A Rock in A Hard Place

Today, I walked out on my porch and saw a man pick up a stone (pictured above) from the artfully landscaped Zen-like parking strip in front of my house. He walked to his car, also in front of my house, leaned over and put the rock under the front wheel of his car.

I called out to him "What are you doing?" He replied in unpracticed English, "I put it here..." and then some other words and from his gestures and words I understood that he was using my rock to keep his car from moving forward while he jacked up the back to make some repairs.

I said, again, "But what are you doing?" He looked just a tiny bit irritated and made gestures and said words to the effect that he would put it back when he was done with it. "I prefer that you don't use it for that, I can give you something else, it's part of my garden," I babbled on, in words and concepts that probably made about as much sense to him as his made to me. I could have spoken to him in fluent Spanish, but I was peeved and didn't want to make it easy for him. He wasn't making it easy for me.

I didn't want him to use my pretty, carefully selected, decorative garden stone as a prop.
I was insulted and irritated that he trespassed on my – my! – parking strip and picked up my – my! – rock.

He wanted to employ a well-shaped, useful stone to keep his car from rolling away.
He seemed to be insulted and irritated that I was so attached to a stupid rock sitting practically in the street.

It's been a long time since I've felt a great divide between me and a neighbor. 

In the end, I felt bad because I just want to be liked, always. So I flounced over to the side yard, hoisted up a heavy, old paint can that had been sitting there forever, and walked out to the street to offer it up to him, saying a few words in Spanish in his direction. "Here, man, I give you paint can for car, take it, please?"

But he had already walked across the street to his house, picked up a rock from his own front yard (protected behind a chain link fence), and was carrying it back with an I-don't-like-you-lady look on his face.

"I didn't mean to be unfriendly," I said, but the damage was done. A younger, friend/relative standing in their yard smiled at me as though to say: problem solved, no worries, nice idiot lady.

Later on, as I moved my special rock further back from the street, onto my actual front yard, protecting it from future borrowing, I felt kind of silly. Sometimes a rock is more than a rock, right?

7 Potencias

1. Elegguá

How difficult to be a deity.

The burden of opening up the road

to the foolish, the headstrong, the fickle,

the hard work of playing tricks on lovers.

Elegguá must have lured me to this place

I saw him dance around the last corner

small as a child, clothed as a harlequin

in red and black, wielding a forked stick.

Spinning on one foot, he pulls me with an

invisible string, a marionette,

jiving, imitating something I may

yet feel, wearing beads that rattle around

my neck like bones; one red, all the rest white.

Warrior against the mark of my birth.

2. Oggún

Dark warrior, you’re the god I like most.

I slice my arms through the air of your dance

spinning with the fierce freedom of anger.

Lord of minerals and iron and tools,

keeper of the harsh secrets of mountains

and the wild beasts of wild emotions,

I love your hot-tempered porcupine ways.

Father of tragedy, dressed in green

and black, clearing the forest restlessly.

Oggún, you bring out the real man in me.

Your guttural name takes me close to earth.

I dance forward, a machete in hand,

a mad arrow drawing me so swiftly

towards the next big mistake of my life.

3. Changó

My next big mistake was to love you, prince.

Ruler of the sky, of storms, of lightning,

sex and strategy. Your two-headed axe

struck me as you spun, blur of red and white,

your feet beating a retreat on three drums --

iya, itótele, okónkolo.

I’m helpless, untrained against this whirlwind.

Stunned, a stranger to my own body.

The theater of your tempest is too much

for me. I blush, you clutch your crotch, point and

choose me from the crowd. A place deep in me

shudders and melts, follows you and leaves me

behind, calling out “wait –wait –what about

going home?” which will never happen again.

4. Oshún

Going home will never happen again.

I’m stuck in a gold river of honey,

my yellow dress swirling as I eddy.

You float, maniacally chattering.

Streaks of anger tarnish your laughter’s bell.

You fan yourself madly. Maybe I’m you.

Look at me in your brass mirror, sweetie,

I’m wearing peacock feathers, tiara,

white veil and many jittery bracelets.

I plan to steal your numerous husbands.

I dance endlessly to forget this sin.

I’ll become a furrow to be ploughed.

I’ll sit and knit at the river’s bottom.

My own womb will be full because of you.

5. Yemayá

My womb is full because of you, pura.

Never thought of myself as a mother,

yet I always knew she’d arrive someday.

Now my child swims in me, a golden fish.

I’m shipwrecked in this watery new place,

melons and casks of molasses floating

in the warm sea around me, unruffled

for now. I’m annoyed when all santeros

assume I’m on your path, the blue and white

of my eyes their clue to a pat answer.

I’m surely more than just a boring saint,

a madre to worship and dance around.

You’re more than an icon in a stiff gown.

You tore the veil from innocence to change.

6. Oya

She tore the veil from innocence to change

me. Revolution! I put on trousers

grow a beard, and go to war. Epa hey!

You do not want to pick a fight with me,

I’ve got gale-force winds backing me up.

I’ll sweep you away with a horsehair switch.

Help me unhaunt myself, underworld queen.

Wrap me in the maroon and purple of

your hurricanes and show me the passage

out of here. Blow open the cemetery

gate so I can see the whole path from life

to death and back again, riding a storm,

my destination somewhere in between.

Neither here nor there, always on my way.

7. Obatalá

Always neither here nor there, on my way.

I still don’t understand what I’m doing.

Ruler of the cold north and all white things,

flawed creator of deformed human beings --

you might be the god for me, gentle judge.

Mysterious, oldest of all, will you

take care of me? I’ll give you coconuts,

milk, diamonds, cotton, flour, yucca, silver.

I’ll weave you a length of white cloth and lace.

These seven necklaces slide so heavy

around my throat. Am I an imposter?

I just wanted to dance myself out of

the past, into forgiveness. You must know --

it’s difficult to be a deity.

Our Lady in the Hood

A cool organic pizza maker lives (and bakes) around the corner.

Prius owners gutted and remodeled a bank-owned house into a Rockridge-worthy brown shingle masterpiece.

A nice literary couple settled into the house formerly owned by the baddest of the bad boys.

Artsy people are moving into the hood, so I'm pretty sure we're getting gentrified.

But the flava's still here.

After all, we're smack in the middle of the Fruitvale Gang Injunction area.

And for even better protection, we've got Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe patrolling the area.

On December 12, the Mexican neighbors across the street unfurled this velvet banner for Our Lady of Guadalupe's feast day. Red and green twinkle lights make her extra-fancy at night. Hope it never gets taken down.



My own beautiful virgen is on view at the top of the post. Ed, my dear friend who's no longer with us, got it long ago in L.A., and left it to me, along with a deluxe Cuisinart and a liking for long walks and twig tea. I'm not religious at all, but this picture's so gorgeous. I draped it in a string of red felt roses (birthday present last year) to mimic the miracle she's famous for.

Josefina, my next-door neighbor, keeps her large statue of Our Lady in a little cage, with ceramic siesta guards napping away (and of course, twinkle lights for extra magic).
My Puerto Rican neighbors next door don't care so much about La Virgen – but they do like frogs.
Around here, if you wanted to, you could dress up head to toe in La Virgen. And that tattoo's starting to look pretty good to me. Orale!

Victory in the Hood

Those pumpkins must have worked. You can make your own sign at http://www.spellingchange.com/.

Halloween in the Hood
It was a rainy night and I was writing in the kitchen while I waited for the first brave little trick-or-treaters. Who would dare approach my door, all lit up with a scary red bulb in the porch light? Plus, the doormat let out an ominous sound effect each time a foot stepped on it (creepy laugh, chainsaw, etc.).
But our Barack-o-lanterns drew them like flies. One said Hope, one said Vote, and the best one of all was a jack-0-face incorporating the sunrise logo and the word Ooooobama.
So they came, tiny Spidermen and fairies and princesses and some teenagers with the vestiges of a costume like they'd forgotten how to dress up. All received candy, at least two pieces.
I had to go out to dinner, so I left the pumpkins, red light, doormat and a bowl containing the rest of the candy for any stragglers who might come by.
I got back from dinner and it was all gone except for two kiwi-flavored hard candies that had been overlooked. I don't know if one kid took it all, or if a few shared the big heap of M&Ms, Snickers, and assorted Mexican piñata candy. I'm just glad someone will eat it besides us. And that it's one day closer to the election.

Murder in the Hood
Tonight at 10:30 eight deep booming shots rang out close at hand, in the dark. I heard them inside my warm cozy house, then a woman screaming, screams and more screams, wild and afraid. They came from down on the corner, half a block away. I called 911 and got put on hold, then finally got through. By the time I started talking to the operator, the neighbor from across the street was screaming and wailing from deep inside her house. I found out later that's because their dog Pumpkin had run back to their house with blood all over him, and she knew that her daughter had been hit while she and her boyfriend were out walking the little mutt.
The sirens started their own faraway wailing.
I went outside in the dark to the porch. My neighbors on both sides were out on their porches, quiet and still, staring down the street. The weeping from across the street got louder, and a short, stocky woman in a white t-shirt and shorts burst out of the white house across the street screaming, a stocky black-haired man following her as she ran up the street towards the corner.
Now lots of neighbors were out walking like magnets towards the corner. The blue and red police car lights strobed frantically, down at the corner and running up the block.
A blocky white ambulance screamed up to the corner. I wondered whether to go down there, but my daughter was sleeping and I didn't want to leave her. I also wasn't sure I really wanted to see what was so real down there at the end of the block. If you don't see the bodies laying in the street, maybe they're not really there.
The mom came back, running down the street, screaming and wailing still like she would never stop. Little by little more neighbors came along. I started talking to my neighbors. We're all in shock. Josefina says in Spanish "Thirty years we've lived here and nothing like this has ever happened." Ana on the other side of me says "This is too close." Her husband came back down the street. Apparently the couple were walking the dog, and a white car pulled up, a guy got out, and shot them both and took off. The girl's alive. The guy died right there. The dog ran back to the house.
Too close.

Mi Pueblo, Part 2
I haven't been to Mi Pueblo, the massive Mexican supermarket, since the last time I wrote about it in this blog. But boy, have I been missing out. I stopped in last weekend to buy a giant bag of piñata candy for daughter's birthday, and it was like going to un gran fiesta! The brightly painted yellow and red walls, the brassy salsa music, the colors, the smells, the meats so red and thick in their refrigerated cases, the crowds of shoppers, the festive aisle markers -- a sensory overload. The prices are great, the produce is polished and piled in teetering high stacks -- it's amazing. There are cakes, pastries, tacos, and more to be bought, too, all ready to eat.
I simply stopped caring that the food's not organic, most baked goods are made with lard, and sugary drinks abound. When you see a beautifully constructed castle of orange and lemon quart soda bottles, it's hard not to want to guzzle a few ounces of pure fructose corn syrup goodness.
My favorite pan dulce concoction is something called "ojo de buey" -- eye of the ox. It's round, pink, and covered with coconut flakes, with some kind of gooey custard in the middle. Gross, but pretty -- a sort of Hostess snowball from south of the border.
Of course, for a while I felt bad for the little Mi Tierra market right next door to Mi Pueblo. Now I'm sucked in by the siren song of its giant neighbor to the east, and I care no more. Mi Pueblo makes you feel like you're part of something special. Go there.