Response to "'I Am Adam Lanza's Mother': A Mom's Perspective On The Mental Illness Conversation In America"

    On Friday, as I was on an airplane on my way back home to California to visit my family, a terrible tragedy happened which brought a country into mourning and has gotten many people talking about the issue of gun control. However, I do not believe these problems will be resolved until we look a lot deeper into the real cause, not the means. 

    I used to work with Special Education children. More specifically, I worked with "Emotionally Disturbed" children at the Los Angeles Unified School District, and I agree with Liza Long. It is scary as all hell to deal with them sometimes. There were instances in which I had chairs thrown at me, I was threatened with physical violence, and one time, I was even told that I was going to get raped after school by one of the boys that I worked with. Everything is always reported to the school, to the police, and to Child Protective Services, but almost always, nothing is really done other than a quick visit to the child, maybe removal from their home for 24 hours, sometimes a 72 hour stint at a hospital, and then right back into their homes and into the schools. And it's difficult to really be angry at CPS when they are so majorly understaffed and overworked. 

    Something must be done to help these parents and their children. Some of them are there because of serious issues going on at home while others have illnesses which are not necessarily diagnosed. Even when they're diagnosed, they're thrown into a dysfunctional system and nothing ever gets done until one of them shoots a guy and sparks gang retaliation which then gets his family killed. Or another one holds up a liquor store at gun point because of a STUPID school administrator who kicks him out of the school instead of trying harder to get him help. And then their answer is jail time or "I'm sorry for your terrible loss." 

    I take this all to heart because I lived it. Those were real stories. I saw it and my heart broke into a million pieces. And yet, I cannot begin to imagine what it must've been like for their mothers, fathers, or siblings. 

    The tragedy at Sandy Hook Elementary School is horrendous and it definitely should spark a real debate and a better plan for firearms in the United States. If Adam Lanza had been turned away recently from trying to buy a gun, possibly because of his history of mental illness (*Federal Firearms Licensee Quick Reference and Best Practices Guide "Prohibited Transfers" item 6), shouldn't the gun dealer who turned him away have the responsibility to notify police? And shouldn't the police have the responsibility of launching an investigation as to why this person was trying to buy a firearm and what he was planning on doing with it? Maybe this is already part of the Federal law, but I didn't find it anywhere. This is all something that might get some gun control opponents angry at me, but are we really supposed to sit back and pretend that everything's fine when 20 beautiful children and 6 of their lovely educators are all dead? I don't think so. However, as I had said before, beyond talking about gun control, we should really look more deeply at the root of the problem. 

    "Normal" people do not show up at a busy shopping mall and start shooting. "Normal" people do not go into their university campuses and kill 32 people. And a "Normal" person does not randomly go and shoot up a school full of kids and teachers who did nothing to him. It's time to wisen-up and do something about the real root of the problem: the lack of help for these human beings and their parents to find the right medical/psychiatric help before another tragedy happens.

-Marisol

* U.S. Department of Justice: Federal Firearms Licensee Quick Reference and Best Practices Guide"

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'I Am Adam Lanza's Mother': A Mom's Perspective On The Mental Illness Conversation In America

Written by Liza Long, republished from The Blue Review

Friday’s horrific national tragedy -- the murder of 20 children and six adults at Sandy Hook Elementary School in Newtown, Connecticut -- has ignited a new discussion on violence in America. In kitchens and coffee shops across the country, we tearfully debate the many faces of violence in America: gun culture, media violence, lack of mental health services, overt and covert wars abroad, religion, politics and the way we raise our children. Liza Long, a writer based in Boise, says it’s easy to talk about guns. But it’s time to talk about mental illness.

While every family's story of mental illness is different, and we may never know the whole of the Lanza's story, tales like this one need to be heard -- and families who live them deserve our help.

Three days before 20 year-old Adam Lanza killed his mother, then opened fire on a classroom full of Connecticut kindergartners, my 13-year old son Michael (name changed) missed his bus because he was wearing the wrong color pants.

“I can wear these pants,” he said, his tone increasingly belligerent, the black-hole pupils of his eyes swallowing the blue irises.

“They are navy blue,” I told him. “Your school’s dress code says black or khaki pants only.”

“They told me I could wear these,” he insisted. “You’re a stupid bitch. I can wear whatever pants I want to. This is America. I have rights!”

“You can’t wear whatever pants you want to,” I said, my tone affable, reasonable. “And you definitely cannot call me a stupid bitch. You’re grounded from electronics for the rest of the day. Now get in the car, and I will take you to school.”

I live with a son who is mentally ill. I love my son. But he terrifies me.

A few weeks ago, Michael pulled a knife and threatened to kill me and then himself after I asked him to return his overdue library books. His 7 and 9 year old siblings knew the safety plan -- they ran to the car and locked the doors before I even asked them to. I managed to get the knife from Michael, then methodically collected all the sharp objects in the house into a single Tupperware container that now travels with me. Through it all, he continued to scream insults at me and threaten to kill or hurt me.

That conflict ended with three burly police officers and a paramedic wrestling my son onto a gurney for an expensive ambulance ride to the local emergency room. The mental hospital didn’t have any beds that day, and Michael calmed down nicely in the ER, so they sent us home with a prescription for Zyprexa and a follow-up visit with a local pediatric psychiatrist.

We still don’t know what’s wrong with Michael. Autism spectrum, ADHD, Oppositional Defiant or Intermittent Explosive Disorder have all been tossed around at various meetings with probation officers and social workers and counselors and teachers and school administrators. He’s been on a slew of antipsychotic and mood altering pharmaceuticals, a Russian novel of behavioral plans. Nothing seems to work.

At the start of seventh grade, Michael was accepted to an accelerated program for highly gifted math and science students. His IQ is off the charts. When he’s in a good mood, he will gladly bend your ear on subjects ranging from Greek mythology to the differences between Einsteinian and Newtonian physics to Doctor Who. He’s in a good mood most of the time. But when he’s not, watch out. And it’s impossible to predict what will set him off.

Several weeks into his new junior high school, Michael began exhibiting increasingly odd and threatening behaviors at school. We decided to transfer him to the district’s most restrictive behavioral program, a contained school environment where children who can’t function in normal classrooms can access their right to free public babysitting from 7:30-1:50 Monday through Friday until they turn 18.

The morning of the pants incident, Michael continued to argue with me on the drive. He would occasionally apologize and seem remorseful. Right before we turned into his school parking lot, he said, “Look, Mom, I’m really sorry. Can I have video games back today?”

“No way,” I told him. “You cannot act the way you acted this morning and think you can get your electronic privileges back that quickly.”

His face turned cold, and his eyes were full of calculated rage. “Then I’m going to kill myself,” he said. “I’m going to jump out of this car right now and kill myself.”

That was it. After the knife incident, I told him that if he ever said those words again, I would take him straight to the mental hospital, no ifs, ands, or buts. I did not respond, except to pull the car into the opposite lane, turning left instead of right.
“Where are you taking me?” he said, suddenly worried. “Where are we going?”

“You know where we are going,” I replied.

“No! You can’t do that to me! You’re sending me to hell! You’re sending me straight to hell!”

I pulled up in front of the hospital, frantically waiving for one of the clinicians who happened to be standing outside. “Call the police,” I said. “Hurry.”

Michael was in a full-blown fit by then, screaming and hitting. I hugged him close so he couldn’t escape from the car. He bit me several times and repeatedly jabbed his elbows into my rib cage. I’m still stronger than he is, but I won’t be for much longer.
The police came quickly and carried my son screaming and kicking into the bowels of the hospital. I started to shake, and tears filled my eyes as I filled out the paperwork -- “Were there any difficulties with… at what age did your child… were there any problems with.. has your child ever experienced.. does your child have…”

At least we have health insurance now. I recently accepted a position with a local college, giving up my freelance career because when you have a kid like this, you need benefits. You’ll do anything for benefits. No individual insurance plan will cover this kind of thing.

For days, my son insisted that I was lying -- that I made the whole thing up so that I could get rid of him. The first day, when I called to check up on him, he said, “I hate you. And I’m going to get my revenge as soon as I get out of here.”

By day three, he was my calm, sweet boy again, all apologies and promises to get better. I’ve heard those promises for years. I don’t believe them anymore.

On the intake form, under the question, “What are your expectations for treatment?” I wrote, “I need help.”

And I do. This problem is too big for me to handle on my own. Sometimes there are no good options. So you just pray for grace and trust that in hindsight, it will all make sense.

I am sharing this story because I am Adam Lanza’s mother. I am Dylan Klebold’s and Eric Harris’s mother. I am James Holmes’s mother. I am Jared Loughner’s mother. I am Seung-Hui Cho’s mother. And these boys—and their mothers—need help. In the wake of another horrific national tragedy, it’s easy to talk about guns. But it’s time to talk about mental illness.

According to Mother Jones, since 1982, 61 mass murders involving firearms have occurred throughout the country. Of these, 43 of the killers were white males, and only one was a woman. Mother Jones focused on whether the killers obtained their guns legally (most did). But this highly visible sign of mental illness should lead us to consider how many people in the U.S. live in fear, like I do.

When I asked my son’s social worker about my options, he said that the only thing I could do was to get Michael charged with a crime. “If he’s back in the system, they’ll create a paper trail,” he said. “That’s the only way you’re ever going to get anything done. No one will pay attention to you unless you’ve got charges.”

I don’t believe my son belongs in jail. The chaotic environment exacerbates Michael’s sensitivity to sensory stimuli and doesn’t deal with the underlying pathology. But it seems like the United States is using prison as the solution of choice for mentally ill people. According to Human Rights Watch, the number of mentally ill inmates in U.S. prisons quadrupled from 2000 to 2006, and it continues to rise -- in fact, the rate of inmate mental illness is five times greater (56 percent) than in the non-incarcerated population.

With state-run treatment centers and hospitals shuttered, prison is now the last resort for the mentally ill -- Rikers Island, the LA County Jail and Cook County Jail in Illinois housed the nation’s largest treatment centers in 2011.

No one wants to send a 13-year old genius who loves Harry Potter and his snuggle animal collection to jail. But our society, with its stigma on mental illness and its broken healthcare system, does not provide us with other options. Then another tortured soul shoots up a fast food restaurant. A mall. A kindergarten classroom. And we wring our hands and say, “Something must be done.”

I agree that something must be done. It’s time for a meaningful, nation-wide conversation about mental health. That’s the only way our nation can ever truly heal.

God help me. God help Michael. God help us all.

(Originally published at The Anarchist Soccer Mom.)

Discussing Gay Rights With Korean Middle Schoolers

It's Thursday Society Class and we're discussing the U.S. Constitution and Constitutional Amendments. We somehow moved into hot topic constitutional debates in the U.S. and this is what trips me out:

South Korea is a pretty conservative country. They usually go the more traditional way in most things. Women are still expected to stay at home and be housewives, men are still expected to make all of the decisions for their families, and there are jobs that are "for men" and "for women." [Example: Teachers = women (if you never noticed it, just take a look around at how many male teachers there actually are at your schools) unless they are university professors.]

Anyway, like I said, it trips me out that Korea is a very conservative country, and yet, I was able to have a normal conversation with my 13 year-old boys about the hot-button issue in the U.S. right now; gay rights. Some agreed with equality while the others disagreed. I didn't want to push it too much because I know that I'd probably get in trouble if I did (although, what are they gonna do? fire me? pffft!). But the point of all of this is that we were able to, in a South Korean middle school hagwon classroom, have a civilized discussion in which we didn't always agree with each other, but we talked about our differences of OPINION and how those opinions differ from constitutional rights and freedoms that should be afforded to any human being. 

I'm quite proud of my middle schoolers. Not because I might have changed their opinions (because I don't think I did), but because they were able to understand human rights, rights as citizens, religious/personal opinions, and most importantly, that we can discuss these issues with each other like civilized people rather than yell at each other and try to stomp on each others' beliefs. 

Today is my last real class with them because next Tuesday we will have a snack party and then my contract at this school will be over. I will miss them sooooo much. These little guys (who are not so little anymore) are amazing human beings who will some day change the world. 

Marisol Teacher is sad, but also happy that she got to meet them, teach them, and learn a lot from them, too. 

<3

Fond Childhood Memories

So, it's been a rainy day today in Daejeon and that means that I'm keeping myself entertained in my apartment. I've been listening to a lot of music and one song that I just can't get enough of is Gotye's "Bronte." This song and video just bring back so many memories of when I was a kid. 

"What?!?", you may ask. "Don't be stupid, Marisol. You grew up in the city." Well, yes. You'd be right. But I did hang out at my mom's school a lot when I was a kid and they had a big garden which, to me, might as well have been a giant forest, seeing as it had more trees in it than the average public park near my house. This garden had trees that seemed to be a million years old and towered over everything else on campus. As a kid, I loved going to school with my mom because the classrooms where she studied English and child development were right next to that garden. This meant that I kept myself entertained at the same time that my mom could keep a constant eye on me because the classroom door was always open. 

My sister Nancy and I used to go there and we'd wander around the place. We would pretend that we were in a secret forest and we would spend hours laying on our stomachs or sitting on the rocks, peering over the small pond and staring at the tadpoles. Eventually, another kid joined us. There was a boy there who I think must've been the gardener's grandson. He was mute (or maybe I just never listened to what he said...), but it didn't matter because Nancy, the boy, and I had a lot of fun just running around and pointing at things for the others to come over and stare at. To this day, I have no idea what the boy's name was. All I remember about this boy is that he was white, had silver blond hair, and smiled a lot. Nancy and I had a lot of fun exploring the forest with him. 

Sometimes I remember those days and I long for them. I long for that time of peaceful innocence; that time in which all that mattered were the trees, the pond, and the tadpoles and bugs that lived there. I long for that time, a time of childhood wildness, in which for a few hours a week, I felt like I was part of something bigger; something organic that I had no control over. Nevermind that this wasn't a real forest, but rather a rinky-dink garden that ended at the chain-link fence that separated it from a residential  cul-de-sac, but for at least three kids, it was special. 

Tacos for Korean Kindy Kids!

So, I was able to convince my hagwon to let me do multicultural days with the kindergarteners. I'm really excited about this because I think the kids can really benefit from experiencing other cultures, especially since Korea is so homogenous. Anyway, we kicked off multicultural day with a lesson on Mexico and the most ubiquitous of Mexican foods, tacos. 


Oh! And the kids got to wear "taquero"/"taquera" hats.


:)

The First Tortilla

My students and I have been reading some stories in their American English textbooks that have to do with Mexican culture and therefore mention tortillas. 


They first learned about tortillas when they read, "Mama's Birthday Present," the story of a little boy who plans a birthday party for his mom and is able to get her a piñata, a musical performance, and fresh tortillas made by one of their family friends. 


This week, they just finished reading, "The First Tortilla," the story of a little girl who saves her village from drought and starvation by asking the mountain spirit for rain.Because of the fact that none of them had ever seen or tasted a corn tortilla, which is what this story is about, I searched high and low until I was finally able to get my hands on some of these and bring them to the kids. We didn't have a real stove at the school, so I had to make do with a little oven. They didn't turn out quite the same as if I had used a stove top, but I guess it was good enough. 

^_^

Frustration Rant

It’s happened. I’ve been here for a while now and I’ve been trying hard to fight it, but it seems my attempts have been futile and I’m finally gonna have to cave to the societal pressure and norms here. Let me explain. 


When I got to Korea in October of 2010, I realized that I stuck out like a sore thumb. I knew that I thought, spoke, moved, acted, and LOOKED different from everyone else here. It started on the first day of work at my first school. I got there and immediately everyone stared at me like I was some sort of circus act. All the kids started pointing out how much taller I was than all of the other teachers at the school, how my eyes were just SO BIG, how I have double eyelids, how my face was much smaller than theirs, they all wanted to know if my hair was permed (teach-ah, pama?), they asked me if I was from Africa (apparently all people with dark skin are from Africa), the younger kids kept trying to grab my boobs to know what big boobs were like, and they were all very quick to point out that I was fat. 


I tried very hard to be patient and explain everything about myself. 
“Yes, I’m tall because I’m American and we drink a lot of milk.” 
“Yes, my eyes are ginormous, even by American standards, because my dad’s family has big eyes.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I only have one eyelid per eye.” (Google double eyelids if you want to know what they are.)
“I’m sorry, what?? What are you talking about? My face is not smaller than yours. Your face is fine. You’re gorgeous.” 
“No, I don’t have a perm.”
“No, I don’t have a perm.”
“No, I don’t have a perm.”
“No, I’m not from Africa. I’m American, despite the fact that I don’t have blonde hair and blue eyes.” 
“These are my boobs and you will not grab them or I will smack you!” (Just kidding. I didn’t really say that, although I really wanted to.)
“Yes, I know I’m fat. Thank you so much for pointing it out so bluntly.” 
That last one did not just come from the kids, but from too many of the grown-ups around my neighborhood, as well. 


I’d be lying if I said that it didn’t bother me that so many Korean people used to take the time to stop me while I was walking down the street and tell me that I was very fat. Honestly, it sucked hard. I never really thought of myself as being all that big. Yes, I know I’m chubby and I’ve dieted before, but I really didn’t think I was that big when I got here. I was exactly the average clothing size for an American woman. But Korean people, and especially Korean women, are not at all like American women in that respect. They’re teeny-tiny. As a matter of fact, I was just having a conversation with one of my students yesterday and she told me (very proudly) that her mother is 161 centimeters (5’3”) and 45 kilograms (99 pounds). Now, I’m no expert, but I’m looking at the Rush University Medical Center website and according to their ideal height and weight chart, she’s actually underweight (ideal for 5’3” is anything between 104-127 pounds). By that same token, I know that I’m beyond what my “ideal” weight would be for being 5’9”. I’m also aware that she’s closer to her ideal weight than I am to mine. Still, being my size didn’t really bother me very much. It bothered me that people were so rude about it, but my size and weight didn’t really bug me. 


Actually, I decided to take all of the things that were so “weird” about my physical appearance and own them. I mean, really own them. I decided to stop wearing bigger clothing that would hide my curves (boobs, butt, and hips) and just wear whatever I thought was cute. I decided to stop straightening my hair every day and just let my hair do its thing. I decided that I would flaunt my skin color (I never thought I’d have to flaunt it, since so many people back home either had skin like mine or they paid a lot of money to get a tan like mine) and be an advocate for the, “Just because we have dark skin doesn’t mean that we’re sad or evil” crowd. I decided that I would own my giantesque eyes, but also point out that their eyes were beautiful as well. I decided that I’d strut down the street, proudly, because of the fact that I can see clearly over the heads of the vast majority of the people here and that I never need a stool to help me reach the jars on the top shelf. I even owned the whole “small face” thing, even though I still don’t really know what they’re talking about. But, overall, I decided to really own my size. 


Too many of them seemed to have this idea that because I was chubby, I was automatically ugly, undesirable, lonely, and pathetic. They would make comments like, “Maybe if you lose weight, you will find man to want to be your husband.” My response, at first, was always that I actually had a boyfriend and that I had been engaged twice previously, but I decided it wasn’t for me. After a while, though, I just realized that I didn’t need to explain myself and that I should just be me and enjoy myself regardless of how many rude comments I got. As it turns out, I actually did end up losing some weight because of the difference in life style here compared to what it was back home. It wasn’t a huge amount, but it was nice because I wasn’t even trying.

Anyway, up until today, I am still chubby and I’ve been ok with it. The only thing that has really bothered me is the lack of clothing that actually fits me in this country. It’s bad enough that I already have limited options because I’m so much taller than most of the people here, but another major problem is that pretty much all of the clothing that is sold here is “One Size”. That means, obviously, that they only make it in one size and your choices are limited to either making sure that you remain skinny, or you walk around naked… 

I don’t know about you, but I have a little bit of a problem with the idea of walking around nakers, no matter how much I own my curves. 

I’ve tried ordering clothes from back home, but the problem is that it becomes astronomically expensive and inconvenient to buy clothes from home because… 
A) I’m always running the risk that they won’t fit well because I can’t try them on first. 
B) I have to pay for shipping to get them to my mom’s house and then I have to pay shipping to have her send them to Korea. 
C) When I buy from a website that delivers straight to Korea, the clothes are disgustingly expensive and then Korean Customs holds my package for ransom at Incheon Airport because they ALSO feel the need to charge me import taxes. 
By the way, Korea, we need to have a serious conversation about your lack of logical thinking and consideration when it comes to this. If you were to simply make clothes in a variety of sizes, all of us non-underweight (and I do mean non-underweight, not just chubby) people would be more than happy to purchase our clothes from you and you would get ALL of the business, instead of being bitter about us buying clothing from abroad and then slapping us with a major tax. But I digress…


I recently started looking at other options because buying clothes from home was just completely inconvenient and hugely costly. I decided to try to have a tailor make simple clothing for me, so I went with a friend to buy some fabric and then took it to a nearby tailor to have her make me a skirt…
THE WOMAN WANTED TO CHARGE ME 5O BUCKS TO MAKE ONE SKIRT!!! And she didn’t even have to go get the fabric because it was already there, sitting in front of her!! Maybe If I was back home and a tailor told me that it was gonna be $50 for one skirt, then I wouldn’t be so upset because the cost of everything there is MUCH higher than it is here. 


I’m sorry, but that’s below the belt. How much more difficult can one place make it for someone like me to be able to wear clothes? 
I can’t find clothes that fit me here. 
I can’t order them from overseas because I have to pay for shipping, shipping again, and then import tax. Seriously, my cost for clothes here is astronomical.
And I can’t have my clothes made for me because the tailors take advantage and jack up the prices. It’s almost as if they all got together and thought, “Hmmm… What else can we do to completely destroy their sense of self-worth and dignity? They refuse to look the way we tell them they have to look, so we’ll just f*uck with them until they cave.” 


Well, Korea, you did it. Congratulations to you. I have finally decided that I am going to lose weight so that I can just buy some freaking clothes and try to salvage whatever is left of my dignity. It’s not bad around my foreign friends because I know they get me and that they accept me for who I am. My dignity is still intact when I’m around them. But seriously, Korea! You know, people are different, and that’s ok! Stop trying to make everyone fit into your cookie cutter idea of what everyone should be like. 


Anyway, my friend and I decided to go on a strict diet and work-out program so that we can lose some weight and finally be able to buy some clothes. They may still not fit because I’m so tall, but at least it’ll be easier to buy shorts, t-shirts, and skirts. Shoes are a whole other Oprah that I won’t go into right now. 


*Sigh* You know what, Korea? I love you, but sometimes you drive me nuts when it comes to things like these. I’m going to go ahead and lose the weight, but there are things about me that I refuse to let you change and that you can’t change even if you try. 


Me llamo Marisol Tena. Soy Chicana y tengo la piel morena. No me vengan con sus cremas blanqueadoras, porque yo no las quiero. Tengo el pelo chino y alborotado y no lo quiero controlar. Soy alta, tengo curvas, y si ustedes no las aprecian, creanme que otra gente si lo hacen. Espero que con el tiempo ustedes vean la belleza en otra gente de la misma manera que nosotros hemos visto la belleza en ustedes.

New Year Tripping in Taiwan

Ok. I know it's been about 6 months now since I came back from Taiwan, but I finally finished the video of my trip. I make these long videos mainly for my family back home because I know they're the ones who are most interested in knowing how my life is going and what it is that I do on my trips to other countries. 


If you're not a family member but are still interested in watching my longer videos, congratulations! You're on my list of cool people. Not that it's a requirement for being on the list, but it definitely gives you a leg up. 


=)

We're Gonna Chill...

Some of you may think that teaching English as a second language might be boring. There are a lot of grammar lessons, a lot of vocabulary tests, and a lot of slow-talking involved in what most people think of as ESL classes. Well, not necessarily. 


It doesn't have to go that way. There is a lot of that stuff involved in my classes, except for the slow-talking. I refuse to slow down to a condescendingly slow speech speed. But aside from that, there is a lot of room, I think, to play with the language and have fun with the kids. I do, of course, teach the kids the "proper" way to speak, but we also joke around a lot and they now understand such things as, "Art thou ready, my dears?", which they get is a very old way of speaking. Another thing that I do with them is that I randomly insert different colloquialisms from different places so that they get a sense of how the language is actually used by native English speakers rather than just how it's done by the book. In this case, I inserted one of my own colloquialisms from back home. 


Enjoy!  =)


P.S. Most of these kindergarteners didn't speak or understand any English a couple of months ago. I think their homeroom teacher, Stacey, and the rest of us have been doing a pretty good job (if I do say so myself).

Where In the World Am I From?

*Sigh*

There's something that has been on my mind for years now but has been really bugging me recently. Ever since I was a kid and I started school, I have been hyper-aware that my last name is not very common in the U.S. My schools never had any other students with my same last name unless they were my siblings. This was, apparently, also the case for hospitals because once when my mom went to a hospital in L.A. and someone took her name to check her in, they immediately felt the need to call a nurse who had the same last name and was shocked to meet someone else with the same surname. She very briefly interviewed  my mom about her last name and exchanged phone numbers with her. This was probably not standard hospital procedure, but it goes to show how uncommon we are in the U.S. And we're even more uncommon here in Korea. I wouldn't be surprised if I'm the only one in the entire peninsula. It's a very lonely feeling. 

Anyway, I know that my family is from Mexico and my dad, specifically, is from  Michoacán . I've been there before. It's a beautiful place. But that's not where my family name comes from. It's not an indigenous American name. It's a Spanish name. That much is obvious to me. I do, as most other Mexican people, have Spanish blood in me. I have done some research throughout the years, and found that there's even a valley in Spain called Valle de Tena. The problem is that I can't, for the life of me, find out what the name means. What's the etymology of the name? Who named that valley so? Why? I can't remember where it was that I found this, but I think I remember "Tena" translating over to "tent". So in essence, Valle de Tena would translate to "Valley of the Tents". The problem is that I can't remember where I got that from and I can't find it on the internet anymore. 

There's another thing that I wonder about. It seems that during the Middle Ages, this valley in the Spanish  Pyrénées was swamped by "rebels" who were trying to escape Romanization (Christianity). This included many Muslim people. So then, is there a possibility that Tena is an Arabic word? How do you say "tent" in Arabic? Had the valley already been named by the time the Moors got there?

To bring it back to more recent times, I believe the first Tena went to the Americas in the early 1700's. I imagine it must have been a man named Manuel Tena because just about every Tena family in North America has a couple of Manuel men in it. I, myself, am no exception. My youngest brother is Manuel, my dad is Manuel, my grandfather is Manuel, and I imagine it goes on and on. I see a lot of Manuel Tenas on the internet whenever I google. 

If you have absolutely no interest in genealogy, then this blog probably just bored the living hell out of you. Sorry. lol. They're just thoughts that I randomly have to put down in writing because I don't want to forget them. I think that in all of the travel plans that I have, I'm going to have to include a trip to Michoacan, Mexico so that I can ask to look through official government archives and piece together my family tree. I also have plans of living in Spain for a couple of years. So if that goes as planned, I will have to do more research into the etymology of my family name while I'm there, cuz it's driving me nuts!!

Street Cred

As educators, there comes a time when we realize that no matter how good we may be at teaching, it's all to no avail if the students refuse to pay attention. It is exactly then that we learn we must earn our place as teachers to these kids.

But how do we prove ourselves? Well, I could sit there and explain to them that I've been working with kids for the last 10 years and that I have my degree in English and blah, blah, blah, but it would all go right over their heads and they wouldn't care about any of it. So what do we do? Sometimes we have to show them our softer sides. Sometimes we have to show that we're just as rough and tough as they are... And yet other times, we have to prove to them that we can be just as gross as they are. Especially when talking about 9 year-old kids.

Too Afraid to Love You

I know the title sounds super melodramatic and mooshy, but I titled it so because that's the name of the song I'm blogging about today.

No, I'm not going through some sort of emotional drama in which I'm too afraid to open my heart up to someone. And no, I'm not ranting about a lover who recently dumped me. I just wanted to briefly blog about this song because my only experience with it has been while I've been here in Korea and it really does get on my nerves (the song). lol.

I actually wanted to blog about this song because I first heard it about a year ago and I haven't heard it ever since. Not until today when I was listening to Jango at work. It came up and I remembered how much I hate this stupid song. Don't get me wrong, I think the lyrics and the music are great! And I really like the Black Keys. What I hate about this stupid song is the overall sentiment of it. It's so pathetic. Why have I waited a year after I first heard the song to rant about it? Well, I'm not entirely sure. I think it might have something to do with my upcoming birthday and the things that I know I always wanted to say but I never did. I'm turning 30 in a couple of weeks and I feel like I have wasted a lot of time trying to be appropriate and polite and dignified. That may not sound right to most of you who know me because it probably seems like I usually say exactly what I want to say whenever I want to say it, but believe me, there's still a lot of filtering that goes on in my head before I let words fly out of my face.

Anyway, why do I think this song is so pathetic? Well, the way I see it, this song is about a man who feels stuck. A man who IS stuck. Stuck working and fretting over absolutely nothing. He knows there are great opportunities out there but he's too busy being afraid to actually go out and get them. He wants to find love and be with someone, he even meets a great girl who he really seems to like, but he refuses to put his fears aside and just go for it. It's all so pathetic. I've heard it before. "I've been hurt before. I don't want to get hurt again, so I'm not gonna let myself get too emotionally involved. I like you and I really feel like I could love you, but... Oh, I don't want to put myself out there, so instead I'm gonna end it."

Well, maybe I haven't heard the last part so clearly worded, but it's not too hard to tell sometimes.

It bothers me to hear that sometimes because I think it's unfair and stupid to lay on that kind of emotional baggage on someone who you have no idea if he/she is a good person or not. Listen, I've been screwed over quite a few times myself. It hasn't been fun. It hurt like a b*tch. But really, why should I shut every other guy out when he could very well be great? It's hard at first right after having your heart broken, but it gets better if you allow it to get better. If you go through your entire life with that "I'm too afraid to love you" mentality, when is it that you're supposed to find this "pair" that you wish you could be a part of? Can someone explain the rationality in that? I know this song is not about rationality, and I'm a pretty emotional person myself (seriously), but come on! Even I can put aside emotions sometimes to think rationally about a situation before I bring my emotions back in again. And sometimes the most rational thing to do is to just follow your emotions and see where it takes you.

I'm not in any way saying that we should be reckless with our hearts and place trust in whoever shows up. No, no! That's not what I'm saying. What I AM saying is that we also can't assume that every person we meet is going to be a jerk. Every person we meet is not going to fit that idea of what they're all like. "They're all the same!" No, they're not. Stop telling yourself that they are because what you end up doing then is formulating a self-fulfilling prophesy. You end up attracting that which you tell yourself you despise and never want to have anything to do with. Believe me, I've done it myself before. I'm not just talking out of my butt. I speak from experience.

Stranger Danger? Nah! More Like Warm Fuzzies.

Well, it's been a few weeks since I came back from my trip to Taiwan and it has been interesting, if nothing else.

Now, before I continue with my story for tonight, I have to say that there's another blog coming soon about the actual trip to Taiwan. I know I posted one before, but it really just concentrated on my accident more than anything else and I don't want to give the impression that I had a bad time while I was there. So, "Taiwan: Parte Dos" is coming soon to a computer monitor near you...

Anyway, as I was saying, the last few weeks have been interesting despite the fact that I haven't been able to do very much of anything. Mainly because I have witnessed some serious kindness from the people who surround me; not just my friends, but also people who I have never met before or have only seen in passing. Strangers, really. I don't want to paint a rosy picture and say that everything is always perfect. I think that people who refuse to accept that there is always a good side and a bad side to everything are really just kidding themselves. However, people have really been making a good impression on me lately and I think I'm beginning to understand why...

I HAVE A MAJOR PROBLEM ADMITTING THAT SOMETIMES I NEED HELP.

Does that sound at all like me? I never really thought of this as a problem because I never really had to think about it. With the exception of moving from one home to another, dealing with daddy issues (shout-out to Scotty and Matt! thanks for all the help!), and other random little things, I've dealt with and figured out most things on my own like a big girl. Usually the hard way. These last few weeks, however, have been very different. I haven't been able to walk, except with the use of my crutches, and I haven't been able to carry things either because my hands are preoccupied with the crutches. This means that I have been EXTREMELY dependent on others for just about everything. It made me, and continues to make me, uncomfortable. If there's anything that I really hate in this world, it's the sight of a helpless woman. Not helpless because she really can't do things herself, but because she refuses to try to do things on her own. Maybe it's very judgmental of me, but that's how I feel. It's how I was brought up. God gave you two hands: one to help yourself and another one to help others. It's also my "survival of the fittest" mentality, I think. Let's face it, I wasn't exactly born with a silver spoon in my mouth. I'm from East L.A. and was raised in South Central and Pacoima. If you can't take care of yourself there and figure out a way to lift yourself up, then there's really not much hope for you or your offspring.

Which reminds me, I'd like to take a moment here to go off on a slight tangent. I have been told by a few people throughout the last 15 months I've been in Korea, that I have a permanent "angry" expression on my face. lol. It used to surprise me at first, but I've gotten a little more used to the comments by now. My explanation for my expression is this: People with benevolent faces don't always make it home in one piece on the walk back from school in the ghetto. I learned that lesson well in adolescence. Pacoima Middle School and San Fernando High, you taught me many things. At any rate, I'm trying to iron out the "intimidating" frown. Don't let it scare you away. :)

Anyway, back to my main topic. People, for the most part, have been AMAZINGLY WONDERFUL to me the last few weeks. I wasn't sure what I was gonna do when the doctor forbade me to walk, but I have had a constant train of people calling and coming over to help me do everything like cooking for me, washing my dishes, sweeping my floors, taking out my trash, going to the bank for me, going to the market for me, fluffing my pillow, picking up the other pillow that fell behind my bed, etc., etc., etc. Why did I really need all that help, because I also bruised my ribs pretty freakin' badly and it hurt like a motherf*cker to move my torso.

And that was just in my home life! My work life has been amazing, too! With the exception of a battle that I had with my boss about paid illness/injury time that I was entitled to according to my contract (and that he refused to give me in the end) (*raspberries*), my co-workers and students have been truly awesome. They've set it up for me so that my desk is the closest to the door and my classes are taught in the closest classroom to the teacher's room. My co-workers have been willingly helping me whenever they can and the kids have been reporting to the office at the beginning of each class to help me carry my books, pens, laptop, you name it! I've been getting spoiled!

Last week, I finally decided that I was done taking my pain killers and that I was going to try to move around a little more. Nothing major, just little things like going to the coffee shop next door or to the convenience store on the first floor of my apartment building. Random people who I've never met have been stopping to try to help me with whatever they can. They open doors, hold the elevator, they extend their arms out to help me down the steps... That one got to me. A little old lady saw me trying to get down the two steps at the front of my school's building and she stretched out her arm and helped me down. I almost started to cry. Not because I was sad or frustrated, but because it was such a nice thing of her to do. It's something that I would've offered to do for an older person on any other day, but she turned it around on me and helped me down. She looked at me with the most concerned face and said something in Korean. She was obviously asking me what had happened, and all I could say was, "Aigo!", which kinda translates to "Oh, my!" or "Oops!" This made her smile a little, she said something else, I said thank you, and we parted ways. Same thing with the owners of the convenience store downstairs. I hobbled in, they saw me, proceeded to carry everything that I had was picking out, and then they refused to let me carry the bag back upstairs to my apartment. The wife came with me and put the bags down just inside my apartment entrance. She did this two days ago and she did it again today. We had a nice conversation, all in Korean, the whole way up today. She asked me what had happened, I told her I was in a traffic accident. She asked me if my armpits were tired from the crutches, I laughed and said yes. She asked me if I had eaten yet, I told her I was ordering chicken from Pelicana in a little while. She looked surprised at that and asked me if the people that take the phone orders speak English, so I said that I speak just enough Korean to be able to order food and have it delivered to my apartment. She laughed, put my groceries down inside my apartment again, and bid me goodnight.

I guess what I'm trying to get at with all of this is that I had forgotten one major part of my "survival of the fittest" mentality. That is, not only must we be able to take care of ourselves, but we must also surround ourselves with good people and inspire them to want to take care of us in the undesired event that we may actually need it. We need to be able to recognize that other people know that they were given two hands also, one to to help themselves, and the other to help other people. Korea, you continue to teach me many things.

<3

An Important Message...

“The sacred rights of mankind are not to be rummaged for among old parchments or musty records. They are written, as with a sunbeam, in the whole volume of human nature, by the Hand of Divinity itself, and can never be erased or obscured by mortal power.”

― Alexander Hamilton

We Are Young and We Are Stupid: Taiwan for New Year 2012!

I've been in Korea for 14 months now and I have decided that the time for me to really get out, see the world, and see what I'm made of, is now. It was with that in mind that I decided that I wanted to travel around Asia as much as possible while I'm here. Since I only get a couple of short breaks per year, I planned out an awesome trip to Taiwan. None of my fiends here in Daejeon were able to go with me this time around as they already had their own travel plans or were staying put for New Year's, so I decided to go by myself. As the day of the trip drew nearer, one of my friends from Seoul said that he was gonna be going to Taiwan also and that we should hang out while we were there. My solo trip had just turned into treking around a foreign island nation with a buddy which I actually didn't mind a bit because, let's face it, I'm a talker. Talking to myself gets pretty boring pretty fast. I was also scheduled to meet up with my friend Jimmy who used to live in Daejeon but is now living in Taipei, so that promised to be good.

When I got to Taiwan, I contacted my friend Jose to let him know that I was there and coordinate our meeting in Kenting, which is on the southern tip of Taiwan. We had a good first day in Taiwan as we wandered around the night market and ate everything (or almost everything) in sight. The next day, I got up and had an awesome breakfast at the hotel. I was staying at the Caesar Park, which is the first 5 star hotel I've ever stayed at, so it was a good morning meal. I met Jose on the beach right around noon and we left to go rent scooters and explore the rest of the southern shore...

That's when our entire trip turned upside down.

Not long after we rented the scooters, we were driving down the main road in Kenting and I got into a pretty bad accident, although I didn't really realize it at the time. I'm not gonna go into the details of how the accident happened because it's not a story I wish to recount or remember. My official story, for the purposes of making light of the situation, goes as follows:

"I was cruising on a Harley along the southern coast of Taiwan when a mama duck waddled onto the road with her line of ducklings trailing behind. I, trying to save the baby ducks and their mommy, swerved out of the way and subsequently fell off a cliff onto jagged rocks... Fortunately I seem to be made of tough stuff and I managed to elude death."

Obviously, it's up to you if you want to believe any of that, but that's my story and I'm sticking to it! lol.

Anyway, I'm really glad that my friend was there because I have no idea what I would've done if he weren't there. He did not leave my side the entire time and was really good at keeping me calm and focused. He even went out later that night and got me a Happy Meal from McDonald's to try to make me feel better. It did. :)

There was also a really nice couple who stopped when the accident happened. They were super awesome and helped us a lot with the entire process of translating everything, as neither Jose or I speak Chinese. They even gave Jose their phone number in case we needed them for anything after they were gone. As it turns out, we did need them again later to help clear up more of the process of the damages done to property and they went out of their way to make phone calls and even drive back to where we were. As far as Good Samaritans go, they were pretty high up there on the "good" scale. I don't know if they believe in Heaven or not, but I think they have a well-deserved spot up there. Really, I can't say enough good things about them.

The whole ordeal took up the entire day, and that didn't even include hospital time because I refused to go for a couple of reasons.

A) I didn't know if I could trust Taiwanese hospitals, and

B) I really didn't feel very hurt at the moment.

It wasn't until later that night that I started to really feel the pain in my right knee, my left arm, and my ribs.

The EMTs that had attended to me earlier in the day said that nothing seemed to be broken, so I chucked it all off to soreness, bumps and bruises, and continued to be stubborn about not going to the hospital even though Jose, and later on in the trip, my friend Jimmy, kept begging me the entire time to go to the hospital. "What if something's broken?" All I could think of was, "Broken? I can't be broken! I don't have time to be broken! I'm only in Taiwan for 5 days! I've got things to do and people to see!" I kept telling them that I was fine and we should continue on our trip as if nothing had happened. Reluctantly, they obliged and we had an awesome few days in Taiwan. Taiwan was beautiful and I was glad that I didn't miss too much of it. We even got to see the countdown and fireworks show at Taipei 101! It was awesome!

That is, of course, until I got back home to Korea and I finally went to the hospital.

Total damage to my self:

- 2 fractures on my right knee

- Severely bruised ribs

- SEVERELY bruised ego.

All of this plus 6 weeks of recovery time, the outrageous medical expenses, and the cost of damages to property. Many lessons learned.

It sounds like a pretty shitty ordeal, but I have to remember something that I've heard my mom say before: "Pero lo paseada quien me lo quita?" *

=)

Special thanks go out to Samson and Nydia for being super nice and helping us out, to my friend Jimmy for showing us around Taipei, and of course to my friend Jose for helping a gimpy old lady throughout the entire trip. Muchas gracias, de todo corazon!!

*Lose translation from Spanish to English: "Who's gonna take away the trip/fun I already had?"

OH!! And thank you, too, to my friend Nadia who has been helping me out since I got back from the trip, and to her co-worker (my new friend) Alice for going with me and Nadia to the hospital here in Korea and translating everything for us.