Olympic Gifts

Talent belongs to God. Training comes from the robots within us. What makes the equally trained and the equally talented unequal is their humanity. Gabby Douglas' charisma, Missy Franklin's sweetness, and Michael Phelps' humility, qualities they sustain regardless of the results, sets them apart from their sometimes more qualified opponents, whose desire to win is palpable and gives away their ego (or their parents' and trainer's egos, in some cases).

Within my own talent and my own training, I have often felt that subtle tug-of-war between my ego's need to succeed and my gift's desire to serve. Before I step on stage, I have learned to ask of myself, May my ego step aside and make way for my gift. May I give what I am meant to give to this character on this stage for this audience. May I have the courage to serve, may I love every minute of it, and may I remember to be grateful for the experience in its entirety. 

I do not always grant my own request. I am sometimes too pleased with myself. I sometimes want to shine more than I want to give. But it is never long before I am humbled. On those moments, I look much like Jordyn Wieber, Viktoria Komova, and Ryan Lochte. Failure shatters poses.

Gifts are delicate. They shy away at the sight of arrogance. I must always keep myself in check, and practice catching it as it happens. If I have enough clarity and presence of mind, sometimes I can reverse it as it is happening. I am failing. I suck tonight. I am shmacting. It is hurting me to fail because I stepped on stage tonight wanting to succeed, wanting to be known as a great actor, wanting to be applauded.  I must let that go. It is not my job to succeed. It is my job to get out of my own way. I'm sorry, Talent. I tried to use you to make others see me, admire me, and love me. That is not your purpose. I accept failing tonight so that I may learn and grow for your sake. 

I watch the Olympics not only to cheer on the athletes I admire, but to study their humanity. I hope to absorb their clarity, their balance, and their drive. And I always applaud the courage it takes to remain humble, kind, and grateful after their consecutive wins.

The Aurora Shooting and the Interminable Questions

Another mass shooting in a small Colorado suburb. (I don't even know what part of that sentence is most sickening, "another" or "mass shooting.") The answerable gets asked, for facts soothe the shocked. What How Where When Who go first. After those have settled, the unanswerable haunting Why comes up. Articles vomit their theories; loose gun laws, social inadequacies, negligent parents, media influences, and the maddening mundaneness of the American suburb.

Can we really handle the answer though? How many times did we read Eric Harris' diaries and watch Seung-Hui Cho's homemade videos? How many books will we write, how many weird indie films will we make, how many more pieces to this puzzle do we need before we take responsibility?
Maybe they were insane or maybe they were just a magnified version of us: angry, in pain, and lonely. The disparity lies in their despair and not, I maintain, in their access to weapons, for we all have access to weapons but we do not all go on a shooting rampage.

We collectively ignore the misfits around us, and then we collectively believe that if we take away the means, we will erase the turbulent cause. Not that the argument is unfounded: if we banned cigarettes, we would likely have less cases of lung cancer; if we take guns away from our children, we will likely have less mass murders among our youth. I am absolutely in favor of gun control- if we can prevent the How, then why don't we?- But neither "solution" soothes the cause, and we simply cannot ignore that. Our angry young men will still be angry young men. Their desire to indiscriminately kill others still stirs within them, and what do we intend to do about that? Numb them with Prozac and do away with violent entertainment? Guarantee every child in an American suburb loving and attentive yet ambitious and successful parents who can pay for a college education that will give them a fulfilling career?

Theories and questions don't change the tragedy, the sadness, or the loss. But we must study it, we must ask questions, we must be moved to tears by this, we must scream at the top of our lungs, and we must not stop thinking about it for a moment, for the instant we move on with our lives, it will happen again.

Marina

Best Friend

Sister

Artist

Idol



Warrior

Lover

Maker

Creator



Divine

Angel

Queen

Butterfly


Marina

Happy Birthday to my best, oldest, and dearest friend, Marina. Words don't do us justice; we are all that friendship has ever wanted and was ever meant to be. I love you I love you I love you, with all of my heart.

Te amo, abu amore mio, hoje e sempre.

9/11

I was in Santana's IB HL Portuguese class at Graded School in Sao Paulo, Brazil. I was 16 years old and distracted by the boy who sat across the room from me. I had not read the assignment we were talking about in class that day, but I have always been very good at pretending I did my homework, so I was participating in the discussion as usual. I had carefully chosen my outfit that day because I knew I'd be in two classes with the boy I had a crush on; I was wearing an orange top and beige pants that showed off my waist. I was hungry, because I didn't eat on days when I knew I'd see him.

I don't know why Graded had this system then, it really doesn't make much sense at all, but they used to have students who had that time period free pick up the attendance sheets next to the door within the first 15 minutes of every class. Leo picked up our attendance sheet that day, and when he walked in, he announced that terrorists had just crashed planes into the twin towers in New York. Leo was a bit of a clown, and we didn't believe him. This was before internet phones, so no one checked up on it. After about half an hour, there was an announcement for everyone to meet in the auditorium.


We sat there, all together, and watched CNN replay the scene of the planes crashing into the twin towers, and then we watched as the towers fell, as people jumped out of the building, and as New York changed forever. Graded is an American school, and many people had connections to New York, so there was a lot of crying and desperate phone calls. Classes were suspended, most of us were taken home, and the news kept playing the scene, over and over again.

I felt a huge sense of sadness at the time. Reactions around me varied. Conspiracy theories, bem feito, my god, I knew..., I lost..., I can't believe..., Why?, How? It was the only thing we talked about for a few days. But then weeks went by, and we had exams and boys and plays and other things to think about. 9/11 faded into the background, for the most part.

My family visited Ground Zero 6 months after 9/11/01, in a trip where we also visited a Holocaust memorial in Germany. At the Holocaust memorial, there was a monument that read, "Never Again;" words that haunted me when I stood over the empty space in downtown Manhattan shortly after. At one point, I looked up at the sky, and felt a sharp pain in my chest. The presence of the towers, magnified by their absence, loomed over us, and I remember thinking, so this is what a ghost feels like, this is what a tragedy looks like.

I didn't know that ten years later I would not only be living in New York, but would also have fallen madly in love with this city and called it my own. This is the only place I know of where people from all over the world can feel comfortable, as if it were always meant to be their home. It is a place of big dreams and endless hope. Small wonder people take 9/11 personally, even if they didn't live here at the time.

9/11 is always a hard day for me. I take dates seriously, and I am more than a little bit skilled at empathy. Anniversaries of tragedies always touch me deeply. The past few weeks have been filled with conversations of "Where were you when it happened?" It is amazing to hear the stories of fellow new yorkers, of people who were here and saw it happen.

I went to Ground Zero today to pay my respects, and it was really sad. There were a lot of tourists, cameras, and people promoting their own agendas; all of which pissed me off, but I wanted to be there nonetheless. I wanted to look up at the sky again and see that empty space, which still causes me so much pain, and honor the people who were affected by that day in my heart and prayers.

Do they make too big of a deal of it all? Does this whole thing reinforce American narcissism? Don't tragedies of this scale happen all the time in other countries, and never even make it to the news? I don't know, and I don't care. What happens elsewhere and how people deal with this here doesn't change that it happened. It was a tragedy, and it shook the world.

New York, on the 10th anniversary of this tragedy that changed you, I honor your spirit, your passion, and your survivors. I love you and carry you, my city, in my heart.


Share your 9/11 stories. It's important. I think it's the best way to honor this day.

A Bitter Taste of Freedom - Movie Review

“I feel responsible for what my country does,” said Anna Politkovskaya in footage brilliantly captured by Marina Goldovskaya, and that statement tells us, in a nutshell, who this incredible woman was. Despite popular belief, she was not a soldier, an “iron lady,” or a martyr; she was an ordinary woman who was exposed to an extraordinary reality, and she knew she could not keep it to herself.

A Bitter Taste of Freedom follows Politkovskaya’s life, with footage spanning from the early years of her marriage up to the building of her career as an investigative journalist revealing the tragic truths of the Chechen war. Her courage and fearlessness came at a price, though, and at age 48, she was assassinated. She left behind her two children and her first grandchild, also named Anna, who was born only 5 months after her assassination.

Interwoven throughout the film is footage of war-ridden civilians in Chechnya—mostly women—mourning and crying over the bodies of their family members. The heartbreaking reality becomes strikingly clear: these people’s stories and troubles have been ignored and, without Politkovskaya, they would have remained so. She had a duty to these people that was bigger than fear; as one of her friends says, “She kept coming there because she felt needed.”

Goldovskaya’s film is not only a tribute to Anna Politkovskaya, but also serves as a messenger that carries on the work she did, which is still unknown to many people around the world. The film proves that Politkovskaya was not silenced with her death; her work was far too important, and hopefully her courage will inspire others to keep reporting the truth and taking a stand for peace.

What Goldovskaya captures beautifully is Politkovskaya’s spirit and passion. People who criticized her writing for being too emotional, I think, will be shamed when they see this film. She was a genuine, glowing presence, responding to a vocation she did not ask for but could not turn away from, reporting courageously on what most journalists would never dare to touch.

What we learn through this film is that Anna Politkovskaya, a woman who saw and reported on countless deaths and the vileness that exists in human beings, was a woman full of life. Her passion for life, I believe, is what drove her to fight for it. A Bitter Taste of Freedom, in taking us through her journey, pays homage to that which Politkovskaya fought and died for: truth, peace, and freedom.  

*

A Bitter Taste of Freedom will be screened at the IFC center in New York, August 19^th- August 25^th. Visit their facebook page for upcoming screenings, as well as links to the trailer and interviews with Marina Goldovskaya.

...On Directing WEIGHT

The day of a show usually goes like this:

Wake up, the first few seconds are normal, and then there is a sudden, sharp realization: I am performing tonight!

Excitement is followed by extreme panic. 

For the next two minutes I wonder if it's too late to leave the country.

It is.

And then I remember: I love doing this. No, love doesn't cover it. I am obsessed with it. If someone said: Here's a theatre, but you can't leave it for the rest of your life, you have to be here every day, and for many days in a row you might not see the light of day, but you will create theatre with integrity, love, and purpose; I would say, Lock me up. Tie me down. There is nothing else I'd rather do with my life. 

I have been doing this since I was four years old; performing, creating shows, making other people do what I want, making other people watch what I've created, and seeking, always seeking, an opportunity to bring a character to life. I am not a story-teller, I am a story-liver (as in, life liver, not body organ liver). Even when I tell my cousin's daughters a story, I do it as if I were acting out a play, taking on the character's voices and acting out all the actions. I usually end up a sweaty mess and, if the intention was ever to put the child to sleep, I fail at it miserably. They are as wound up as ever by the time I am done, because I am most alive when I am acting, and life is contagious. They love it. They need it. We all do. We all need stories to be lived in front of us; we ache for that exposure of the human heart.

Tonight the play I directed opens. How is directing different than performing? Multiply the above experiences by a thousand. And then put on the pressure to be the one who is calm, in control, patient, and knowledgeable.

WEIGHT was written by my soul sister, Kerri Campbell Evans. She showed it to me one day, and I had a vision. We looked at each other, and it was done: I'd be directing WEIGHT.

I have directed things here and there since I was a child; it's easy for me because, as my brother and cousins can attest, I like telling people what to do. But I have hesitated to call myself a director. I am so madly in love with being on stage, with communicating a character's soul to a live audience, that I often wonder if directing can be as fulfilling.

What I've learned is that it's fulfilling in an entirely different way. This play was important to me; I fell in love with the characters and felt a need to tell their stories. I saw my role: I would be the one creating the environment for my actors to bring their characters to life. I would give them what they needed, whether they knew that they needed it or not, in order to rise to their character's worlds.

In this life of odd day jobs here and there, I discovered two jobs outside of the theatrical business that I was suited for: teaching and tour guiding. So it made sense that I would fit right into my director's chair. I see the potential in people and then I make it my mission to guide them towards it. Because I know first-hand what that "a-ha!" moment feels like for an actor- the moment when the character clicks, when you understand something that could only be understood by living through it, when you feel with absolute certainty that there is a force much higher than yourself that takes you to this place of raw truth- because I know that this is what we live for, I have found it incredibly fulfilling to be part of the process that takes them there.

I am a mother tonight, watching my baby take its first step, speak its first word, and look out into the world for the first time, knowing that it is theirs.

I am so proud of my girls, and I am so excited to see our play, which we rehearsed in living rooms and pieced together bit by bit over the course of four months, being given to others tonight. That is the final step- giving the creation over. No matter how many times I do this, I will always feel the butterflies in my stomach. Like the early stages of falling in love, I cannot help but let excitement clash with nervousness, and hope that my heart's desire to love will be met with another open, willing heart.

Send your positive energy to our beautiful play and, if you're around, come support our magical journey.


WEIGHT opens tonight at the Strawberry One-Act Festival.
Hudson Guild Theater
441 W. 26th St. (btw 9th and 10th aves)
7:00pm

My Friend Marina

A measuring system that can accurately describe how much Marina Nacamuli means to me does not exist.

She is my dearest and oldest friend. When we meet someone new in each others lives, she knows I love to tell them that she has been my friend since we were four years old. I love to say that because it's how I let everyone know that she is part of who I am.

Marina likes to play jealous. It is one of her defining traits. She is possessive of her friends, because she loves them very deeply. But, and I know that on some level she knows this, she does not have any real motive to be jealous with me. No one will ever mean as much to me as she does. No one can compete with her. She is one of the most important people in my life.

When I got my heart broken once, I collapsed onto the streets of Midtown, started to cry uncontrollably, and I called Marina. I don't know where she was or what she was doing, but she was by my side within fifteen minutes. That is the kind of person Marina is. She will drop everything and go anywhere to be by your side when you need her. Her love for her friends is palpable.

Marina often asks me to edit something, or write something, or be part of a project. She created a fan page for me on facebook, she comes to watch all of my plays, and if I ever need help with any creative project, she's right there for me. She roots for me, and she believes in me. This is something that touches me very much and I am infinitely grateful for.

We grew up together, we created worlds together, we tried to learn French together, we started liking boys together, we've traveled together, and we've made New York our homes together. Life has kept her near me, and she is constant in my story.

She knows everything there is to know about me. Our friendship is extremely special, but I often take it for granted. When I have moments like today, where I celebrate her, I am present to what a rare gift such a friendship as this is, and I am moved to tears.

Today is her birthday, and she is in Europe. I can not physically be with her, I can not even give her a gift, but I want her to know that she is everything to me. I love her so much that words, which always come so easily to me, evaporate as I try to do justice to how much she means to me. I state the facts of our friendship in hopes that they speak for themselves: it is her 26th birthday and it is the 22nd anniversary of our friendship. It is with absolute certainty that I say that though those are a significant amount of years, they are just a fraction of what we'll look back on at the end of our lives.

Ma, I do not know who I would be without you, and I do not ever want to find out. 

A teacher of mine once asked me, "Do you have a best friend?" And I answered, "Yes, I have always had one, and I always will. My friend Marina."

Minha querida abu, te amo muito.

Happy Birthday. 

My Dad

I have a really great dad.

I have the kind of dad who woke up at 6:00am every day for 17 years, dressed his kids, made sure they brushed their teeth, and waited with them for the school bus- all the while letting his daughter talk like a parrot, and always seeming 100% engaged in her every word.

I have the kind of dad who worked 10-12 hour days, always came home with a smile, had dinner with his family, and then helped his children with their math homework. His daughter was exceptionally difficult, as she was not only terrible at math, but also made a big drama out of any little assignment she didn't understand. If he ever would have preferred to sit in front of the TV and unwind from his long days with a glass of wine, he didn't show it.

I have the kind of dad who watched Toy Story so many times he knew it by heart. 

I have the kind of dad who wore the same belt for 27 years, drove the same car for 10 years, and never owned a Rolex. Instead, his children saw the world, studied at the best schools, and started off their lives debt-free.

I have the kind of dad who got so nervous when he met his daughter's first boyfriend he chewed his tongue instead of his bubble gum. But he always let her make her own decisions. If he disapproved, he never assumed his daughter wasn't smart enough to eventually figure it out for herself.

I have the kind of dad who re-read all the books his kids were reading for school, took his son to Little League on Saturdays, and sat through every one of his daughter's plays.

I have the kind of dad who said, "No, I can't go watch the game at the bar with the guys, I have to help my daughter learn her lines." 

I have the kind of dad who taught his daughter Shakespeare and Poe and Cummings before she could even write her name in cursive.

I have the kind of dad who sees the world with such positivity and love it can shake the cynicism out of even the most skeptical New Yorker.

I have the kind of dad who lets me know, every day, that I am loved.



I'm so lucky to be my daddy's girl.


Happy Father's Day to all the great dads out there.

The Massacred Children of Rio

I have been searching and struggling for a way to pay tribute to the massacred children of Rio. I am speechless, but I am not without thoughts or feelings. I am angry, confused, mesmerized, shocked, and saddened by this tragedy. Every image played and replayed on the news cuts me, but I can not keep my eyes off the screen. The sitcoms go on, as do the reality shows, at their scheduled times, as if nothing were happening-- I could distract myself there, but I can't. I won't.

Last year, I blogged about Columbine on its 11th anniversary. School shootings are something that deeply perplex me, and I have always been inclined to finding as much information as I can about them. I admit I thought they were not something that happened in Brazil. I am guilty of having once said to a fellow American, "Brazilians kill because they're starving or fighting for their rights, Americans massacre each other out of boredom." I confess to believing it was an illness that manifested in neglected American suburban teenagers, victims of bullying and misunderstandings. This wasn't supposed to be a Brazilian problem. Like a friend posted on facebook, "WTF, this shit doesn't happen in Brazil." We have enough problems. Our children carry guns, yes, but because they are raised in utter poverty and know no other way to survive. This desire, this need, to kill fellow classmates for no apparent reason just did not happen here.

I now stand not only corrected, but ashamed.

A scene plays over and over again in my head; a mother being told her child has just been shot several times. She falls into despair at first, but then she looks up at the sky and is relieved. She is certain that God would not do that to her. She will have to identify the body, and she is still certain that God protected her little girl. She is even more certain when she sees the body. Those bloody clothes are not her. Those bones are not my child. Whenever reality settles in for this mother, if it ever does, I pray she finds the strength she needs to survive it.

For those children who lost their lives yesterday, I am saddened and I give them my prayers and the guarantee that they shall be remembered. For the children who were injured and scarred by the event, I honor them as survivors and hope that they are given the care they need at this time. And for the parents and families of the children who died yesterday, I send them all the love and strength I have.

To the children of the Rio school shooting of April 7th, 2011, you are remembered and honored.




Image from here.

Gratitude and God

I tend to bargain with God.

I'm not really a big God person but, sometimes, I do talk to someone- and not just an energy or vibration, but someone very specific to me, whose presence I can feel clearly and closely. And I call that someone "God", because it's practical and, honestly, I haven't come up with anything better.

When I have food poisoning and feel like I'm about to throw up my lungs, I start talking to God. Ok. Listen. I'll do anything. Just make me feel better. I know you can do it. I know you just want my attention. So here's what I'll do: I will sell my Prada bags and use the money to buy meals for homeless people. How does that sound? Please, just help me out here.

Or when I want to do well at an audition: Yo. Here's the deal, help me do really well in this audition, because I really really want it and I need a sign that I'm still supposed to be doing this, so help me get this part, and I'll pray every night for a week. Ok, I probably won't. But I'll remember you. I'll blog about you. How does that sound? I'll remember to be grateful. I promise.

Essentially, I turn to God in times of need and, for the most part, forget all about God when things are going well. It reminds me of a Chuck Palahniuk quote, "Your parents are like God, you turn to them when you need them."

But every once in a while, I remember to make a gratitude list before going to bed. It's mostly just an outline of the simple things I usually take for granted. I feel a shift immediately, a relief of being unburdened from always wanting more.

So here's today's list, may this be my tribute to the powers that be.

Today I am grateful for...

Sleeping well.

Warm covers.

Technology that allows for alarm clocks.

Cuddling and body warmth.

Caring about someone.

Coffee with a super fun co-worker.

Rain.

A warm coat.

Monthly unlimited metro card.

A painless subway ride.

Bagel with butter.

My laptop.

Email from an old friend.

Boredom. Far better than stress.

More coffee.

Scrabble.

The outdoors.

Smart women.

Press passes.

Washing hair.

Hot water.

Pink fluffy towel.

Birthday dinner.

Reconnecting.

Sangria.

Tapas.

Chocolate mousse crack cake.

Walking.

Peter Rabbit.

Tea.

Don't have to wake up early tomorrow.

Bed.

Old pajamas.

Blogging.

A Tribute to Sex and the City

The series had already ended when I was introduced to the four fabulous manhattanites and the show that changed television history. I wasn't interested in the show when it was aired, it seemed vulgar and silly. I thought it wouldn't speak to me, I thought I was too young to really get it. I was actually going to be one of those people who never watched a single episode of Sex and the City.

But then, at 19, I went through a devastating break-up. And as I told the story of the relationship over and over again to different friends, I kept hearing, "Oh my god. You're totally like Carrie! He's your Big!" I started to get a little annoyed. I didn't want my personal life compared to a TV SHOW. Especially since, by the way they were all saying it, I had clearly made some bad decisions and was being compared to a lunatic. I decided I would most definitely never watch that show.

But, one day, amidst a wave of depression while visiting my friend Divya, a sex and the city-devotee, between drinking Godiva chocolate liquor and eating baked cheetos, I was convinced to give the show a shot at cheering me up. The very first season was popped into the dvd player, and we started with the first episode, which happens to be when Carrie met Big.

Before I knew it, I had watched the entire first season in one sitting and was hugging the couch cushion intensely, my face bloated and pink from laughing and crying and gasping.

This is amazing, I thought, I can identify with these women so much it's insane. I've only known them for about four hours, and I already love them. I want to know more. How were they allowed to do and say these things on television? And what is Carrie wearing? Oh my god, where's season two?

I didn't get to watch season two that night, but I came back a few weeks later for it. And over the course of the following six months, I would watch every single episode of Sex and the City at least once. I was completely converted. I had never expected men and women of the world to allow a show that exposed, with such exaggerated honesty, these truths about women:

1. We think about sex. We talk about sex. We like sex.

2. We don't all want to get married. Some of us may, in fact, get allergic reactions to wedding dresses. But then, we may change our minds. Just don't try to change our minds for us.

3. We eat.

4. We fart.

5. Yes, we do analyze everything men say, do, and think, and we take it all personally.

6. Having babies is hard.

7. We can be independent and still be insecure about whether a guy's going to call us or not.

8. We like the wrong guys.

9. We hurt the nice guys.

10. We can be friends with each other.

Those are just a few. Sex and the City normalized so many things that the CRW (Committee for the Repression of Women) had controlled and thwarted for centuries, no wonder it spoke to women of all ages, around the world, for years. The show was a hit because we, women of the world, needed it. We were thirsty for something that spoke to all of us, whether we were dying-to-get-married-Charlotte's or psycho-dramatic-about-relationships-Carrie's or sarcastic-and-cynical-no-bullshit-Miranda's or horny-as-rabbits-Samantha's, or a combination of them, or all of them. They were us, and we loved them for their courage and their honesty.

I am, of course, bringing all of this up because I saw the second movie two nights ago. And I have to say, I loved it. Not only the movie, but the whole experience. I got dressed up- pulled out the Dolce & Gabbana and the Prada, met three girlfriends for cocktails (I had a champagne cosmopolitan, yes I did), bought chocolate and popcorn, and sat in a PACKED movie theatre on the upper west side with another hundred or so groups of dressed up women who were doing the same thing. It didn't even matter if the movie was good or not, we will always want to know what those four women are up to, we want them to live forever. We all had that in common at that movie house- we had been changed by Carrie, Charlotte, Miranda, and Samantha. They nursed us from our break-ups, brought us closer to our own girlfriends, started new friendships, indulged our passions for shoes, helped us discover what we really wanted from men, and told us that being dramatic, crazy, needy, sexy, powerful, romantic, horny, successful, confused, lonely, indulgent, silly, feminine, and forever hopeful was OK. Oh, and Carrie alone told us that wearing the most outrageous outfits around manhattan was perfectly OK too, changing New York City's boundaries for fashion permanently.

The girls were received with loving, open arms all around the globe, because we still need them. We still want to know what to do with our relationships, even after we're married. We want to know if anyone else thinks motherhood is insanely hard. We want to know that it's okay to wear purple and yellow. We want to know what to do when we run into our ex-boyfriends. And, of course, we want to watch women bonding over fabulous meals and searching, together, for the truth about love and relationships.

I hope they keep making movies, because I will always love those four fabulous women and cheer for them. They are icons and, to me, they are an immortal source for the study of women, love, sex, relationships, friendships, family, and, of course, myself.

Me, at the movie theatre, about to watch Sex and the City 2.

Mother

People who see me with my mom now usually think we have the perfect mother-daughter relationship. We do, in fact, have a great relationship nowadays. We are very close, and very loving towards each other. When we're together, I can't go a day without kissing her cheek, pressing my nose against her face, squeezing her hand, or cuddling next to her on the couch. She is incredibly supportive of my career and my life-style, taking on tasks like helping me find the right belt for a character I am playing or finding 10 lamps for a play I'm directing as though they were of life-and-death importance- because, to me, they are, and she recognizes that. When I started grad school she came to live with me, under the disguise that she was taking English lessons, because she knew that in order for me to fully take advantage of that first year, I wouldn't be able to have a job or worry about house-hold chores, so she lived with me- cleaned my apartment, cooked my meals, packed me a lunch every day, did my laundry, and stayed up with me at night as I discussed all the breakthroughs and breakdowns I was experiencing during that year. I was 21 years old, but I needed my mommy, and she was there for me. As a result, I excelled as a student, benefited fully from my education, and grew incredibly as an artist. Recently, I took on directing and producing a play, and without hesitation she stepped up to help me with costumes and props, running around cities looking for the most impossible things, spending days sewing, and putting together collages of every image I gave her. Let me just add to that- my mother had never been involved in any theatrical production before in her life, she knew what to do simply by watching me do what I do all my life.

But it wasn't always like this. Unfortunately, like most teenage girls, I hated my mother. I mean, I thought she was the devil. If I trace it back, I think it started when I was 13. I came home from my first experience "going out at night with friends" and had a hickey on my neck. Well, my mother had not raised a daughter to come home with hickeys on her neck. I wasn't really allowed to go out again for about three years. If I was, it was an exception, and I was thoroughly checked when I got home. Naturally, I thought she was overreacting and overprotective and did not understand me at all. I blamed her entirely and solely for my parent's disastrous marriage and the consequent war-zone that was our house-hold. I did not understand her fearful and explosive behavior. She did not understand my obsession with acting and did not know how to be supportive. She wanted me to be a journalist, and when people asked her what I was good at, she'd say, "Writing. She's going to go to school for journalism." Needless to say, that pissed me off and hurt me immeasurably. She was always telling me to go on a diet or fix my hair differently, since she placed an abnormal amount of importance on looks. I always thought she felt I was ugly, and it made me shut down from her completely. We simply didn't understand each other, and our communication throughout my entire adolescence was pretty much limited to fighting. If we weren't arguing, we weren't talking. And with my mother, arguments turn to fire. She once broke the mirror behind my bedroom door because she slammed the door so hard while we were fighting. The mirror, by the way, is still broken. She also sneaked into my room, read my diaries, went through my things, and prohibited me of keeping anything in locked compartments. I actually used to dread coming home from school, and got involved in as many after-school activities as I could find, sometimes spending up to 13 hours at school a day. I didn't want to be home, I didn't want to be near her, I did not understand her, and I was absolutely certain that would never change.

At 17, I graduated from high-school, left home, and moved to a different country for college. It was the time in my life I had been looking forward to for years, and the relief I felt in being out of my house, away from my mother, was instant.

And it was then that we started getting along.

I got sick a lot that first year in college, and, guess what, I started missing my mother. Although I had friends who took care of me, and started to grow my own feet to walk on in the world, I missed her. We started writing each other letters. I started to share things about my life in college, and suddenly I felt like an adult talking to another adult, and that relationship of equality turned out to be what we needed from each other. She came to visit me after I'd been gone for three months, and things were already very different. I had grown up. She made more sense to me. And she started getting more comfortable talking to me about herself, about her life, about her marriage, about her relationship to me. And so I started to understand my mother a little bit at a time.

A real shift happened when I came home for the first time after being away, for christmas break. With some distance from the home I'd been raised in, I was able to see the love and care that resided there. And one night, I don't remember why, I found the college essay that had gotten me accepted to Sarah Lawrence and read it to my mom. It was about my journey through theatre and what it meant to me. When I finished it, both my mother and I had tears in our eyes. She had never understood how much theatre meant to me because I had never told her. She may not have known what theatre and acting were about, but she knew what love and passion were about, and she was able to piece together how much I need and love what I do. She became my number one fan that night, and never turned back.

As a teenager I had envied my friends who had great relationships with their moms, who could tell them everything, who called their moms their best friends. But now I'm grateful for everything I had with my mom. The rough years showed us both that we could love each other through anything, even our opinions and judgements of each other as people. The friendship we have now was something we had to work for and build slowly, and we are therefore able to appreciate it.

There are still bumps. We disagree on trivial things like what "cleanliness" is, and then heavier things like what "beauty" is. She is not the type of person who sugarcoats or hides what she's feeling. If she thinks I need to lose weight, she says so, even if I tell her I don't need to be stick-thin to be happy. If she doesn't approve of how I keep my apartment, she won't leave me alone until I make it look like what she thinks is presentable (impossible standards). I can't tell her everything about my romantic life, she's still very protective of her children's hearts. She's still married to my father and it's still pretty much a disaster, but I have learned that people choose their lives for their own reasons, and there isn't much other people can do about it once they've made up their minds.

But we know each other now. We appreciate and understand each other. Our love and friendship rises above those bumps, and we learn something new about one another every day.

I do see my mother as a queen, because all mothers are queens, but even more importantly, I also see her as a human being, because all mothers are human beings, and if we learn to love them for it, they are honored.

How Did That Happen?

Eleven years ago, on April 20th, 1999, I was a regular 8th grader, going about my business as usual, hopping from class to class, half-daydreaming, half-present. I expected nothing from that day, as I expected nothing from any day at school. I was certainly not prepared for the announcement I would hear at my algebra class right before lunch. A news report had just been distributed to all the teachers at my school, a news report so dreadful it paralyzed my otherwise perfectly-in-control-math-geek teacher. She stood before our class, not knowing how to deliver the news. We, even at 13, instinctively knew something was wrong. We sat in silence and waited. Finally, she started saying, "It seems like there was a mass..." and her voice started breaking. She took a deep breath and then started again, "There was a massacre at a high school in Colorado today. It looks like some students got some guns and... " Her voice trailed off again as her eyes got watery. The class was stunned into silence. We sat there and said nothing for a while. Then we started asking questions. We wanted to know everything. And once all the facts were given to us, we sat in silence again.

We were silent for days.

For some reason, it hit me really hard. I watched and read every news coverage on the story. The images and stories imprinted themselves in my heart. I had no connection to any of those kids or to that high school in Littleton, Colorado- I had never even been to Colorado- but I was deeply disturbed and forever changed by that tragedy. I searched- I am still searching- for the answer to the most-asked question, "How did that happen?" How did those young boys, Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold, with their whole lives ahead of them, get to the point of such despair that they decided to buy guns, walk into school with them one day, and shoot their classmates, then themselves. Twelve students and one teacher were killed, and many were injured permanently. I wanted to know who they were, I wanted to know how they had been raised, I wanted to know more about the culture they had grown up in and what their high-school experiences had been like. I wanted to know everything. I wanted to understand.

I sought to understand what I, or anyone else, could never really understand. But there was something about them that I did understand, and that I would grow to understand even more deeply as I had my own high-school experiences. I had good parents, I had a great relationship with my brother, I had friends, I went to a high school that provided counseling and support, and I had my love for theatre to get me through any rough teenage times. But I also understood what it was like to feel like you did not belong. I knew what it was like to know you would never be the most popular person in your high-school, not even close, and to have to pretend, every day, that you didn't care. I had friends, close good dear friends, but I knew what it was like to secretly wish I had more friends, which would mean that more people liked me. I knew what it was like to feel invisible, at home and at school, and to never feel like what was important to me was important to anyone in charge. I knew what it was like to be terribly, dreadfully, unbearably lonely. And I could imagine magnifying those circumstances: never feeling like I could talk to my own parents, living in a town where nothing ever happened, where maybe I wasn't even invited to uneventful basement parties, going to a school where there were no subjects that interested me in any capacity, having only one friend- and I'm sure the list could go on. And although I can't understand the boys murdering their classmates and then killing themselves, I can start to understand their need for a violent gesture, their need to be seen, and their deep, desperate need to get out of their lives.

I am still obsessed with the Columbine shootings. I can't even write about it right now without shaking. I can't do much about it, I can't even do much about understanding it and answering the question "How did that happen?". But I can remember it. And I do. Eleven years have gone by and most people don't think about it anymore. April 20th comes and goes. Columbine high-school was closed today, and a few articles were written. Some students there still think about it, still wonder, still go to school with ghosts. And the families of the murdered teenagers still remember this day when they lost a piece of themselves. I can't imagine what Eric and Dylan's parents do on this day, what they do with their lives, how they have managed to get on.

And I, who never had any connection to anyone at Columbine, spend my day thinking about it. Not only thinking about the tragedy and mourning the losses, but also still wondering what propelled it. Wondering who Eric and Dylan really were. Wondering if it really could have been prevented by simply making guns less available, or some other explanation that was thrown at us by the media. Wondering who's to blame. Wondering if we've learned from it. And lastly, wondering, perhaps forever and to no avail, how it happened.

April 20th, 2010. Columbine, your victims are remembered.

image from http://www.freewebs.com/alifetimeofwords/Columbine%20High%20Remember.jpg

A Tribute to Women

I am blessed to have had many powerful, talented, incredible, generous, beautiful, intelligent, and loving women in my life. What better day to honor them than today, International Women's Day? Since there is too much to say of each one, I will write about only one thing they've each contributed to my life, though I am sure they know their values are immeasurable.

Thank you to....

My mother, for forgiving me for being a completely impossible teenager who hated her, and thus allowing us to become best friends as adults.

My godmother, Valderez, for watching all of my plays and coming to all of my major events, even when she couldn't understand a word of it.

My Aunt Susie, for never questioning and always supporting my dreams, sharing my love for literature and art, and helping me to believe I am worth everything I dream of.

My Aunt Vera, for holding me when, at 13, my mom caught me kissing a boy 7 years older than me in front of a church, and telling me I hadn't committed a sin.

My much-more-than a cousin Gugs, for all the times I made her act out little plays with me for our parents, even though she didn't want to- and for making up countless imaginary worlds with me, over and over again.

My cousin Ju, who took me to watch plays and movies- gestures that made an unbelievable difference in my life.

My cousin Fer, for pulling me aside when I turned 15 to tell me the truth about drugs and sex.

My cousin Grazi, for making me watch "Free Willy" every time she babysat me and therefore helping me develop empathy for whales.

My paternal grandmother, Baba, for letting me do her make-up when I was a child, and then for never washing it off afterwards but rather wearing purple eyeshadow on her nose when she went to the grocery store and proudly saying, "My granddaughter did my make-up today."

My maternal grandmother, Alzira, who I never met, for raising my incredible mother.

Marina, for a 20-year-friendship, for reminding me of who I really am, and for letting me love her.

Melissa, for 16 years of letters.

Tati, for my childhood. I'm sad we've lost touch.

The BSG's (BackStreet Girls), you know who you are, my middle-school "click", for holding my hand through the hardest years of a girl's life.

Marina B., Diana, and Manu, for sitting with me in lunch for four years of high-school.

Gabi, for my first back-packing through Europe experience, an unforgettable trip.

Maria, for nights of chocolate milk and french fries with mayo at the pub in college, and for all the times you took care of me when I was sick.

Starsha, for your contagious smile.

The women at Brebner, for a year that taught me more than I was prepared to handle.

Divya, Preetha, and Andrea, for a summer through Turkey and Greece that I will never forget.

Olivia, A.J., Kate, And Kioko, for being wonderful housemates in Andrew's Court 10 and teaching me that women CAN live in harmony.

Laura, for Top Girls.

Fan, for being my mother in college.

Gina, for the times we did share. I'll forever regret losing your friendship.

Moe, for reminding me of my roots.

Ker and Ash- I have to put you two together, because the three of us are like a trio of beauty and talent, for so many conversations at starbucks' around new york that simply changed my life.

Deema, for your talent and drive.

Rena, for unforgettable memories in Extremities.

Thesa, for your grace and courage.

Susan M., my teacher and friend, for being a brilliant teacher, and for seeing me.

Susan A., for, quite simply, teaching me to act.

Regi, my Italian love, for bringing out the feminist in me and for teaching me to cook.

Sal, for never judging me.

Whitney, for trusting me.

Julia W., my internet friend, for being so open and friendly with someone you've never met.

Ellen Burstyn, for giving me the book "Forgiving your Parents".

And to some women I've never really met, but who have had a huge impact on my life,

Gloria Steinem, for writing "Revolution From Within", and for making it ok for 'beautiful' women to be feminists.

Meryl Streep, Kate Winslet, and Cate Blanchett, for inspiring me over and over again.

Eve Ensler, for writing "The Vagina Monologues".

Ruth, my diary, whoever you are, for hearing my soul's cries all of my life.

And for every woman who has touched my life in any way, I am grateful.