Pedro Infante: El Idolo de la Gente

Jose Pedro Infante Cruz, better known as Pedro Infante, is undoubtedly one of the best singers and actors Mexico has ever produced. He died in a tragic plane crash in Mérida, Yucatan 55 years ago on the 15^th of April but remains the “idol of the people” to Mexicanos and Latin Americans as well. A national day of mourning was declared in Mexico when news of his death reached the radio stations. Not surprisingly, all the radio and television stations of Mexico gave programs in homage to their idolo, playing Infante's songs all day long. When his coffin arrived in Mexico City, a multitude of mourners descended on the airport. Mexicanos paid their respects to Pedro at the National Association of Actors and Composers in the Jorge Negrete Theater where his body was placed. Mariachis bid farewell with "Amorcito Corazon," the bolero he immortalized.

I never met Pedro, nor did I grow up during the Golden Age of Mexican cinema. He was one of the leading men of this golden era along with Jorge Negrete. However, I grew up watching old Pedro Infante films like, “¡¿Qué Te Ha Dado Esa Mujer?!" There was little else to view on a Sunday afternoon after all the cartoons were over. Besides, my uncles were territorial when it came to the TV. As a child of 6, Pedro was the most beautiful man I had ever set eyes upon. Charismatic and comical on-screen (and off screen), he commanded your undivided attention and unswerving devotion. You could not help but follow his every bold move and hold on to his every sharp word. But Pedro's majestic voice was the icing on the cake. His elegant and cavernous voice possessed the power to quiet every voice in a room. It channeled such raw emotions and transmitted them to you in a way you could not comprehend but only feel. I know my need for music and the importance of music in my life sprung from those moments when I would sit in front of the television in a semi-comatose state, listening intently to Pedro’s powerful voice and songs. He took me away, if only for a moment, from the constant misery and sadness of my childhood. 

Pedro sang waltzes, cha-cha-chas, rancheras and boleros. In fact, he is among the most popular singers of mariachi and ranchera music. He is recognized, along with Javier Solis and Jorge Negrete, as one of the Tres Gallos Mexicanos (Three Mexican Roosters). His film career began in 1939 and he appeared in more than 60 films until his untimely death. Starting in 1943, he recorded about 350 songs. His natural talent for acting resulted in a Silver Bear for Best Actor award at the 7^th Berlin International Film Festival in 1957 for the film "Tizoc."

Every year, Pedro Infante attracts a large number of fans of all ages to his shrine in the Panteón Jardín of Mexico City. His fans honor him with a mass, honor guards, music and the songs he made famous. There are four statues erected in his honor: one in Mexico City made out of thousands of bronze keys, the second in Mérida, a third in his birthplace of Mazatlán, Sinaloa, and the fourth statue is in the town square of Guamúchil, his adopted home town. 

Pedro’s enduring legacy is a result of the urban hero status he earned from the working class. Sure he excelled at playing the fun-loving charro in many of his films, but it was his “common man” character that won him the love and admiration of the public in Mexico and other countries, such as Venezuela and Guatemala. Pedro worked as a carpenter in Guamúchil from a young age before his musical talents led him to pursue his dreams in Mexico City. He became a huge star, but he always represented the common poor carpenter to his fans. The public could relate to Pedro because he came from humble origins, yet he worked himself up from nothing to become one of greatest figures in Mexican history. He is an “orgullo Mexicano” and to this day, singers of the ranchera and mariachi genres pay him countless tributes. Pedro is immortal and time will never erase his musical magic or influence. 

5 Steps for Surviving a Breakup

Breakups are a pain. Literally. Research published in the “Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences and the United States” confirms what most dumpees have always known: getting dumped feels like physical pain. The authors of the study assembled people who had been dumped six months before and placed them in a brain scanner. High heat was applied to the subject’s forearms and later they were instructed to look at a photo of the person who dumped them. The scans demonstrated that emotional pain activates the same area of the brain that processes physical pain. Apparently the brain can’t differentiate between the two.

So yes. Love hurts. And all dumpees have the right to heal their broken hearts. But how much time does it take to recover from a breakup? It can take anywhere from six to 18 months to mend a broken heart, according to Rachel Sussman of “The Breakup Bible.” I’m approaching month number two of my recovery, so the thought of dealing with heartache for another four to 16 months feels daunting and distressing. But this too shall pass. And until we’re fully over our exes (18 months? really??), there are at least five steps we can take to help ease the process of a rough breakup. 

1) Avoid your ex, which really means, “Cut off all contact, dammit!”—Look, in the beginning it’s hard to let go because you’re still in love and desperately clinging to the memories. But how can you move on and start healing if you’re texting, emailing or “Facebooking” your ex? A clean and total break is the most essential part of getting over someone. This isn't negotiable, heartbroken people. Trust me. I stopped emailing my ex several weeks ago and recently unfriended him on Facebook. Maintaining occasional contact with him was not helping me confront the daily reality of being without him. Plus, it stung to see how much he’s enjoying himself in a new country and meeting all types of interesting people (including beautiful women). What sane dumpee wants to see that after a breakup? You might think I'm resentful, which is the furthest thing from the truth. I'm just abnormally plagued with an immense amount of pride, dignity and self-respect. We all possess these traits (in normal doses). So use any means necessary for closure. If that means erasing her phone number, unfriending your ex from Facebook, and deleting his email address from your contact list, then so be it. You have to do whatever it takes to move on, including dismissing your ex from your life.      

2) Wallow in self-pity—This doesn’t necessarily mean you should throw a pity party for yourself every single day for the entire breakup period (18 months??). But you do have to mourn. There is no shame in being devastated over a breakup. After all, you love(d) this person, right? And you miss this person, yes? So accept these truths and mourn! Don’t put off the lengthy grieving process, which will surely backfire on you. Take a couple of weeks to cry, reflect and work through those painful emotions. Analyze the positives and negatives of your most recent relationship while listening to some pitiful music. There are happy memories to consider along with the realization that you’re growing and learning something valuable from this breakup, which you will carry into the next relationship. Then, after you’ve suffered enough, find motivation and get back into the thick of life. How?

3) Exercise!—We’ve all heard of endorphins. Well, exercise is an excellent way to improve your mood and get in shape. In fact, many studies indicate that people who exercise regularly benefit with a positive boost in mood and lower rates of depression. How does this happen? When you exercise, your body decreases stress hormones, such as cortisol, and releases natural, feel good chemicals called endorphins. Exercise also releases adrenaline, serotonin, and dopamine (Depression is related to low levels of certain neurotransmitters like serotonin and norepinephrine.) These chemicals work together to make you feel good. Endorphins interact with the receptors in your brain that reduce your perception of pain, both physical and mental (I bet those people in the study I referenced earlier weren’t exercising). Not only do endorphins act as analgesics, but they also work like sedatives. The neuron receptors endorphins bind to are the same ones that bind some pain medicines. So sign up for yoga classes. Take long, scenic walks along a lake or river. Run! I’m a runner and running has been a blessing these past two months. Running is physically demanding, but the feeling I experience immediately after a grueling run (the so-called “runner’s high”) always gives me a more positive and energizing outlook on life. Not only have I lost weight (which means I’m bikini ready!), but I’m also being proactive by managing the stress of losing someone who meant a great deal to me.   

4) Pamper yourself!—Watch TV marathons (I’m partial to All in the Family, Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Three’s Company reruns), get mani-pedis, buy new clothes or underwear (the cheap kind!), get a facial or massage, sign up for dance classes (I’m getting back to my Flamenco roots!), try a new haircut (bangs?) or take a mini vacation. The point is to put yourself first once again and take care of your needs (it’s easy to put yourself second when you’re in a relationship). Do what makes you feel good. Enlist your friends for these pampering sessions if you don’t want to go solo. Before you know it, those six to 18 months will have passed and you’ll be a pro at the Flamenco (or Tango)!   

5) Wait before dating again—This is about as hard as breaking off all contact with your ex but just as necessary. It’s tempting to get back out there again after a breakup. You may want to distract yourself from the heartache by dating. Or your friends and acquaintances may pressure you to pursue new romantic interests. But don’t! You have to wait until YOU are completely ready to face the dating world once again. I learned this lesson the hard way several years ago after a difficult breakup. Barely a month had transpired before I was dating again. I wasn’t over my ex, but I hated feeling so lonely and miserable, so I jumped into a new “relationship.” Big mistake. After the initial excitement of a fresh body, I only ended up feeling more upset and conflicted. Rebounds rarely go anywhere but down (unless you get pregnant!). Besides, it's essential to be alone after a breakup in order to gain a fresh perspective and clear vision for the future. Being alone is not the same thing as isolating yourself from your friends and family. For you need moral support to get through a breakup. But you should embrace your new status as a singleton and be free of romantic entanglements. Remember: this is an important phase of self-rediscovery and independence, a time to reassess or redefine the meaning of happiness and fulfillment. As Sussman says, “You need to be happy again first and then you can find a new, healthy relationship.”

Duly noted. I’ll be running, writing, reading, dancing, working and socializing until I’m completely over my ex (18 months?) and feeling like my old self again. Then, I’ll re-enter the dating world with a renewed and sanguine outlook (I mean, those OkCupid and Chemistry inboxes are getting out of control).


If you're going through a breakup, what are some steps you're taking to cope with the process? Please share in the comment section!      

A Nation of Trayvons

I don’t often write about my son. I’ve only mentioned him a few times on this blog. I consciously refrain from referring to my son on public forums for several reasons, but for the most part, I’m fiercely protective of him. As any committed and involved parent will attest, my focus as a mother is ensuring my son’s safety and happiness. I’d hate for any harm to inadvertently come his way as a result of my written words. It might sound a tad paranoid and unwarranted, but it’s hard enough keeping him out of harm’s way in the real world without adding the cyber world to my long list of worries. I realize this might be a futile or difficult task as he gets older and becomes more actively engaged with the cyber world and starts to communicate with his peers and friends more often on social media sites. I’m hoping my deliberate attempts to keep some things “private” on public forums sets an example for him and influences his online behavior. But I must write about my son today, especially in light of what happened to Trayvon Martin. I echo every parent’s sentiment when I say that could be my son.

Vic is a striking presence of skin and bones. Literally. I affectionately call him “flaco,” or “flaquito,” which is apt considering some of my closest friends also call me “flaca.” Flaco/a means thin or skinny in Spanish. He has a sinewy frame with refined and delicate features. Vic inherited my lush lips, warm smile, piercing eyes, and elegant bone structure. He has his father’s lanky build, stubborn nose, dark coloring and long, thick lashes. Almost 11, Vic stands to my ears and promises to surpass my height some time this year. Every summer, his smooth, unblemished skin darkens to a deep, caramel shade. No matter how much sunscreen I apply to his tawny flesh, it inevitably changes color. I jokingly call him “moreno” when his skin adopts this chocolate-brown hue. He doesn’t take after me in this regard. At best, I burn and then tan lightly. I’m a camel tone or sandy brown to his bronzed richness. I become acutely aware of his darker skin when he plays basketball at the courtyard in our neighborhood park. Boys and young men of all ages and shades congregate to shoot some hoops and play “21.” Some are pale. Others are as dark or darker than Vic. Most of them are in their teens or late teenage years. They are the ones the cops slow down to observe after they’ve finished a game and headed for the streets. Children run around on the playlot and squeal in delight during their games of tag. They are the ones the cops pull over and pat down more frequently than their lighter-skinned counterparts. You can see the anger and frustration on their deep-hued faces as the officers frisk them and question them with unabashed authority and roughness. As Vic and I were leaving the basketball court a couple of days ago, we witnessed a similar incident. I tried not to stare at the tall, young Latino in baggy jeans, with his arms splayed out over the hood of a squad car. Vic, on the other hand, gawked and swiveled his head from side to side to get a better view. He wanted to know what was happening. I looked at my tanned, athletic, long-legged, flaco and told him the young man was being interrogated. A group of boys headed out, their light hair glistening with sweat in the early evening light. Vic raised his eyebrows and appeared to understand without understanding how the young man’s color triggered suspicion and an immediate pat down. I swung my arm over his bony shoulders and gently steered him home. He glanced back at the young Latino who shared his coloring and basketball skills.

As my son gets older and stretches out past my slight stature, I realize he is going to come across confrontational and potentially violent situations. This weighs on my mind heavily. We live in a big city. We share our space with people from all walks of life. Danger is alive and present for a young boy in Chicago- a place where teen violence leads to children dying or being wounded on the streets in senseless numbers every year. Gun and gang violence are just two visible examples of the physical threats children must contend with from other peers determined to injure them by any means possible. The threats are boundless and especially insidious for minority youths.   

Most of us know by now that Trayvon Martin was killed more than a month ago in a Florida suburb by a self-appointed neighborhood watch captain, George Zimmerman. Trayvon was unarmed and heading home after buying snacks at a convenience store when Zimmerman pursued, confronted and fatally shot him. The shooting has generated nationwide outrage due to the racial elements of the case and Florida’s controversial 'Stand Your Ground' law, which enables those in Florida “to meet force with force, including deadly force” when attacked. Trayvon was an unarmed, 17-year-old black, high school student. Zimmerman is a Latino described as “White” in the police report of the incident. Zimmerman told the police he acted in self-defense. There are too many issues and questions to bring up in such a short entry, but there are three topics that stand out: skin color, clothing and Florida’s misguided law.

Trayvon was black. Zimmerman is half Latino. A minority killed another minority. Born and raised on the north side of Chicago, I witnessed Latinos and other minorities ruthlessly attacking each other with their fists or weapons. It happened frequently in my own home, where men seemed to delight in brutalizing women and children. Fights were a common sight on the streets between enemies, so-called friends and the cops tasked with apprehending these "savage animals." Melees even erupted in school between classmates and bitter rivals. You could not escape the violence, as it was a part of your everyday existence. What struck me even at such a young age was the undeniable issue of color. The few white residents in my neighborhood didn’t seem to have the same problems with violence that we (the “minorities”) were battling. The police never appeared at their front doors due to domestic disturbances. The white and Asian kids rarely got pulled over by the cops while walking to and from school (unless they were walking with a group of Latinos or Blacks). I lost track the number of times a squad car would shadow my brother (whom Vic resembles in frame and coloring) and his friends as they walked down Lawrence avenue. My brother was a skinny, tough teen who despised all vestiges of authority. The cops regarded him with equal feelings of hostility. They stopped and frisked him with impunity and if the situation called for it, they’d resort to necessary or gratuitous violence. I remember one time my mom and I had to pick up my brother at the Belmont station when he was 16-years-old because he had been arrested for trespassing. I didn’t recognize his bloody and swollen face. It wouldn’t be the last time he was brutalized by the police. Worst of all, the gang violence was out of control in our part of Ravenswood (near Uptown) with young Latino and Black boys shooting or brawling other Latino and Black boys. It dawned on me that as teenagers, we didn’t have to worry about our relatives or the white cops killing us. We were successfully destroying and killing each other on the streets. When will the continuing trend of minorities killing each other end? Zimmerman is a minority. Why did he shoot a black boy? Why did the color of Trayvon’s skin arouse suspicion? Had Zimmerman never been in a situation where the color of his own skin provoked suspicion from others? Perhaps Zimmerman never encountered racism and prejudice in his entire life. Good for him. But now we have another dead black boy.

When Trayvon was shot, he was wearing a hoodie. Zimmerman stated Trayvon looked like he was up to “no good.” Hoodies, or hooded sweatshirts, have been around since the 1930’s. They are a popular clothing item with young kids. Hell, they are a popular clothing item with people in general. Vic owns several hoodies and wears them when the weather is cool enough. I used to wear oversized hoodies all the time when I was a teenager because they were fashionable. But what is it about a minority youth wearing a hooded sweatshirt that automatically generates a negative reaction? A young minority decked out in “hoodlum” gear WILL inevitably inspire feelings of scorn or fear. This is an undeniable and unfair reality for minority youths, whether they’re walking around in their hood or outside of it. Again, I recall all the times my male friends would get stopped and searched by the police. I lived in a Latino barrio. Our parents emigrated from different Latin American countries. Therefore, no two Latinos looked the same in our neighborhood. However, most of the boys singled out and interrogated by the cops were dark-skinned and wore loose, baggy jeans with hoodies. Unless you have been stopped and frisked by the police for no other reason than being “dark” and “looking suspicious” for wearing certain clothing items, then you probably won’t be able to fully understand the outrage sparked by Trayvon’s shooting. Your choice of clothing somehow influences how you’re going to be treated by others. Trayvon was wearing a hoodie in a gated community, so of course he was up to "no good." Your choice of clothing coupled with the color of your skin determines how suspicious you’re going to come across to a stranger. Why do we need another dead black boy to show us how these two factors combined are nothing more than a recipe for tragedy?                                 

What role did Florida's controversial 'Stand Your Ground' law play in Trayvon’s death? It’s hard to say when so much information is still missing. Plus, it’s easy to debate the matter when your key witness is dead. Stand Your Ground laws empower citizens to defend themselves–using deadly force–if they reasonably believe their life or the lives of others are in danger, or to prevent a forcible felony. Zimmerman called 911 to report Trayvon looked suspicious as he walked down the street of a gated community. Against the dispatcher's instruction, Zimmerman pursued him. The two of them apparently got into some kind of fight–Zimmerman had grass stains on his back, a bloody nose and blood on the back of his head. At some point Zimmerman shot Trayvon, killing him. Zimmerman may have muttered "fucking coons" into the phone to a 911 dispatcher while pursuing Trayvon. What does stand your ground mean in the ‘Stand Your Ground Law’? As former Florida Governor Jeb Bush said: “Stand your ground means stand your ground. It doesn’t mean chase after somebody who’s turned their back.” The Sanford police accepted Zimmerman’s assertions that he shot Trayvon in self-defense, which is why no murder charges were filed against him. But the 911 tapes reveal that when Zimmerman decided to pursue Trayvon, it was based only on the fact that he looked "suspicious" and had something in his hand (a can of iced tea). So did Zimmerman stand his own ground when he pursued and shot Trayvon (a fucking coon if those tapes are accurate) for looking suspicious? Only a jury in a courtroom can decide. But one thing is crystal clear: giving citizens unregulated power and prudence to use deadly physical force when they fear for their lives with little or zero accountability is more than just deadly: it's tragic. And heartbreaking.

My uncle glanced over at Vic a couple of days ago as we were eating dinner and remarked how dark his skin looked. I replied it was perfectly natural due to the unexpected hot weather in late March. We’ve been spending most of our free time outdoors in the sun. Later on, I sat down on my futon to read but could only think of Trayvon. Did he play basketball before he was killed? If he did, what was his favorite position? He was 6-foot-3 and weighed 140 pounds. Vic wants to try out for his school’s basketball team this fall. I told him to work on his jump shot and ball handling skills over the summer. We’ll spend many afternoons at the basketball court with the other boys who look like him. I cried for Trayvon instead of reading. And I also cried because I live in a world where the color of my child’s skin can kill him.      

(Non) Confessions of A Cheap Pantie Addict

Hi,

My name is Maria, and I’m addicted to cheap panties. No. Not the kind you buy on sale at Victoria’s Secret (five pairs of cotton undies for $26? nice try. I know how to divide, and you’re not that slick (or cheap) Victoria’s Secret.) I’m hopelessly obsessed with the frilly and colorful, yet affordable, panties that beckon me inside stores like Discovery, Marshalls, Nordstrom Rack and T.J. Maxx. You’ve probably already concluded several things about me since I dropped the word “Discovery.” And some of those conclusions might be unfair, extreme, or perfectly legitimate. Fair enough. But before your hasty opinions completely mar your perceptions of my color-coded pantie drawer, at least consider the typical price I pay for a sexy bikini or racy thong at these large-scale establishments: $2-4. I can’t believe it either! The most I’ve ever paid for a pair of lacy knickers is $5 and that was largely due to an error. I’ve been buying cheap panties for almost a decade now and unless I marry into the Masotti family of the oh-so-couture La Perla lingerie line, you’ll never catch me skipping around in expensive underwear.      

Most people would call me a cheapskate. Or thrifty. And I would insist on being referred to as the former because it’s an accurate description of my fondness for bargain underpants. Why do I refuse to shell out more than a couple of dollars on a garment that will eventually get thrown out? Because it will eventually get thrown out. There are 7 days in a week, and 12 months and 365 days (366 this year) in a year. The average human being, especially the female of the species, will need a sizable number of underwear to last through the year and some of those cute panties won’t survive the normal wear and tear process. What do I mean by sizable? It depends. Check your undergarments drawer. Or wherever you toss your underthings. I’m sure you own more than twelve pairs of skivvies. If you don’t, please get thee to the nearest Marshalls as soon as possible!

According to an informal survey I conducted on the underwear buying trends of consumers in the Chicago area (my mom, two sisters and a cousin), the vast majority presently own at least 19 pairs of drawers (my cousin tossed out three last week. see? my mom doesn’t keep track of her “calsones” because she claims it’s “bad luck”). They spent anywhere from $7 (whoa!) to $10 (gasp!) per pair to cover their curvy bottoms. Now I ask: why would any sane person buy expensive panties? Before you start assaulting me with several compelling reasons for dropping serious money on undies (expensive lingerie makes me feel SEXY! I may need these really pricy panties some day! buying cheap underwear is CHEAP and TACKY Maria!), please answer this question: how often do you shop for knickers? Once a month? Twice a year? Whenever you run out of clean underwear? If an average of 25 percent of consumers purchase underwear each month and the average number of panties in your (the consumer) drawer is approximately 19 if you’re a woman and 17 if you’re a man (boxers or briefs I’m assuming), then a reasonable amount of cash is being forked over to cover your nether regions. We all love a good deal, so why wouldn’t the same frugal philosophy apply to underwear?

Lest you picture me lounging around in poorly crafted panties, allow me to emphatically proclaim that I don’t wear shoddy or shapeless underwear. When I said cheap, I was speaking in terms of price, not quality. My severe aversion to “high-end” panties stems from the obscene cost attached to the two pieces of flimsy material that hold this vital garment in place (one delicate piece if it’s a thong). I (and many other bargain-minded women) shop for “luxurious” underwear in large-scale retailers like T.J. Maxx for two main reasons: low cost and designer-worthy styles/brands. As a matter of fact, Marshalls states on its website you should “never pay full price for fabulous” goods like panties. Sounds like shrewd advice to me. You’ll find brands like DKNY, Calvin Klein, Hanky Panky, and Honeydew for less than half the price compared to department stores. Therefore, if you, the average (or non-average) consumer, are in possession of 19 (or 17) pairs of underwear and you didn’t shop at Discovery or Nordstrom Rack, your priorities need to be reevaluated. We’re all trying to make our money work for us during these shaky economic times. Don’t overspend on a necessary item like underwear when steals and savings are in abundance at all the right stores. Put away your pride!  

Now that I’m single again, every Friday night I tidy up and rearrange my alphabetized panty drawer, which boasts an impressive array of cheap, multi-colored and high-quality undies. Knowing I shopped (and paid) wisely for lacy skivvies gives me a sense of control in an ever-chaotic world. Remember, with great underwear hygiene comes great responsibility. Don’t just change your knickers daily and toss out any tattered pair. Be a savvy consumer and also shop for the lowest underwear price possible. And don’t disclose your real panty number: it’s bad luck!     

Top 25 Break-Up Songs (you probably aren't listening to)

Where do the lonely and shattered hearts go after a break-up? The only place that’s safe and comforting: to the world of music. Listening to break-up songs is a cathartic, essential and pitiful part of the healing process for the brokenhearted. After the passing of a relationship, most of us need to cry, vent and yell for an indeterminate amount of time without being told to keep it down and get on with our lives (we will!). A break-up song is a perfect companion on those long and insufferable nights when you can’t sleep because it describes in excruciating detail all the pain you’re experiencing. I’m currently nursing a wounded heart, so I’m sort of an “expert” on break-up songs. I’ve created a break-up playlist (what else was I supposed to do?) featuring the top 25 break-up songs you probably aren’t listening to, unless you’re going through a break-up. 



1) Amos Lee “Learned A Lot” Ryan (Amos) is a dying breed. He’s a singer-songwriter with a lot of heart and soul. Everything about this song is therapeutic: his soothing voice, the subtle use of an organ in the background and his reflective lyrics about the lessons heartbreak imparts.  

2) Amy Winehouse “Love is a Losing Game” 

When Amy passed away last summer, we lost a great talent. “Back to Black” is one of my all-time favorite albums because it describes the chaos and disappointment of romantic relationships and chronicles her constant struggles with drugs and alcohol. 

3) Band of Horses “No One’s Gonna Love You” Don’t cringe at the title. Ben Bridwell, lead singer of BOH, has a mesmerizing voice and belts out some of the most poignant and passionate lyrics about a crumbling relationship.

4) Ben Harper “Walk Away” With his bittersweet song, Ben proves that all you need to connect with a heartbroken audience is a guitar and authenticity. If you can make it through 3 minutes and 50 seconds without crying, you’re probably not human.  

5) Bon Iver “I Can’t Make You Love Me” (Bonnie Raitt cover) Cover songs are usually hits or misses, especially if the original song is legendary and timeless. Justin Vernon keeps it simple, graceful and haunting with his delicate piano arrangement. It strikes several chords deep within your broken fiber.

6) Bon Iver “SkinnyLove" 

The first time I came across Bon Iver, I couldn’t pronounce the name. After I listened to the live version of “Skinny Love,” I was no longer in doubt, or quite the same way again. Justin possesses the unique ability to move your soul as he sings with such acute agony the sense of hopelessness that hits you after a rough break-up.

7) Fiona Apple “I Want You” (Elvis Costello cover) 

I’m a huge Fiona fan, so it’s no surprise she’s on my break-up playlist. I’ll never forget how I felt after coming across her live Costello cover almost three years ago. The rage, pain, longing and shamelessness in her voice are a mirror image of what most of us experience as we struggle to come to terms with the dissolution of a relationship.   

8) Fleetwood Mac “Dreams” Stevie Nicks composed the song in 1976 during a time when most of the members of the group where experiencing relationship woes. The track features a lively dance beat, while Stevie sings about releasing a lover who wishes to be set free. Women (and men) will come and go.     

9) Gang Starr “Ex Girl To Next Girl” Guru and DJ Premier were untouchable and unparalleled during the early 1990’s. “Ex Girl to Next Girl” is real talk about what all lovers will one day be: an ex or the next. 

10) Jay Z “Song Cry" 

Who knew Jigga could be so sensitive? On this melodic rap ballad, Just Blaze samples “Sounds Like a Love Song” by Bobby Glenn and Jay Z laments a break-up. Heartache is a universal language.

11) Justin Timberlake “What Goes Around Comes Around” He sings. He dances. He acts. He produces. Is there anything this gorgeous man can’t do? The beat is spectacular (shout out to Timbaland!) and Justin’s otherworldly falsetto serves to emphasize the despair and betrayal of a man who was done wrong.     

12) Keith Urban “You’ll Think of Me” There’s nothing like a good ol’ country song to help cure the blues. This sorrowful song hits close to home for the broken-hearted because Keith clearly knows what pain, sleeplessness and loneliness feel like after a break-up.  

13) Kings of Leon “Closer” While much of the appeal of this once innovative band has worn off, there are still stellar songs on their discography. “Closer” might be a dark and intense song about a vampire, but Caleb’s gritty and tortured voice describes the inner turmoil of the recently bereaved.       

14) Lauryn Hill “Ex-Factor” 

Hip-hop’s reigning queen released one solo album in her lifetime, but it’s enough to remind us why she’s unparalleled. Lauryn has such an emotive voice and she echoes our difficulties in saying good-bye to love.   

15) Mana “Te lloré un rió” One of Mexico’s most beloved and well-know rock bands draw on several musical sounds and styles. Fher is honest and controlled as he sings about the pain one has to endure when love makes an exit. Sometimes break-up songs sound way better in Spanish.

16) Maxwell “Pretty Wings” Maxwell makes music for grownups in love. His stunning and heartfelt voice carries you through every sad, yet hopeful, note on “Pretty Wings.”      

17) Phil Collins “Against All Odds” You can’t have a break-up playlist without adding this iconic song to the mix. In many ways, I think Phil set the bar for break-up songs.

18) Prince “How Come You Don’t Call Me Anymore” B-sides can be such hidden gems. Prince’s bluesy, smooth and at times shrill falsetto serves to underscore the torturing aftermath of a break-up.    

19) Ricky Martin feat. La Mari de Chambao “Tu Recuerdo” 

Ricky first achieved musical prominence with the Latin boy band Menudo during the 1980’s. But it is this sensual yet sorrowful duet with La Mari from the Spanish flamenco-electronic band Chambao that remains one of my all-time favorite break-up songs.

20) Ryan Adams & The Cardinals "Fix It" 

Ryan was originally part of the group Whiskeytown but things really took off for him once he went solo. I prefer the live version of “Fix It” because his voice absolutely bristles with pain and regret.

21) Skyzoo “Dear Whoever” Skyzoo excels at metaphors. Listen closely to his track about an apparent break-up. His raw and honest lyrics catch you off-guard.  

22) Stereophonics “Rainbows And Pots of Gold” 

This song is what you wish you could tell your former lover. Kelly executes every line with the perfect amount of pain.

23) The Decemberists “Engine Driver” Whether you love or hate his voice, most of us can agree that Colin is an exceptional writer. The hook leaves you breathless even though it’s deceptively simple.

24) The Mars Volta “Since We’ve Been Wrong” There’s never a dull song with The Mars Volta. Omar’s guitar practically weeps and Cedric’s voice gives you goose bumps as you contemplate a past that no longer exists.   

25) Ween “It’s Gonna Be (Alright)” For such an eclectic and eccentric band, Ween does a hell of a job composing a break-up song. “It’s gonna be alright”: it’s a phrase we constantly tell ourselves after a gut-wrenching loss.




Honorary mention: The Procussions feat. Talib Kweli "Miss January"

The now-defunct hip-hop act from Colorado Springs teamed up with hip-hop's greatest poet, Talib, to produce a song about letting go and embracing the future.

Leap Year

It’s a leap year, which means we’re stuck with an extra day this month. February is normally the shortest month of the year. And 28 days is about all we can take from a month where a groundhog has so much “power” over future weather conditions (just to clarify, Marmota monax has only been accurate about Spring’s arrival 37 percent of the time for the past 30-40 years; I personally wouldn’t trust the little rodent with choosing winning lottery numbers let alone making climate predictions). But thanks to a calculation adjustment, February is not going to be as short as it should be this time of year. If you’re like me (and I hope for your sanity you’re not), then you’re probably starting to suspect we’re getting saddled with a day we don’t really need. I mean, take a look outside your window. Pretty uninspiring, huh? February is hands down one of the cruelest and most depressing months in any Midwestern city. The skies are usually grey and overcast. The temperatures refuse to budge from frigid territory. Summer is nowhere in sight and you’ve just about had it with layering and hat hair. Chicagoans are a hardy bunch and we’re used to erratic and unpredictable weather. We rely on beer and a warm body to get us through the worst of winter. At some point though, usually around February the 1^st, even the levelheaded among us start to panic when we realize we still have unreliable March and frivolous April to endure. The last thing we need right now is an extra day courtesy of a leap year! But there’s no way around it. Trust me, I checked. The Western, or Gregorian, calendar is the current standard calendar used in most places of the world. We have grown to cycle and organize our every day lives around such a civil system. Weddings, birthdays, periods, holidays, these are all events we plot on the Gregorian calendar. Pope Gregory XIII first introduced the Gregorian calendar back in February (of course) of 1582. And it’s ironic to note why he felt compelled to do so. For Pope Gregory understood the importance of balance and alignment.

In a perfectly proportioned mathematical universe, there can be no room for error or inconsistencies. The universe relies on order and balance, even amidst apparent chaos and instability. Yet a tiny error was made on a calendar that was threatening to set the whole universe off balance! All right, so I don’t think Pope Gregory uttered those words but that doesn’t mean the thought didn’t occur to him. You see, it turns out the year was too long in 1582. “By how much,” you’re wondering and how was this miscalculation affecting the cosmos? By 11 tiny minutes. Julius Caesar got it wrong way back in 46 BC when he introduced the Julian calendar (which had been in use for centuries) and Pope Gregory set out to reform his cosmic mistake.

You’re still baffled. I can tell. And I don’t want you to stop reading. What does a calendar have to do with the universe, Maria? Everything! Think of it this way: if your perception of your place in this universe is heavily dependent on time and patterns, then how can you be sure of anything if the calendar you use to organize your life is wrong? That’s pretty deep stuff people. I wouldn’t have tolerated a mistake of such grand magnitude either. The Julian calendar mistakenly assumed that the time between vernal equinoxes was 365.25 days (365 days and 6 hours), when in fact it was almost exactly 11 minutes shorter. As a result, the calendar year gained about three days every four centuries compared to observed equinox times and seasons. Furthermore, the equinox was occurring on March 11 (that’s an accumulated error of 10 days) and moving steadily earlier with the Julian calendar.  

How could Julius have done such an insidious thing? Easy: the calendar year was intended to approximate the tropical (solar) year. But here’s the damning part: Greek astronomers had known, at least since Hipparchus, that the tropical year was a few minutes shorter than 365.25 days. Whoa, wait a second. You mean lots of people (well, the smart ones anyway) knew the calendar did not compensate for this difference, yet somebody went ahead and changed it anyway? Yes, you see, Julius REFORMED the Roman calendar that had been in use prior to the Julian calendar. Yet another ironic revelation falls into our lap. With all these reformations, you’d think at least one person would have gotten it right. And Pope Gregory did when he stepped forward in 1582 with his calendar modifications. But these important modifications were met with much resistance. The vernal equinox had drifted back into a time that was over—it had lapsed into some unforeseen vortex where events had already taken place. Who knows what was happening to it out there, driven off course as it had been by one tiny error?  

Clearly the vernal equinox needed to be saved. It doesn’t matter if Pope Gregory’s reasons for setting the equinox straight were for strictly practical purposes. Since the Spring equinox was tied to the celebration of Easter, the Roman Catholic Church considered the equinox’s retreat to an earlier date undesirable. An alteration to the calendar was the only recourse.

I don’t know about you, but I consider Pope Gregory’s bold move (sidenote: he was largely aided by Jesuit priest and astronomer Christopher Clavius; the man didn’t do it alone) quite heroic. The switchover was bitterly opposed by much of the populace. They feared it was an attempt by landlords to cheat them out of a week and a half's rent. Uprisings were threatening to erupt! Actually, no. Yet there was indeed a world of confusion and resistance. I mean, I'd get a little standoffish too if I thought money was involved in calendar changes.

But Pope Gregory pressed ahead with reformations to the Julian calendar, as well as alterations to the lunar cycle used by the Church for calculating the dates of Easter. The Julian calendar’s regular cycle of leap years were also affected. I’m sure you were starting to think I had forgotten all about the main subject of this post. With the new and improved Gregorian calendar, every year that is exactly divisible by four would become a leap year (except for years that are exactly divisible by 100; the centurial years that are exactly divisible by 400 are still leap years). More importantly though, the mean length of the calendar year changed from 365.25 days to 365.2425 days (365 days 5 hours 49 minutes 12 seconds), a reduction of 10 minutes 48 seconds per year.

And there you have it. A leap year is as necessary to the cosmos as the sun and gravity. Can you imagine how our lives would be playing out right now if the Julian calendar were still around? 11 minutes might not seem like much but accumulated over the course of several centuries, they would add up to several years lost and relived in a different dimension. Today might be five years ago! Would I even be the “me” that was the “me” back then, or would I be the “me” that is the “me” today but forced to relive the past due to one tiny error? Stop. I can’t even handle that idea. As it stands today with the Gregorian calendar, we gain one day in February every four years but at least we don’t lose time that we should be experiencing in the present. Living in the past sounds like such a romantic but ultimately destructive notion. Who doesn’t want to relive their best days and memories? But at what point do you achieve growth and equilibrium if you remain rooted in the past? The past is never far but it should never be a replacement for the present. As I continue to fight for balance and happiness in this dimension, I flip to February 29th on my Gregorian calendar and realize it's something to celebrate.       

Ups and Downs

A couple of weeks ago, I was riding high and feeling quite pleased with this chapter of my often uncertain life. Then I came crashing down. And why not, right? For what goes up must eventually come down. Such is the defining and pernicious nature of life. I was a freshman at Amundsen high school when I first started reading Shakespeare. My third period English teacher was a humorless and acerbic middle-aged lady whose wardrobe consisted mostly of garish prints and plastic jewelry. When you stood too close to her, she smelled of vinegar and dark secrets. Since "The Odyssey" failed to inspire the poets within us (I’m referring to the 25 or so fourteen-year-old students who would nod off when she recited line after line of hexameter verse), she decided she’d had enough and launched us into the world of Shakespeare. The gesture did not go unnoticed. Most of the students would sit around with blank expressions on their faces or brows furled in utter confusion wondering what the hell this Shakespeare dude was writing about. “Iambic pentameter? Metaphors? Double entendres and puns? Look teacher, we don't even know how we made it to class on time.” She disregarded our insolence and solecisms. The girls were predictably enthralled by the whole star-crossed lovers tragedy in “Romeo and Juliet,” while the guys where busy trying to determine the best candidate to cheat from on the next quiz. I sat quietly near the front, furiously taking notes, probing every line, reading slowly and painfully until I could understand what I was reading and visualizing. Although the impetuous and passionate love between Romeo and Juliet was compelling in and of itself, especially because of their tragic outcome, I was more intrigued by the references to the wheel of fortune. What was fortune? Surely it was more than “luck” as we understood it. Was it fate? And why did Juliet curse its fickle nature? I needed these questions answered! Thus began my love affair with Shakespeare and my unwavering attempts to understand what this unpredictable wheel of fortune represented in my life and how I could gradually accept there was very little I would ever have full control over. 

When Shakespeare compares life to a wheel of fortune in his plays, he undoubtedly references that unforeseen element fate. When I first came across the allusion, I pictured myself running around in circles, aimlessly seeking some unattainable goal and foolishly believing I could somehow attain it. What were circumstances to me? A mere annoyance. I would alter circumstances and the course of my life to reach an imaginary end goal that would bring me true happiness and fulfillment. Yes, naiveté and inexperience inspired such optimistic thoughts. My life was cruel and tiring as a teenager. I wanted life to be more than suffering and violence. I’ve mentioned several times before on this blog how I saw and experienced things no human being should ever behold, let alone a young girl. I couldn’t make sense of anything in my world, and I was desperately searching for meaning in places where none was or would ever be granted. I read so I wouldn’t go crazy. I read so I could find solace and answers. I read because I didn’t know what else to do. I read because I felt like my humanity was being stripped away from me in strips, and I needed to hold on to it because that was the only thing keeping me going. To me, Shakespeare was the ultimate verbal artist: a master at language and compelling stories. His 37 plays and 154 sonnets have allowed me to think about life, love and humanity in refreshing and pragmatic but contradictory ways.    

But the more I read Shakespeare and the older I got, the less fascinating this wheel of fortune appeared. In fact, I too like Juliet began to curse this circular, capricious and obscure force influencing events in my life. Every time I set out to accomplish a goal, my plans would get foiled in the process. From an early marriage that came crashing forcefully down, to strained relationships with family members despite the best of intentions and of course, struggling to finish school ten years after I started, nothing I ever embarked on ended favorably. Change and the inevitable grief that came with losses and setbacks were swift and sudden. It seemed like for every two steps I took, some invisible force picked me up by the collar and launched me several feet back. And now I’m at the threshold of yet another fork on the road, and I’ve never been more afraid or unsure of anything.  

I recently resigned from my job due to a hostile work environment. I thought things were going relatively well at the small publishing firm that hired me last summer, but the owner begged to differ. In fact, she was quite dissatisfied with my performance and humiliated me in front of my colleagues. It was an incredible blow to my ego and one of the worst moments in my professional career. I immediately realized I could not stay in such a demoralizing environment.

As if the stress of being unemployed wasn’t enough, I am also sick with worry over my mother. Our family received some bad news this past Christmas regarding her health. I am currently unable to get her the care and treatment she needs. Of course, I feel useless and impotent, like I’m failing my mother when she needs me the most. To top it off, my brother is also weathering a serious illness.     

I was staying positive and facing these pressures courageously despite the precariousness and uncertainty of the future. But on Valentine’s Day, the man I had been dating and fallen deeply in love with flew out to Colombia to start a new chapter in his life. When we started dating, he was candid about his plans to move to South America for an indefinite period of time. At the moment, it did not occur to me I would ever care about his upcoming voyage because I wasn’t sure we’d make it past a second date. However, we made it past the second date and fell in love in the process. What is it about love’s sudden and irrevocable absence that shatters your composure like no other event? It’s quite shocking and astonishing to do without love from one day to the next. It’s a swift and disorienting transition—one that I was not anticipating.

But the wheel of fortune has more swift revolutions in store for me and it doesn’t care if I’m mentally or emotionally prepared. It continues to spin out scene after scene of adversity and trying events. I turn to Shakespeare once again because he’s always inspired me to be more engaged, authentic and responsive with everyone around me. Even though I accept it, I don’t understand pain. Not the way I understand Shakespeare’s rhyme schemes and his lyrical albeit, ornate, language. It hurts brutally and immensely to wake up every day without love by my side, especially as I confront yet another overwhelming chapter in my life. Yet I acknowledge his decision to leave had nothing to do with me. It had been forged before our paths converged at a small point in time. I merely entered his life during a lull- an intervening period before the wheel began its revolution.

I know as much today about the wheel of fortune as I knew sixteen years ago when I couldn’t drown out all the clattering voices around me. But I’m also more familiar with it. I’ve witnessed the wheel of fortune spinning of its own accord, at times smoothly and methodically, other times unevenly and recklessly. It has always and will forever remain indifferent to the supplications of its passengers. Fate is such a demanding and ruthless force. It demands that you accept the twists, turns and uncertainties of your journey without much resistance. Well, you can resist, but you’ll only take longer to get “there.” Your best bet is to go with the flow of your revolution, even if you’re in pain and tears.    

Would Shakespeare assert that my tragic flaw was thinking I could disconnect from the distasteful aspects of reality and somehow escape from love’s grip unscathed? Where did I err? Was it my hubris? I don’t have the answers. I’m just on the wheel of fortune.