I Don't HATE Valentine's Day ... I Just Don't Agree with it.

Please ... call me bitter if you must. Frankly, I don't care.

The truth is, I don't necessarily hate Valentine's Day. I just don't agree with the politics.

Yeah, yeah, yeah ... I know the spiel.

Saint Valentine ordained this day to be a day that we show the people that we love how much we appreciate them. I get it. I do. But let's call a spade, a spade, shall we?

Valentine's Day has become so commercialized that you almost feel guilty for being single because you don't have anyone that will give you all the red-and-pink colored stuff. Nor, can you do it in return.

The minute you set foot in stores the day after New Years, everything has morphed from holiday cheer to hearts and roses. You're bum-rushed by all the "love" in the air.

It's like the air has puked all the red and pink frilly stuff into our environment and we are being forced to breath it in.

Well, what if you don't have anyone to love or that loves you back? At least, in the romantic way. Then what? You feel like shit about it because everyone around you has gotten all the "sweet and endearing" gifts and you haven't. It makes you just want to get home and cry while getting drunk off your ass.

So ... what do I do to not feel like a huge pile of horse shit on Valentine's Day?

I celebrate the people I love; my kids, family and friends. Then, come February 15th, I go to the local Walmart and buy all of the Valentine's Day chocolates at half price. 

So, like I said. I don't hate Valentine's Day, I just don't agree.

Profound Thoughts: February 14, 2018

Hello, y'all.

I have some thoughts sitting on my mind and I need to expel them.

Most people don't know my personal fight with my identity. Apart from my best friend, I don't think I've ever really spoken on it. I have, in the past, talked on my identity as it stands today, but I don't think I've ever really talked about how I got there.

Today is that day.

Where to start? 🤔

It's tough—even if I were to start from the beginning—because of the convoluted nature of the circumstance.

I remember that as a tiny tot, race, creed, color weren't things that mattered to me. Although, most of my aunts, uncles and adult family members called me "negra", I never really gave it any thought. It was, at that time, after all, just a nickname. And so I considered it, responding with no reproach. Little did I know then how that seemingly innocent nickname was just the beginning of the preordained paved for me by my ancestors.

It all started at an early age, but I was indeed old enough to somewhat comprehend human behaviors; perhaps 4 or 5-years-old. The first compliment I ever remember getting was from my godfather whom has since passed away. He said in Spanish, and I quote, "She so pretty for a black girl." to which my mother replied, "Well, she's not really black, she's Puerto Rican."

The conversation went on to become a humorous exchange between the two parties.

Godfather: Well, her father is black, so she's black.

Mom: He might be a dark skinned Puerto Rican, but he's not black.

Godfather: Dark skinned equals black.

Mom: Don't you ever dare say that to his face. He won't like it.

And so it went.

I didn't get it. What the hell was happening here? Why this big debate about whether or not my father and I were black? I mean, everyone in my family was a different color. Some were pink, some yellow, some light brown, others dark brown, some were even kinda blotchy or two-toned.

Why did I have to be "pretty for a black girl"? Why couldn't I just be pretty? Why did any of this matter? I mean, I had one light pink grandmother and one dark brown grandmother—same thing applied to my grandfathers. My mom was medium brown with really straight and soft hair. My dad was dark brown like his parents with fluffy, stiff hair. Everyone was different! So, what was the big deal? 🤷
Oh, the innocence of a child's mind.

What I did deem strange at that age was that every time a new baby was introduced into the family, the light pink ones were celebrated, whereas the dark brown ones weren't celebrated as much. 

These types of debates went of forever. 

At the time, I took these things with a grain of salt because I didn't understand the depth of it all.

When I was of school age the subject of skin color seemed to grow. I remember with crystal clarity things like not being accepted by the African-American crowd because I was too light. But, also being rebuffed by the Hispanic crowd because I was too black. The African-American girls would purposely pull my hair saying that "I thought I was better because I had 'good' hair". Whereas, the Hispanic girls would say that "I had nigga hair."
I remained the subject of racial harassment until middle school, or "Junior High" as we called it.

Suffice it to say that I quickly learned the difference between Black, Hispanic, Caucasian, Middle Eastern and Asian.

It was all so confusing, but since I didn't know any better I accepted the divisions as gospel. Ironically enough, the only crowd that accepted me without prejudice was the smallest of minorities—the Indian and Middle-Eastern crowd.

In 3rd, 4th and 5th grades I had a good friend named Sahar who was Iraqi. Sahar would tell me, "You look like my cousin. You have the same skin color, nose and eyes." And, I didn't really find it strange because there were people of all colors, shapes and sizes in my own family.

This struggle with identity didn't just exist in school, as a matter of fact it was prominent at home.

My mother, who was a mixture of Taina and European would gleefully boast about her white father. My father, who was black on both ends, would get insulted when someone called him black or confused him for African-American. It was the biggest of insults, apparently. "Ahhh, nah, nah, nah, nah! I no black, I Porro Ricen!" he would retort full of angst in his thick Hispanic accent.

Later on in life, when I became an active member of my local Hispanic Church, I immediately realized that there was an obvious bigotry there as well. And, unfortunately, it happened daily. There were always these underhanded, disguised and noxious comments regarding the supremacy of the lighter skinned Hispanics, and the inferiority of the darker skinned individuals. Which was ludicrous because the church was full of Hispanics of all skin colors and Latino nationalities.

When I was old enough to date, I dated a guy who shared my mother's features; medium brown, with soft hair. His family members made it a point to always tell me that before me all his girlfriends were white so I should feel lucky that he was with me.

Slowly but surely my self-esteem plummeted, making me feel like less than anyone because I was too light to be black—but then again, I wasn't black, as per my father—and too dark to be white. Some of the church members would tease me about my "big nose" and "kinky hair". They would tell me that my butt was big because I was black and that was the only "nice" feature about me. At times, when they were feeling generous, I was told that "I was pretty for a black girl", and so it went.

By the time I turned 16 I had absolutely no self-esteem whatsoever. Due to my religion at the time I knew that the only person that accepted me as I was, was God. Even that wasn't enough, to be sure, but what could one do? One could not change the color of one's skin. Other than God's unconditional love, I was black which meant not pretty and less than, which translated into not loved.

When I got married, my ex-husband—who was an abusive asshole—made it a point of telling me almost daily that I was "fat, black and ugly". That I would never do better than him because no man could love or accept someone so unattractive and unworthy. Hence, I should be lucky that he was with me because I would otherwise be single. When my two youngest children were born and they happened to be light skinned like their father. My mother boasted—her chest inflated with pride—about her white grandchildren. After a while, just like my father, I started to resent being called black. I would snap back at people saying, "I'm Puerto Rican not black."

Until one day ...

One day, I decided to educate myself. Thus began my journey to self-acceptance. In a series of several years I researched my ancestry. Wouldn't you know it ...? I was indeed black.
Or at least partially black genetically speaking, but half black by appearance and heredity. As a matter of fact, I was more black than I was white or indigenous Taino. When I learned this, I began to research famous black Puerto Ricans as well as the famous black Americans, seeing as how I was both Puerto Rican and American.

It was then that my self-esteem began to change and grow. I knew one thing—the most important thing—I wanted to carry forward the path they started. I wanted to be one of the very few Correas' that contributed something beautiful to our legacy.

At the end of a very long journey, I learned, accepted and understood that I AM BLACK, and I am not "pretty for a black girl" but BEAUTIFUL BECAUSE OF MY RICH BLACK HERITAGE.

New Year, New ... Whaaaat?

Idioms ... Can't live with them, can't stop saying them. 🤷

Every new year, we, the human race, embark upon the wondrous journey known as "The New Year's Resolution". What a grand feat we impose upon ourselves! A splendorous combination of hopes, dreams and unrealistic expectations.

Just before the new year, I'd decided what my resolutions would be and the conviction was as real as it gets. Pure passion, pure drive, pure resolve.

But, as life typically does, it knocked me off my happy horse with unexpected circumstances before the 2nd month of the year could turn around.

 Right on my arse.

Truth be told, the first week of the new year was fantastic—smooth as frozen custard on a hot day. I was filled with excitement. I'd finished "Peter Blade", had done quite a bit of other (what I referred to as) productive things, and was at the cusp of a fruitful year.

Then, BOOM! 💣💥 "Screw you!" said, Fate and she laughed maniacally. 😈

Please, dear reader, allow me a small portion of your day to share the happenstances as of the last month and a half, or so.

So, you see, the way that I'm set up ... family comes first. Always. No exceptions.

Family, to me, is not just blood related but soul and heart connected. Much like when a couple marries, they become a family. To me, when my heart and soul connects with someone, he/she becomes my family. My heart and soul, however, don't connect with just anyone.

With that said, my best-friend ... my soul sister ... she is my family.

It all started with my medical conditions getting flared up shortly after the introduction of the new year.

When one or more of my medical conditions flare up, I can be bedridden for up to a week if not more. Suffice it to say, that I was down for the count for a while, and just when I started feeling better my best-friend got incredibly sick. What had started off as a suspected cold, morphed into the flu, then an array of other situations. I won't get into the meat of it as I do not want to infringe on her privacy. That is for her to tell, not me.

Now, being that she and I share a home and I have dubbed myself the "mamma bear" of the family, the moment she got sick everything was put on the back-burner and she became my main focus. All I wanted was for her to get better. I did whatever I could do to ensure her speedy recovery, but the the "speedy" part wasn't happening any time soon.

My dear soul sister, was down and out and excruciatingly ill for over 4 weeks. We are talking about numerous visits to the doctor's offices, 3 or 4 (I can't quite remember exactly) visits to the Emergency Room, and countless sleepless nights, medications, treatments and God knows what else. Truthfully, I lost count—days, nights, hours ... they all blended together. A blur, a tizzy of chaos.

Among all of that disarray I got more flare ups, my son got a cold, work was a holy fucking mess, no more progress was being done on my writing projects, the government services that I was receiving went to shit and caused even more upset ... 

I mean, it was like ...

Crash + Burn = Murphy's Law

😖

 

Honestly, at this point I am just glad that the bestie is recuperating. The process is slow, but certain. That alone relieves a lot of stress as I would lose my mind if something ever happened to her.

What I am struggling with now is the lackadaisical effects of disrupted focus, the down-laden influences of worry and stress, and the roller coaster of emotions related to the sum of trials.

On top of that is the realization and dejection related to an unceremonious epiphany.

The other day I went clothes shopping and tried on a few garments. I was simultaneously bewildered and despondent. The clothes "made me look fat". Then I realized ... No, THEY aren't making me look fat. I have gained weight. A lot of weight.

Turning into myself, I reflected on many things. That is when I came to the above conclusion (see picture).  😩 😢

In self-reflection I realized that whenever I was at the height of my emotions and unable to address them—I was solely focused on pressing on, being strong and getting things taken care of—that I turned to food. More specifically, sweets. M&Ms being my drug of choice.

I would lie if I said that I wasn't disappointed in myself. I am. Very much so. How could I do this to myself? It was then that I realized that the comfort I felt with food was in one way or another easing the angst and disenchantment. This, of course, was not a good thing. Now, I find myself in the position of continuing to have to deal with myriad ordeals AND finding another way to cope. I don't know how I'm going to do it, but I need to find a way.

Writing used to be my catharsis, my outlet whenever things got overwhelming. Now, with all of the vicissitudes and fiascos which allow me little to no time to write, I've got to find another way. Food cannot be my saving grace. Not any more.

But what? What can I use when my tools are wanting? Help, anyone?

Well, that's all I have for now.

Tah-tah, hugs and kisses.

Y. Correa

When Your Books Contain a Piece of Your Soul

Contrary to popular belief, we, the writing community do put a piece of our souls in our writing.

Today, I am daring to go outside of the normal author blog scenario and share a bit of something super personal with you.

I believe that every writer puts a piece of their soul in their works to one degree or another, however that is maximized greatly when within your writing (specifically in works of fiction) you've secretly added an element of real life. Such was the case when I wrote "MarcoAntonio & Amaryllis".

Today, I'd like to share with everyone the process, that was the creation of "MarcoAntonio & Amaryllis".

Note:

Please understand that this is a very personal situation for me. I will try to not get too emotional during this process, but I cannot promise that I won't.

In 2009, my very good and best male friend Harold Ortiz approached me with a dare."Jazz," he said, "you should write a Medieval Romance." Instantly, I was sucked in by the idea, and within mere seconds the opening scene of this novel came to my mind. Moments later was pecking away at my keyboard.

"Midnight. Still he had yet to take recess from his vigorous stride. He had to make it. He needed to see her! Just a glimpse, as always, would make his day complete. Just a small glance at her smile and her eyes; that was all he needed. All he truly needed to commence the fight all over again tomorrow. His faithful steed, as accustomed, did not give up on him even after an entire day of battle.

His life wasn't easy. His battle was continuous. If he was not battling against others, he was at war with himself. As he rode he thought, and it occurred to him that his internal war could quite possibly be the biggest fight of his life.

“Mush, Altivo, anda!” he called out, as he coaxed his exquisite Caspian horse to move forward. “Anda, Altivo!” He’d learned that he could count unconditionally on his beautiful Altivo. He was after all, the only true friend that MarcoAntonio had. He knew what it was like to have acquaintances come and go through his life. He knew people. Many people. Yet, none was as true a friend as Altivo, his milk chocolaty, muscular, and strong Caspian horse. Altivo knew how to listen when necessary. He also knew how and when to act when necessary. What more could any man ask for from a friend?

His focus returned to her. What cruelty life offered him, that his one true love was unattainable? Yet, obtaining her was his only conviction—his only mission and obsession. She was in fact, the most beautiful woman he'd ever known both inside and out. She'd yet to fully be his, but he was certain that one day, she would be his—totally and completely. He would fight for her until he exhaled his last breath. Even if that were the very cost.

However, for today he'd be content, as he always was, with just looking at her from afar. Contemplate her beauty and know—in the depths of his soul—that this was a battle worth fighting."

When I started the project I was instantly captured by the would-be intensity of the story.

"LOVE is the result of ALL things conquered."

Yet, I hadn't experienced love in a long time. As a matter of fact, I was recently a divorced single mother, struggling to make ends meet. I didn't know anything about love any more as everything I had know had proven to be unreal.

Nevertheless, completely engulfed with the idea of a boundless love, I continued with the project. Within a month or so I'd succeeded in getting about 5 chapters in.

Then came the writers block. I mean, holy moly was I blocked! There were many things that attributed to the writers block. The most predominant of the reasons was the enormous amounts of stress that I was under in my home life. There was just too much going on around me and I simply could not focus.

I'd rather spare you all the grueling details.

During this time I lived in Florida.

Ultimately, I decided to move to New York. With all of the craziness, all of this had added up to basically a year's time where "MarcoAntonio & Amaryllis" sat stagnant on my computer, incomplete.

Finally, I moved to New York and the change in ambiance seemed to help clear my mind and I was able to get started on the project again. Suddenly, the passion for the story was rekindled so there I went ... pecking away at it once more.

Some months after having been in New York I got very sick. I was constantly in and out of the hospital. Steadily ill, and between bouts of hospital visits I wrote as much as I could in the story. Then, writers block came again as the stress of being a single mom, out of work, continually in the hospital with a child with special needs whom I wasn't able to care for was eating away at me mentally.

Low and behold I stopped writing somewhere along chapter 17'ish.

In the interim…

Marco realized that there was no use in screaming or arguing. This was probably his end. Though the desperate, nagging, ever present need to save Amaryllis was killing him. He was slowly but surely coming to the realization that he may never get out of here. And that it would be very likely that these witches would be his demise. Just as they had abolished Amaryllis’ father, they may very well finish him as well.

As he stood there, bound by hands and feet, naked and helpless, many things ran through his mind. He thought of his beautiful Amaryllis, and how much he loved her. He thought of his family: his mother, his sisters, his dead father, his brother. He wondered where Damian was right now. He reflected on his life in general, and all the things he would have changed given the opportunity.

Then something miraculous happened. I started getting a little better, and with that newly found hope also came newly found love.

It was at about that time that I met a man ... a man that took my breath away! A man which I consequently fell madly in love with. I loved him more than I'd loved any other man in my life, including my childrens' father. This guy was all I wanted, needed and so much more. He was my night in shining armor come to life.

How do I know it was true love? Because even to this day, I still have lots of love for him despite everything that happened.

Getting to the point; I'd fallen so blindly in love with this man that I trusted him more than myself. I trusted him so much, in fact, that I allowed him to read my work in progress, "MarcoAntonio & Amaryllis".

Suffice it to say that he fell as madly in love with the story as he claimed to be with me, per his own acknowledgment. It was at that instant that he became my MarcoAntonio and I became his Amaryllis, and so that was what we called each other. He was "My love, my Marco." and I was "His love, his Amaryllis."

At the worst of our times together, whenever we'd argue and then made up, he would ask me, "Baby, am I still your Marco?" My reply was consistent, "Always and forever." and every single time I meant every word.

After about a year of being together, we'd planned our wedding, we'd put down a deposit on an apartment, we'd made all of the moves necessary in order to start our lives together, when the unexpected blow came.

My beloved knight in shinning armor, my life, my Marco, had been unfaithful and slept with his ex-fiance.

How did I find out?

Well, one day, he called me from his house crying. "Jazz," he said "I did something really bad! I can't believe that I did this! Please tell me that no matter what, I'll always be your Marco...!"

"Always and forever."

"I really did something terrible, something that you don't deserve! You're too good for me! I don't know why I did it! Oh my God, am I really still your Marco?" he asked in disbelief.

There was a pinch in the pit of my stomach. "Yes. Like I said, always and forever." then I paused for a moment and then asked, "Who did you sleep with?" human premonition I suppose.

Instantly he started crying again, "My ex...!" he sobbed, "I dunno Jazz! I don't know why I did it! I think I still love her too! Could it be possible that I am in love with two women at the same time?"

My world came tumbling down!!!

On October 14th, 2012, I was shattered. Needless to say, here I am reminiscing on love had and love lost. Yet, it was at that, one of the worst moments in my life, that the end of my novel came ...

"The familiar scent perforated the air and a brisk nip chilled the expanse: the unforgettable ambiance that reminded her of the approaching autumn. The aroma of pine and frozen water—the brumal wind carried it all too well, directly into her nostrils. The morning dew that dressed the already wilting flowers, which covered the field, had been turned into droplets of ice that grazed them. Altivo, a short distance behind her, nibbled on the semi-moist blades of grass.

There was something comforting about this scent and this breeze to her. She couldn't quite put her finger on it, but somehow it allowed her ever grieving soul a moment’s rest. Maybe it was because of the memories that this time of year carried. The memories of him.

She never got over him. She never could! Who could ever become accustomed to being incomplete once true completion had been such an important part of their life?"

It was only in my moment of profound pain that I was able to complete the book that had started 3 years before. A book, that to this day contains a piece of my soul.