The Advantage of Diversity

Being an educator at an elementary school where the majority of the student body speaks English as a second language has been an unexpected healing balm. Two instances stood out to me in particular.

I instructed small groups, providing reading intervention. The kids were always excited to share something from their day. A student, B., confided that she had an extremely embarrassing experience that morning. Her mom had dropped B. off in front of the school and then called out in Spanish that she needed to use the bathroom. “Espera, espera!” she had yelled, running after B. Then an adult told her she couldn’t cross the gate threshold and sent her back. B. was embarrassed that her mom ran after her and was calling out that she needed to use the bathroom. What B. was not embarrassed about was her mom speaking in Spanish.

When B. was retelling this story, she spoke in English and seamlessly repeated what her mom said in Spanish (more than just “espera”). It didn’t seem to occur to her that someone in the group might not understand, including me. But we all did understand, as all of speak both English and Spanish. I admire and longed for the feeling of not being self-conscious. While that attribute is a hallmark for some kids, in addition, she didn’t have a filter preventing her from switching languages. I recall when my daughter said something about her “abuela” in 3rd grade, only to have a student respond, “we speak English here,” which made my daughter sad and confused. This student spoke a primary language other than English! Who had told her she couldn’t use her language? While I understand that the majority speak English in the US, I also lament the message that some pass along: you should ONLY speak English out and about. But back to my story: B. hadn’t been told that, or rather, she hadn’t needed to change the way she spoke. No one in the group batted an eye. It was normal and accepted. It reminds me of a confident person who is so confident, that “confidence” doesn’t even occur to them. I envy that.

My mom’s first language is Spanish. I grew up not speaking it but responded to her in English when she spoke to me in Spanish. As I grew older, her English usage outweighed her Spanish. But when she would tell me of a conversation she had with a family member, she would start in English, hesitate slightly when retelling the other person’s side of the story, and then tell me, in English, what they had said, even if it originally had been said in Spanish. I know she could have told me in Spanish, as I am fluent now, but I realize that at this point in her life, she has grown accustomed to translating. I understand the practicalities of that. But I also envy the opportunities my students have had to not translate and wonder if they know what a privilege that is.

The other instance that stood out to me was when a different student told a story and then got to a word she didn’t know the English translation for. I said it’s ok, just tell me in Spanish. After that, she didn’t hesitate to communicate this way and no one in the group noticed the switch in language. I again was jealous. I remember saying something in 6th grade that my friends didn’t know. When I realized that word was in Spanish, and none of my friends spoke Spanish, I was humiliated. I came home and asked my mom why she didn’t tell me. I can’t remember the exact conversation, but she still finds it humorous. I didn’t at the time. I was in 6th grade! That was horrifying! I wish upon wish I could have grown up in school where that was normal and expected. But in the moment of listening to my student, I felt like I had come full circle, and could listen and enjoy. That little torn piece of me had healed.

Because of my past experiences, I was hyper aware of helping my students read in English, as that was the purpose of my group, and occasionally point out a word in English that they hadn’t known, but always in the most respectful way that wouldn’t draw attention to any “mistake” they may have made. I feel that even though I was a little scarred in my embarrassment as a kid, it helped me be as encouraging and understanding as possible in the most natural way I could, and in that way, I’m also glad my students had that opportunity.

I do wish more of our students could have that natural feeling of being accepted for who they are. I hope that as more books come out that target students of different backgrounds and identities, and help other students understand, the more embraced we can all feel.

For anyone who is interested in purchasing my book, Tango Red Riding Hood, an exploration of languages, music, dance, and culture, it releases in September and you can order through Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and Bookshop. It is illustrated by the magnificent Carolina Vázquez!

A Time and a Season

Over three years ago I had the pleasure to attend a regional SCBWI conference in Northern California not far from where I was living at the time. The keynote speaker was an author named Tim McCanna (also an illustrator now), who also led an incredible workshop on rhyme. Unfortunately, I hardly remember the day at all.

Back then, I was dealing with multiple mental health issues and wasn’t receiving proper treatment. My husband had been working and living in Monterey during the weekdays while I was still in Northern California so that my oldest kid could graduate with her class. I was working part time, trying to write part time, and miserable full time. I don’t want to go into details of my mental health issues, but I was in a terrible place, barely hanging together for my kids. Usually, I enjoy going to writers’ conferences, but going that time meant missing rare moments together as a family (since my husband was in town). I was also a volunteer and didn’t want to let anyone down by not going. The only thing I remember distinctly that day was this author speaking in front of a ballroom-full of people, telling us about his writer’s journey, and how he had lived through a period of depression.

I was stunned. What a brave thing to admit to a room full of strangers! It made me think–could I possibly be in a situation where I would talk to other writers coming from a place of peace, happiness, and success as a writer? It seemed too grand of a dream and too far away to believe possible.

Fast forward to a couple of weeks ago. I saw Tim McCanna post online about his upcoming book launch at a bookstore in the bay area. I remembered him from the conference, from that hellish time period of my life that I don’t like thinking about, and it made me happy. Why was that? Because from behind a podium he had reached me through understanding my ordeal and also demonstrated what could be possible for me if I could make it through to the other side. When I saw his post online, I looked inward to reflect on what had become of me since that time–my first picture book is coming out next year and I’m an agent’s assistant at a major literary agency. How far I’ve come! But how did I do it? I’ll share with you.

There’s a saying you’re probably familiar with from the Bible that: “To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose…” I think it doesn’t do writers any favors to say, “in order to be published you must ____ every day…” Because some people can’t “____ every day.” And that’s ok, because maybe it’s not for that time or season. During the worst of my depression, I couldn’t write every day. I couldn’t read what was going on in the industry every day. I couldn’t catch up on Twitter, etc. I was trying to survive, and there is no shame in that. So throw away that advice. Put your health first.

While you’re putting your health first, what are some things you can do that might not feel overwhelming but can keep you on the path to writing? Here is what worked for me, but might not for you, and you can find your own thing, or not. (And please share those things in the comments!) I…

  1. Listened to audiobooks. Some days I couldn’t get out of bed. I had no energy to pick up a book. While I laid there, I listened to book after book after book. Then I…
  2. Daydreamed. I thought, what would happen next in a sequel? What if the plot had gone this way instead? What if I changed the setting, what would happen then? And so on.
  3. I played video games. There are some incredible storylines in videogames and inspirational art. Then I think, what if I were to make a game? What would the point be? Who would be my characters? Etc.
  4. I listened to music. Those songs tell tales! Pay attention to the lyrics. What was going on in the writer’s life to put things in just the right way? How does the artist know to express themselves that way? Can I imagine the scenario that led up to this? If I were to write something, how would this be the perfect song for that scene?
  5. Occasionally I played board games. The art in board games can also be stunning and lead your mind wandering. The premise to the game can also be intriguing and give fresh ideas. Keep an open mind!

And one day, maybe you will find yourself again. And on that day maybe you’ll have the energy and courage to say, what if I just jot a couple of those ideas down? Because that’s what happened to me. At the time I thought I couldn’t consider myself a writer anymore, but that’s not true. I was writing all the time, just not on paper. And one day, one of those audiobooks hit me just the right way to ask myself, “What if that had been tango instead?” And that night I thought how grateful I was to have been brought up with Argentine culture and how sad it was that my classmates hadn’t known about tango music the way I had. Then I thought, what if kids can be introduced to tango now? In a way that will reach them? With rhyming stanzas to show them the beat? And as a mash-up fairytale? What if…what if…what if I can be the one to write it down? What if I wrote it down right now? And the rest is history.

Of course, there’s a little more to this story, but my main point is: if you are a writer, you’ll always be “writing” in your own way, which doesn’t have to look like your neighbor’s way, and in your own time. If the current time was always the “right time” for everything, we wouldn’t have seasons.

  • I did go see Tim McCanna last week and I shared a little bit of my story with him, to thank him for being open in his remarks a few years ago. I’m so grateful that I heard him speak back then, thankful that I’m “on the other side” now, and thankful that I could tell him that.

Depression vs. Sorrow

A quote from WandaVision last night struck me deeply: “But, what is grief, if not love, persevering?” (Kudos to the writers.) As I struggle with depression, I took in this quote and could see the difference more clearly between sorrow and (clinical) depression.

As the quote indicates, sorrow is a form of love. It wouldn’t exist if we had not lost something important. Depression is selfish and inward. Depression blocks us from being fully available to someone else. Depression can take someone else’s words and twist them to their darkest meaning. Depression shines a light on all our flaws.

When we are in sorrow after losing a loved one, on the other had, we’re thinking of that person, what they meant to us, and to their community. We shine a light on all their positive attributes, choosing to forget their flaws. We remember their words as though they were lyrics in a love poem (love coming in many different forms, of course).

They are both similar, however, in that we can’t just choose to “be happy” and “get over” those feelings. When you say that to someone who is sorrowing, you’re asking them to pretend their love away. When you say that to someone in deep depression, you’re asking them to pretend they don’t exist. Though doing either is impossible, would you want that to be a real solution anyway? No.

I won’t go into how to resolve those difficulties, as we are all different and solutions can be varied. However, I would like to warn readers that sorrow can lead to depression, and in both cases, having steadfast friends who offer unconditional love is paramount. Thank you for reading.

10th Annual Holiday Contest entry

The Day of the Three Kings—Argentina

‘Twas the night before Jan. 6, when all through la casa

Not a chico was stirring, not even a gansa;

Zapatos were set by the doorway with care,

In hopes that camellos soon would be there;

Los niños were nestled all snug in las camas,

While tres reyes magos were deep in their ganas;

Mamá in her pañuelo, and I in my cap,

Made me feel listo for a long winter’s nap.

When out on the lawn there arose un gran ruido,

Salté from the bed, I was so confundido.

Away to la ventana I flew like a flash,

Tore open las persianas and threw up the sash.

The moon that was shining, so bright and blanca,

Gave the luster of mid-day to objects en la tierra,

When, what did I see with mis ojos tan largos

But three 1-humped camels y los tres reyes magos!

They were dressed all in robes in majestic colores,

With regalos in sacks con fantastic olores.

I smelled myrrh and frankincense—spotted some gold;

They must be for Jesús, as the prophets foretold.

Their camels—how smelly! Their toes—fatigado!

Their mouths looked dry, their spirits inanimado.

“I can help you!” I cried, and brought hay and some water,

Los camellos filled up and dropped gifts for my daughter.

Los tres reyes magos put the gifts on her shoes,

And regalos and dulces for my three sons, too.

They mounted the camels and then nodded gracias.

“Vayan con Dios,” with help from estrellas.

LatinxPitch

I am so grateful that I’ve been connecting with more Latinx writers. The community behind @LatinxPitch has been marvelous and supportive. I would especially like to say how grateful I am to have met Donna Muñoz. I won a query letter critique in the chance that I got an agent or editor’s response to my Twitter pitch, and that’s what brought me to Donna. I felt like she was my champion and my guardian angel. She loved my manuscript in a way I hoped any reader would, and she encouraged a revision to my pitch that turned out way better than before. She wrote me the night before the pitch to wish me luck and hugs. I am going to give her all the credit for being an awesome person, but I also want to say how warm the Latinx community always has been for me.

When I was a kid I didn’t feel that I belonged to any one group, as I had varied interests, and am ethnically mixed. I had good friends, but there was a latina part of me that was missing in my social life. None of my friends could relate to be called to dinner by hearing a mother yell, “A la mesa!” Or the fact that we celebrated el día de los reyes magos, or that we ate food they never heard of. When I went to college I finally met more latinos and they would welcome me as though of course I belonged. And that is how things have gone from then on. I moved to a city last year where I meet more latinos on a regular basis and have been able to connect with them in the ways I was missing when I was younger. LatinxPitch felt like another way to grow that connection to my roots since I hadn’t met any other Latinx writers since I started writing in 2005! Gracias, LatinxPitch y gracias, Donna!

Valentiny Writing Contest 2020: Nicola’s Valentine

Nicola’s Valentine

“It’s yummy, Daddy.”

“Nicola, go play in your room!” Daddy said.

 Nicola scurried away. She had only wanted one lick of the batter and to make him smile again.

“What can I do?” Nicola said. She spun in a circle, looking around. “I know! But where did I put it?”

“Nicola, I’m sorry I yelled,” Daddy said in the doorway. “Can I help you find something?’

Nicola’s cheeks flushed. “Nope!”

“Alriiiiight,” Daddy said, and shut the door.

Nicola pulled bins out from under her bed. “Is it here?”

Next, she emptied the bookshelf. Not there either.

Last, she emptied her dresser. There it was.

Daddy called out, “I hear a lot of noises. Is everything OK?”

“Yes, Daddy!” Nicola said, and got to work.

A while later Daddy knocked and said, “The cupcakes are cooling now. Would you like a taste?”

Nicola stepped out of her room with her hands behind her back. “I can wait until the Valentine’s Day party at school. I have a surprise for you. Here—”

“How is this possible?” Daddy said, with tears dropping.

“I found the valentine Mommy made me last year and I made it into a new one for you.”

Daddy hugged Nicola tight and gave her a big smile. “You’ll always be my valentine.”

It’s OK

That’s the new phrase I use to reassure myself. This past year wasn’t my personal best year. I’ve been fighting with depression and anxiety for years, and last year happened to be one of the worst years, mental-health wise. Sometimes writing can be helpful, other times writing feels so, so impossible. I’m telling myself, “It’s OK.” It’s OK that I didn’t reach my personal goals, it’s OK if I had to take steps back. It’s OK to start again. Back in 2005 I wrote a PB manuscript that I know will never sell because it doesn’t have a plot. It’s basically a child’s look at depression in a parent. It’s called, MOMMY, ARE YOU OK? Here’s an excerpt:

Sometimes my Mommy is happy. She plays ball with me outside. She pushes me on the swing. She reads me funny stories. We go on walks together. She laughs, and I can see all of her teeth.

            Sometimes my Mommy is sad. She has to stay in bed. I see tears in her eyes. She can’t play with me. I wish she could laugh with me.

It’s too bad that I was in that place again last year. It’s unfortunate that I saw life fly right by me. But, you know what? It’s OK. I’m OK.