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.

25 Things I Miss About Love

• My hand tucked securely in his palm 
• Waking up next to him on a frigid winter morning. Sans clothes. 
• His halting smile 
• Dancing the night away in a room full of friends and strangers—all eyes on us 
• Listening to Marvin Gaye, followed by some Eastern Blok tunes 
• Sitting quietly on his sofa, right next to him, while sipping on a hot mug of green tea 
• Watching X-Files and laughing at Mulder’s sharp one-liners 
• The sound of his soothing voice 
• Brunch at Café con Leche 
• Vodka tonics fixed by him-- never too heavy or light 
• His sweet kisses on top of my head 
• Feeling sheltered 
• Venting about a long stressful day at work without being interrupted 
• Showing off my lacy undergarments 
• Removing them slowly (or swiftly) for him 
• His fingers deftly strumming the strings of a guitar 
• Late night conversations about the things I could never tell another soul 
• Falling asleep in his arms 
• Sinking further and further into his essence
• Not giving a damn if I was on my period 
• Two entrancing golden eyes staring at me with longing and always something more 
• Being serenaded and feeling like the most important person in the room 
• His coat over my shoulders when I’d start shivering outside 
• Saying I love you 
• Hearing it back

To Online Date or not? That was the question

Chopin dangles his long smooth fingers over my inner left wrist. Live, as a reminder in case I should forget. He reminds me and softly traces each curled letter with his thumb before kissing my tingling flesh. Long thick lashes flutter once against the sharp lines of his cheeks as I reach out to rest my hand against his flushed neck. It’s a perfectly symmetrical smooth face with nary a flaw and arresting elements. I feel the steady beating of his heart pick up speed underneath my quivering palm. Chopin turns his entrancing profile to meet my gaze and his golden eyes pierce through my bag of feeble reserves. It is completely useless in this room, on this couch, with his hands doing exactly what I knew they would and hoped. He shifts his lean frame slightly; the room spins unmercifully out of control. How the hell did I get here? Two words: online dating. 

Back in late October, I decided to stop waiting around for a healthy relationship to materialize from thin air. While I find single life exhilarating and liberating, my bed tends to get a bit cold too often, especially when the season shifts late in the year and the mild weather tumbles into frigid territory. I have always been fascinated by the idea of a secure and comforting long-term, monogamous relationship, but I have been unable to obtain a secure and comforting relationship, perhaps because I spend far too much time thinking about why I desire a secure and comforting relationship in the first place. There’s also that pesky detail about a failed marriage. I don’t consider myself a failure. On the contrary, given my background and upbringing, I am a success story! Yet the repercussions of a failed marriage have messed with my mind and ego to the point where I have often called myself a failure. I have deliberately avoided becoming romantically involved with paramours, and I harbored myopic and suspicious thoughts about all romantic entanglements. I assumed nothing good would come out of long-term dating. Once I’d blurt out that I had previously been married, my lover (if he even got that far) would eventually high-tail it out of there. You see, there’s a stigma attached to divorcees (or in my case, soon-to-be divorcees). It’s almost as if all potential suitors view divorcees as damaged goods, or defective merchandise: “You couldn’t make a marriage work? Why is that? What’s wrong with you? What did YOU do?” In other words, we can’t hold a relationship together when the going gets tough. We fail at it. I felt constantly judged, without allowing myself to be judged. Yes, I know what you’re thinking: “What a neurotic. So typical of divorcees.” See? I would say the same thing, and I do when I catch myself overthinking my past. But this is what eventually dawned on me: I married young and the union didn’t last long. So what? It’s not like I killed someone! I can talk about the experience calmly now without foaming at the mouth. Enough time has passed from the dissolution of my marriage, and I’ve grown tremendously in the aftermath. I managed to shed most of the insecurities I clung to as a form of punishment for having “failed.” I am not a failure. I no longer define myself by what I haven’t been good at; it’s what I’m good at that matters most at this point in my life. I am raising a healthy young boy, and I have accomplished several goals, like finally graduating from college. I am writing professionally for a small publishing firm, and I hope to pursue a Master’s degree in Creative Writing within the next two years. So I figured it was time to get serious about seeking out a worthy suitor. Or at least make some sad attempt at it.

 Since I graduated from Northeastern Illinois University this past spring, my dating pool has shrunk considerably. Thank god for online dating sites. The dating game has gone through some weird evolution since the last time I was actively pursuing men. I wasn’t sure how to proceed with my amorous endeavors. Should I speed date and risk scaring off about 95 percent of would be suitors with my incessant blathering? What about blind dates set up by well-meaning but ultimately clueless friends? And who actually finds love in a bar with sticky floors and men who slur their speech? I almost gave up before I started. But then I came across an article on how to write a “successful” online dating profile. It was like an epiphany, even though it mostly pissed me off. So in a fit, I joined an online dating site, OkCupid, and proceeded to craft a witty and sarcastic profile. Take that unknown writer and your “pointers” on how to succeed at online dating! Little did I know it would be such a hit (well my photos didn’t hurt either) with the opposite sex. I met Dan (Federico, Chopin) within a week of joining. I had received some messages from cads calling me out on the “crap” I had created in 10 minutes and dared to post on my profile. Delete! Others couldn’t wait to help me arrange my panty drawer and get me in bed. I saw that one coming. Still, delete! Dan, on the other hand, responded with a witty and sarcastic outline on how he met the qualifications I was seeking in a suitor. I was immediately fascinated, but I had initial reservations about meeting him because he is several years younger than I am. Honestly, I didn’t think we’d go on more than a few dates. Yet I was eager to meet Dan and engage in a battle of words. It has been two months since we met, and I can’t get enough of him. I have never once felt judged by him. On the contrary, he makes me feel good about myself and the choices I have made. But I guess the real reason why I feel this way is because I am finally at peace with myself about a marriage that didn’t work. I didn’t fail—it just didn’t work out. Dan will leave in less than two months. He is going off to Latin America, somewhere in South America to teach English and learn all about a new culture. I’m not thinking of the loss I know I will feel when he’s gone—I’m only focusing on everything I have learned from him these past two months. So with that in mind, I urge you all to give online dating a try. You never know what you’ll find in your inbox.

Survivors

As the Penn State sexual abuse scandal unfolds into an abhorrent nightmare, I am aware of a primitive terror emerging once again from deep within me. There is no escaping the graphic and atrocious details of countless assaults by a monster who shattered innocent lives. I sit alone on my bed. The shades are drawn in my pitch black room. It starts again. I instinctively recoil and suppress a wave of revulsion. Long buried images tumble out from the flimsy niche I had carved out as a young child. I catch flashes of swirling smoke and smutty fingertips. The images speed ahead like a slideshow timed to the thrashing of my restless heart. Cigarettes and putrefying crooked teeth. Dimmed lights and a worn bible on the floor, while shadows on the wall perform a vile act witnessed only by two. Long brown hair falls in turbulent waves over the edge of a rickety bed. I catch my breath; icy fingers fly up to silence my quivering lips. I squeeze my eyes shut. The nausea propels me forward to the bathroom where I fall on my knees and cradle the toilet bowl with two shaking hands. I heave. His nicotine tinged odor wafts over from a past that follows me around no matter how far I go. No matter how far I’ve come. Nothing comes up as I wretch and gag and catch my ashen reflection on the mirror reflecting back a little girl who has never really grown up. I continue to lurch in supplication, pleading with my body to expel every last bit of venom he left inside. I’m frantic, practically shoving my fingers down my throat and tearing my tender nerves in the process. But nothing comes up. I stop and look in the mirror, tears streaming down my terror-stricken face. My heart feels like it’s about to explode and smear the mirror, which I polished only hours before, with a red, sticky substance that might never come off. I know what’s happening. It’s just a flashback, a voice squeals from somewhere within. I pant and squeeze the rim with all my might. The moment will pass, but the memory won’t. Victims never forget. I remember my breathing exercises and rise up on two quivering legs as I stumble over to the sink. The cold splashes of water shock me at first but start to bring me back to the present.

Who are the victims? Who are the victims that remain faceless, nameless and silent until speaking becomes necessary for survival and healing? I wonder what they’re feeling. The boys who were savagely stripped of their innocence. What strategies are they invoking in order to deal with the media circus? How have they been able to get up every day from the moment they were first violated and brutalized? What did they think of the rioting? Have they contemplated taking their lives? Do they ever laugh? Do they know what happiness feels like? Can they forgot for just one moment what happened to them or do they relive with every waking second the horrors they were subjected to by a man beyond sick and evil? I try not to obsess over the boys who were raped. The boys who are now young men.

It has been estimated that 1 in 6 boys and 1 in 4 girls are victimized in one way or another before reaching 18. Surely the estimates must be generous. If the victims are coerced into abiding by a code of silence, how do we know with certainty how many victims are among us? They could be your neighbors. Your friends. Your boyfriend or girlfriend. Your lover or enemy. The barista who prepares your latte every morning at 8:45 before you board the train that will take you to work. Or the checkout lady from your neighborhood grocery store who always smiles at you no matter how busy it gets. Who are these boys and girls? What do they do after surviving such a devastating trauma? Do their dreams shatter in an instant and their entire lives afterwards are nothing more than a struggle to understand something that has no meaning? Are they broken, doomed to find ways, both healthy and unhealthy, to repair wounds that might never fully heal? How many times do they cry and curse the world around them? Or do they keep it all bottled up inside, a seething rage that burns and sizzles as the years drag on and the memory never fades?

I lay in bed with my knees pressed to my chest and a thick blanket pulled up to my chin. Fiona sings to me in the background. She is one of the girls. Her words are like therapy for all the other victims who relate to her pain and ordeal. And as she serenades me with her stirring melodies, I realize there’s a part of me that wasn’t touched or harmed by him. The part of me that creates and strives to share my story with the rest of humanity. She is no longer a victim- she’s a strong, lovely survivor who forged something beautiful out of something so completely horrible. Those boys who are now young men are survivors. And while society might look upon them as victims, I know they are fighters. They have a long and arduous road ahead of them on their way to recovery from deeply traumatic events. Some of them might give up on the journey, but I sincerely hope they hold on and share their stories with other victims who can become survivors.

Chasing Amy?

Life was a losing game for Amy Jade Winehouse. It was not a five story fire that came bearing modest flames; it was a raging, towering inferno from which she could not flee in time. She sang it all too well. From the deepest and darkest depths of her soul, the pain spilled out in velvety torrents of melancholy, mediated by a deep, powerful contralto voice that shocked first time listeners with its unparalleled expressiveness. Clearly, the frail-looking petite that burst onto the UK music scene in 2003 with her debut Frank had a raw, brazen and sultry talent that belied her tender years and hinted at the greater things to come in her budding music career. But life was more than Amy could stand. She battled drug and alcohol abuse, violent outbursts, and an eating disorder. Her every self-destructive move was documented by the paparazzi and scrutinized by the public at large. Many, including her family, were surprised she lasted as long as she did with all the demons that tormented her ravaged soul. She was incredibly gifted but immensely troubled. It has often been said the stars that burn the brightest, burn the quickest. And Amy burned faster than you could blink. Laughed at by the gods, the odds were stacked too high against her to successfully combat the ills that plagued her life. I discovered Amy years ago on some forgettable reality tv show about geeks and beauty queens when “Rehab” came on in the background during one cringe-worthy scene. As mediocre as that hitherto unnamed show shall remain, that unforgettable, insane voice of Amy’s caused me to go on an internet rampage. I was floored. Who was this dazzling soul-tress? The new Badu? A viable successor for Lauryn Hill? My generation’s Nina Simone with a touch of Macy Gray thrown in there for good measure? Amy seemed to defy categorizations and simplifications. Her sundry musical influences were apparent at once but just as equally hard to pinpoint with certitude. She could croon like the jazziest of them, her vampy voice rising and shaking with heartfelt sentiment. But she also had a funky groove going on, with “frank” lyrics to match her indolent swagger. That Amy was in a league of her own, nobody could dispute. And after Back To Black, she sealed her place on the exclusive list of influential artists of all time. This album represents everything I love about music and it reinforced my nagging conviction that “real” music by a female artist, or any artist in general, was not a dying breed. Shunning auto-tune and all the dressings of spic-and-span studio polish, Back To Black stands as an astonishing testament to the gifts musicians possess and the power of music to transcend genres and borders. It’s a throwback to the 60’s doo-wop era of girl groups, like the Supremes, and Amy’s sensual voice takes center stage over the harmonizing backup vocals. The album effortlessly mixes a Motown R&B sound with modern, soul scorching lyrics. On a personal level, Back To Black (along with The Flaming Lips' Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots) almost single-handedly nursed me back from a gut wrenching period in my life. To the mournful tunes of tracks like “Back To Black,” “Love Is A Losing Game” and "Wake Up Alone," I sobbed an untold number of times on my pillow, trying to find a way to mend a fragmented heart. After exhausting all my emotional reserves, I could rebound to the sassy subject matter of “Tears Dry On Their Own” or “You Know I’m No Good.” I knew Amy was broken, which made her music all the more real to me; I didn’t need to go that far to understand her sorrow and struggles. Her intimate words were there for me, not to dissect and critique, but to commiserate and connect with on those endless nights when the prospect of a new day held absolutely no luster. Like many, I was not surprised to hear Amy had died but possibly, like a few, I had held out hope that she would be able to defeat those horrid demons aching to claim her for their own. Perhaps because I’m no stranger to dysfunction that I could relate to Amy’s plight. I too had struggled with depression, alcohol abuse and an eating disorder in my younger years, albeit, away from the limelight. Believe me, it takes an incredible amount of time, therapy and sheer will to “recover” from these afflictions and sometimes, there will be those who simply can’t make it to the next round of the game if they have a losing hand. Amy’s death shook me; it reminded me that I could have died had I not found the strength from somewhere to carry on and give those traumas meaning. At 27 years of age after playing and making a mess, she reached the final frame of her life. Life was a losing game- it was more than she could stand, and I can’t help but feel that I lost some part of myself with her death.

As the heat rolls in

I suffer from frequent fits of nostalgia and remembrance in my loneliest and liveliest of moments. I have often stated to anyone and everyone around me that the 90’s were the best decade for living and breathing. It’s odd to feel this way about a period that was unquestionably the most destructive to me in more ways than I can ever be fully poised or confident enough to recollect without forcing back waves of dread and revulsion. And since I’ve been unemployed for so long now that I can’t tell the difference anymore between a week and a weekend, all I’m inclined to do is venture back to those ten years where I saw more than I should have as a young Chicana coming into her own with only a handful of compassionate souls to turn to when the worst got perversely demoralizing. As the heat unequivocally rolls in and settles over the city like a dense, oppressive shadow of searing red ardor and blinding white haze, I wonder if any people will die this week. The July heat wave of 1995 claimed the lives of approximately 750 Chicagoans, although officials were (and probably still remain) hesitant to produce an official death toll number. For about a week, there was no escaping the miserable and sweltering daytime temperatures in the mid-90's and low 100’s with heat indexes well past 100 degrees. Nighttime brought little in the form of relief as readings would only dip into the upper 70's or low 80's. July and August are typically the most daunting summer months for me, and I suspect for most as well. The combination of a clarion sky, scorching sun and suffocating humidity cause many a sweaty and irritable soul to wonder why the hell anyone would willingly choose to live in Chicago. In order to survive such extreme climatic conditions, one must remain confined within the cool walls of an air-conditioned building. And the two most vulnerable groups in a metropolitan as large as Chicago, the poor and the elderly, are hit the hardest when temperatures rise beyond a broiling level because even if they could afford to buy an air conditioner in the first place, they might not be able to pay the high electric bills generated by such a purchase. 1995 was a lonely and deadly year for the 750 mostly elder, fragile and isolated souls who lay in their stuffy, blistering rooms, slowly dragging in burning wisps of hot air, unaware, or perhaps sadly aware, that they would soon succumb to the fiery clutches of a heat wave. Back in my blazing part of the city on the north side, not only was I coping with the unbearable weather in a bedraggled two bedroom apartment that trapped more heat than it disseminated, but I was also trying to figure out how to escape the agony and trauma that will forever be Daniel’s doing and my undoing. During the entire week of the heat wave, my younger siblings and I wearily trudged over to the pool down the street, which was bound to be crammed with loud and perspiring bodies of all ages and sizes. Even the unruly guys who faithfully congregated on the sidewalks in front of every other apartment complex on our block decided to stumble over to the pool in order to catch some reprieve from the hostile and almost unnatural conditions trapping more than just heat in the neighborhood. As we lined up impatiently outside the gate that would lead us into a more tolerable and hospitable environment, we could all sense something sinister brewing in the muggy air, something disastrous that the newspapers weren’t printing or the newscasters broadcasting. Nobody could articulate how suspicious it appeared when the first bodies started to accumulate in large numbers on the south side. It was hot, they said. They were old and most of them assuredly died of natural causes, others offered. But even I in my tormented adolescent years could understand the abnormality and severity of such a high mortality rate swiftly unfolding within a matter of days. Leaning against the brick wall with sweat pouring profusely down my neck and the glaring sun stinging the top of my head, I knew the dead were too far away to be given more than an ancillary thought. It was disturbing, but we had our own urgent problems to confront in this part of town. Many of us constantly struggled to stay sane, cool and hydrated in homes without air conditioners. The streets were always “hot,” especially at night when the trouble could start up again. As soon as the sun would shift its ardent rays away from the city, we’d head outside to escape the stifling incubators that housed our sticky bodies. But it wasn’t smart to congregate in large groups because we’d attract the wrong kind of attention, either from cars with tinted windows that would creep up wondering who we were representing, or from the cops who were patrolling our part of the neighborhood in an attempt to keep order and safety. Yet the bodies kept piling up on the south side and nobody wanted to call it what it was or respond to it properly until it was too late. After the heat wave ended, nothing would ever be the same again in the city for me. Or anybody else. I remember the summer of 1995 as vividly as I recall the last time Daniel’s hands poisoned my flesh- those stained fingers with their distinct toxicity left their stamp on me just like all those unnecessary deaths left their mark on Chicago. Perhaps because I survived such a fatal and oppressive period that I see all the life that I was able to salvage from the mass death wave long after the dead were buried. It took over a decade to finally bury Daniel, and everything I value about life and what it has taught me about survival, I can directly trace back to the 1990's.