a feeling of “this will never happen to me.” And in the end, the answer is always awareness and education. Parents should be alert to the signs of abuse; the slow separation from friends and family, the increased controlling behavior, and so on. I would venture one better and say parents should be alert to the seduction of an abuser as well. If your daughter is courted by a boy that tells her he “loves” her too soon, and wants to be with her all the time, red flags should be flying at full mast and an early intervention and delicate conversation should be had.

I wished Bill the best with his mission and felt the pain in my heart for him, but more so the fear that any of my daughters could be Kristin one day. I endeavor to keep my awareness high, and do what I can spread it to those I touch. I keep my daughter’s keenly aware of what is acceptable and is not when it comes to the treatment they receive from others. I also work to raise a son that understands the value of women in his life. But in the end, raising children never ends and it is always a white knuckle event.
Protect your daughters with knowledge and self esteem, educate your sons about love and respect and God Bless you all.

Kristinskrusade.org

Finally!! A princess I can get behind!

You know originally I was going to speak to mothers of daughters, but now that I think about it, this applies to sons as well. See Disney has finally developed a princess character in the new movie The Princess and the Frog that was more Dame than damsel, and the prince is the one in distress. The beauty of it is, while it takes place in New Orleans and the princess is African American, she’s a character Hispanics can totally connect with. She’s no Snow White, placidly awaiting her prince in her castle while her step-mother plots against her. She’s no Cinderella, cleaning up after her step-sisters, dreaming about her prince in her father’s castle her step-mother commandeered. She’s not even like that listless Sleeping Beauty who slept while her prince came to her. This one works for what she dreams of, and it doesn’t include a prince. They are true goals, not fantasies. And the prince character is a narcissist who never learned to take care of himself. Sounds like a few of my male cousins from South America.

I like this movie because the message isn’t “someday my prince will come”, it’s more “someday I may be lucky enough to find a great princess.” It’s a different spin Disney is taking and I think it’s about time! Princess Tiana is a woman that can stand on her own, and I like that. I want my son to learn the value women bring to the lives of the men they partner with, and my daughters to see that being a princess doesn’t mean just waiting around for your prince. I am fully aware that I have much more to do with their views on this than Disney does, but I’m not going to deny the value of a movie such as this as a tool for me to refer to.

Go see The Princess and the Frog and let me know what you think. I’d be interested to know.

Here are some links for previews:
http://www.imdb.com/video/imdb/vi3719168537/

http://www.moviefone.com/movie/the-princess-and-the-frog/30244/video/the-princess-and-the-frog-trailer-no-2/40132410001

Ol' Yeller? Am I THAT Mom?!

I just discovered that I'm a yeller. Not at home, for the most part. There my tone becomes low and strong when needed. You know, my Mom voice. But it seems that my bilingualism has given me a sense of a cloak of invisibility when it comes to communicating with my children in public spaces. Just today I had to coral my children quickly and get them in the car before the cop I just saw would notice my illegally parked car and issue me a ticket. So at the top of my lungs I yelled their names and then, "¡Vamos! ¡Ahora! ¡Rápido! ¡Papi, anda y dile a tu hermana que venga ya o sino que encuentre donde dormir en el parque!" Don't worry, my kids are used to my sarcasm, but they know to put a spring in their step.

We live in the 'burbs of Jersey. They go to a small private school. The families are all well educated, and quite proper. Political correctness is a code of honor and while the ethnicities are quite varied, the culture seems universally quite WASPy. I, however, wrapped in my invisibility cloak of bilingualism (because if they can't understand you, they can't hear you either apparently), and flaring some of the jibara behaviors I picked up from my Abuela that used to embarrass my mother, I find myself yelling in a most un-WASPy manner. I never noticed it, mostly because I was politely ignored I suppose. It never occurred to me that I was YELLING, and maybe being LOUD. And if it did occur to me, it didn't bother me at all. Until my cloak of invisibility was struck with its antidote: another bilingual Hispanic.

In the middle of my YELLING, I hear "¡Hola! ¿Como estas?" I continued my YELLING, and I still heard "¡Hola! ¿Como estas?" But it was less a question and more a plea for me to stop and notice what I was doing. And when I stopped for a moment to utter "Bien, gracias" as he passed me by I could see in my fellow Latino's face, "Muchacha, no seas tan jibara." And for a moment I thought, oh my, I'm YELLING. But then I snapped back and remembered that sometimes we mother's YEll, sometimes we Hispanics YEll, and the probability that you will YELL goes up when you are a Hispanic mother. So, I'll keep my invisibility cloak and just YELL as required. But I will try to keep it to emergencies like attempting to avoid tickets for an illegal parking spot.

Are you a yeller? Do you find it kind of jibaro? Does it bother your kids?.

Don’t forget to keep tuned into this blog to read about my interviews with celebrities, community leaders and more on the topic of abuse. It will be a series of blogs because there is so much insight and wisdom to share that I have learned.

A Difficult Subject To Broach

The truth is abuse is a difficult subject to broach. For me, mostly because I am never sure how comfortable other people are with the topic. I grew up with abuse, and so became quite comfortable with the constant uneasiness of it, though not in a usual manner. I did not come to believe that it was “normal”. I did not seek partners that would repeat the pattern of abuse of humiliation. And most importantly, I do not visit the same pain I endured as a child upon my own children. I broke that chain. I became the proud, and ironically strong, weakest link in a long chain of abuse that traced far back up one side of my family tree. And I guess the question that is commonly pondered by my siblings that endured some of what I did is, how did I find that strength? The answer is never a simple one.

The truth is that it probably begins with a disposition that favored goodness and could not understand, or tolerate, anything opposed to that. But really, that could be said of any child born into this world. Hearing just once the sad and confused cry of a child that has just been battered, anyone comes to know that to be true. Add to that the tremendous influence my maternal grandmother had on how I viewed not only my abuser, but the strength I could possibly possess if I wanted, and my link in that chain became brittle and defiant against the thought of lengthening that legacy. While my mother cowered at my father’s rants and intimidation, my Abuela would yell back without so much as even a hint of fear. The louder he got, the more she stood her ground, and I saw that there was an option. I decided at a very young age to choose my Abuela’s strength over my mother’s acceptance of the abuse.

My comfort with abuse comes with the knowledge and understanding that it is not my shame. Finding my voice and courage from my Abela’s influence, I had spent my childhood lobbying my mother, and at times even my father, against the abuse through notes, conversations and poems. Upon leaving at eighteen, there were letters and a video left behind to make it clear that I was leaving the abuse and not the family. Yet, my family as a whole reacted to the exposure of the abuse in almost text book fashion. I immediately became the black sheep and a taboo topic. And while I am exceedingly happy to report that my efforts were rewarded and the abuse stopped, that my youngest sibling doesn’t even remember any of it at all, I am left with the sadness that it cost me their affection. I forced honesty on a family comfortable with the deceit of abuse, and that can be overwhelming.

I am attending an event tomorrow on the topic of domestic abuse and hope to learn how to effectively share my Abuela’s strength with others who may need it. Be it for themselves, or the sake of their children, because I understand that there are elements of parenting that can be difficult to master, like patience for the endless “But why?”s, or the elusive skill of getting kids to eat their vegetables. But raising children without raising a hand in anger is by far the simplest thing I have ever done.

What would you tell someone you thought might be living with abuse? Did you have an influence of strength in your life that changed the course of your destiny?

An important Event

Mis Hijos También is participating in Liz Claiborne Inc’s sixth annual It’s Time to Talk Day a day dedicated to ensuring that Americans speak-up about a subject that most people simply prefer not to discuss — domestic violence. It’s Time to Talk Day events will be held nationwide, including at the Department of Justice in Washington, DC with Attorney General Eric Holder and Education Secretary Arne Duncan. I will be participating in a “Talk Radio Row” on domestic violence at Liz Claiborne headquarters in New York. Major partners for this year’s event include The Department of Justice, CBS Evening News, REDBOOK, Seventeen, DoSomething.org, one, MTV, the Joyful Heart Foundation, Talkers Magazine and Talk Radio News Service. For more information visit www.loveisnotabuse.com

Stay tuned for more.

Why "El Cuco" Still Bugs Me Out

I’m going to confess that at 35 years old the mere thought of “El Cuco” still freaks me out. Demons, spirits, ghosts and ghouls do nothing for me. I can watch shows and documentaries on those topics all day and night without a worry. Of course I follow that up with some comedy just to wash the willies away, but there is almost no cure for mention of “El Cuco.” I’m guessing the Anglo equivalent would be the boogeyman. But at least the boogeyman has been somewhat defined by its name. BoogeyMAN. No one could say what “El Cuco” would look like when he came to get you. How many arms and legs? Would there be arms and legs!? What do I look out for so I know when to run! Or maybe I’ll just know. With a name like “El Cuco”, I’m guessing I’ll know alright.

As a kid “El Cuco” was a discipline technique. “Don’t do that or “El Cuco” will get you at night.” “Be nice to your sister or “El Cuco” will know and come get you.” “You better get to sleep quickly before “El Cuco” comes.” Add to that the effect of my Father bulging out his eyes every time he said “El Cuco” and terror was inescapable. Not to mention that EVERYONE seemed to know of him and all agreed about his predatory nature. My Abuela didn’t have to budge to settle a fight between my siblings. All she had to do was say “El Cuco viene si no paran de pelear.” And two wide eyed, quiet children would suddenly be looking for somewhere to sit with their backs against something so that “El Cuco” could not sneak up from behind and scare them.

I spare my kids “El Cuco” as tempting as it is sometimes to have those magic words at my disposal. I half consider it cheating and half consider it unkind, and wholly consider it unnecessary for them. So it’s one of the cultural details I will leave out for them. I’ll let them laugh at me about it later, when I’m in my 80’s, living with one of them and still need a night light.

Do your kids know about “El Cuco”?

I Stand Alone - Far From The 'Round The Way Girl

One of the running themes of my life have been “I stand alone.” There has almost always been something to set my apart from the pack. I am the tallest in my family, setting me far apart from my much shorter South American and Caribbean cousins. Aside from my milk white mother, I am the lightest and most resistant to tans as well, not only setting me apart from my family that is filled with beautiful skin tones ranging from café con leche to a rich Indian red, but from a Hispanic community that generally recognizes their own by the skin tone and features I never inherited. In my childhood Italian neighborhood, I was the lone Menudo fan in the midst of an entire population of Michael Jackson fans.

As a very proud and deeply rooted Hispanic, I don’t know that I can adequately express how frustrating it is when other Hispanics don’t recognize my ethnicity. Now, I can understand under most circumstances no one is going to pick out the tall, white girl as the girl who goes home to chuletas and platanos. But when I’m reading the Spanish paper, or at the Spanish mass and they turn to me to politely force the best English they can to communicate with me, I wish I didn’t stand alone so far. How I envied the colors and features of my cousins and even my own siblings, who tan so beautifully. How I wish I could look less like a “white girl” and more like a “’’round the way girl.”

I’d love to know, are there others out there that stand alone like me? What are your feelings and thoughts?

My Little Translator

One of the coolest things my first daughter would do was translate. I spoke to her exclusively in one language and her father in another and although she would routinely witness us communicated in English, her little, still-developing brain did not put two and two together. She would stand between us, ask her dad a question, he would answer it no more than four feet away from me, and she would turn to me and translate. “Papi, can we go to the park today?” “Sure Mama, we’ll go after lunch ok?” “Mami, Papi dijo que después del almuerzo nos podemos ir al parque.” Then I’d have act like she had just enlightened me to his message. She felt so useful and so smart. And she never proved herself wrong!

With time, you could almost see her wheels turn as she tried to decipher the relationship of these two languages. She would often ask me questions about what this word or that word was in English. And when I would tell her you could almost see her feel the word in her mouth as she mulled it in her head and rolled it around her tongue. One clear summer evening, the moon was large and beautiful. We were driving back from the mall and I pointed the moon out to her. “Mira Mama, mira la luna que bella. Es una media luna, porque no está llena.” And I saw her work that over in her mind and soon I heard her little voice say to herself “media luna… sock moon.” It was one of those priceless moments.

I’d love to hear about a priceless moment when your little one was processing the languages. Share them here today!

Feeling Kind of Silly

I remember when I first started to make good on my resolution to raise my daughter bi-lingual, I felt more than just a little ridiculous. I wasn’t cooing or counting piddies, like other new moms in our Gymboree class. I was finding myself basically narrating her life to her in Spanish. I didn’t know what else to say. I mean, it was me and her alone in the house and I was completely unaware of how to have a one way conversation, in Spanish. My Spanish was usually used for hearty conversations about family bochinche and animated exchanges with others whose opinions were as strong as mine. But now I had to talk AT this little human whose blank looks gave me nothing to work with.

Through my sheer exuberance of my love for her, my daily greetings went as such : “Mama! Mama la bella, mama la linda, mama la dulce!” That’s how she got the name Mamala. And the rest of the day was me just going on and on. “¿Que hacemos hoy? ¡Yo no sé si va llover, pero no importa, que de todas maneras vamos a divertirnos!” Blah, blah blah, blah, blah, was all she heard. And after all that conversation, after two years and more, all she would say was “ma ma ma.” But I kept going, seemingly boring her with the details of her life, in español. My poor husband would sit there, completely lost in the noise of my voice, as he waited for me to translate so that he too could participate in the conversation.

Then it happened one day; as I was looking for a particular plate in a cupboard, I heard a little voice behind me say “¿Que buscas Mami?” It was sudden, it was out of nowhere and it was flawless! And suddenly I stopped feeling silly and started feeling awesome.

When did you hear your child first speak? Which language was it? What strategies do you use to raise your child as bilingual?

A Fourth Grade Mofongo Lunch

I had a bit of pride as I packed my daughter’s lunch yesterday morning. She was positively salivating at the mere thought of what her lunch would be later that day. We had ordered some take food from a marvelous restaurant in Jersey City, called Delicias De Puerto Rico, after mass on Sunday. We ordered plátanos rellenos, alcapurrias de yuca, ensalada de bacalao and of course mofongo con pernil.

The smells of the restaurant are heavenly and bring me back to my grandmother’s kitchen so many decades ago. Their asopao de pollo tastes as if my own Abuela had made it herself. It is the pure perfection that quiets the soul and soothes the body all at once. It is that which makes you ache for a time gone by, while filling you with that bitter momentary joy of having relived it all too briefly.

Food is one of the defining factors of any culture; cultures a large as societies and as small as families. I believe it is because the way each culture has transformed mere sustenance into the flavors, aromas and experiences they have in their foods, carry the stories of the people and the traditions. Those most cherished traditions bring us the most sense of pride when we pass them down to our children. When we do our part to create a future for the history that helped define us and guide us, we too become immortalized.

So my daughter brought her garlicky mofongo to school. And while some showed interest or curiosity, and others turned their noses up at the strange food, she gleefully dived in to her lunch enjoying every bite, unwittingly bringing forth the essence of our ancestors and their traditions into yet another generation. You can see why I was filled with pride.

Do you have food traditions that you've passed on to your children? Do your children resist or readily accept the foods of your traditions?

A Bit About Me

My name is Melissa. I am second generation Puerto Rican and first generation Ecuadorian. Essentially this means I was raised by a father from the old country and mother raised by a single mom from the old country. There was a mix of cultures, Puerto Rican and Ecuadorian being so different with just a base of sameness. And a dilution of cultures as well, as time went on and time drew us further from our roots. Being the oldest I had the most exposure to my roots, and even had the exceptional experience of spending two elementary school years in a bi-lingual school. Living the longest with my Puerto Rican grandmother in our home, I resist the most a complete divorce from what made her real and spectacular to me.

I have four children and I try to raise them as if my Abuela were still here. In the forty plus years she lived in Brooklyn, she never learned more than she absolutely needed. She’d go into any neighborhood store, make her selections, place them up on the counter and ask “How mush?” Every clerk knew what she meant and she got along just fine. Otherwise, at home, it was all Spanish all the time. And as she got older and her arthritis got worse, she would have me write the letters she would dictate to send to her sisters back home in PR. And as soon as I could, I was reading things to her also when her tired eyes needed the help. And so, my kids now speak, read and write in Spanish. And most importantly, they learn our religion in Spanish so that they could recite El Padre Nuestro as my Abuela would have taught it to them.

I’d love to know: what is your impetus for raising your children bilingual? Do you have any family members who have never, or could never learn English? Do your children communicate with them well?