Pi Phi's Foundations, as Hard as Big Hearts

Pi Beta Phi Sorority sits in the middle of fraternity row on Piedmont Avenue in Berkeley, California. In a certain given week, passersby may hear high-pitched shouts coming from inside chanting, "Who are WE? PI PHI! ..." during recruitment week. Girls come and go throughout their college experience, and some boys even slip in. The house is kept up by the National Pi Beta Phi Foundation, but there are a few individuals that often go unseen and are arguably more of a foundation to the house than anyone else.

Juana, Tomas, and their son Victor have worked in the Pi Phi house for over a decade now; they have seen thousands of girls live in the house and have worked with a handful of house moms through the years. Humbly working the kitchen, they not only feed the bellies of hungry college girls, but they fed my soul with their kind hearts.

Juana and Tomas looking good for their nephew's wedding

Juana and Tomas are from Mexico and are some of the hardest workers I know, enduring so much and making a livelihood for their next generation in the family, always with a smile. Paths crossed in the kitchen corridor as I learned more about their family, and as I was invited to Juana's birthday party, and her nephew's wedding. I learned something different from my time with them than my education at Berkeley. The people I meet are my education, and these two were my Berkeley parents. After a long day at work, I would come home late for dinner, look around for some leftovers, and chat with my favorite company.

It's amazing what kind of impressions can be broken when you talk to someone, when you listen to someone. At first glance, these two were the Pi Phi workers, and that defined them in this house. They are more to me than that now; our encounters at Pi Phi were just a way of getting to know what they were all about- beyond the facade of a sorority house. 

These two are exemplary figures in their family of strength and hard work. They have built a beautiful life for their family in Berkeley and that feeling resonated to my friends that went to the nephew's wedding. It resonated when we went over to their house for Juana's birthday celebration. It resonated again when I recently visited them a year after graduation. They welcomed me with open arms at Ashby Bart station. A dinner out, a visit to Victor's family's house, and a cozy night's sleep- my mind swirling with the rusty Spanish I used all day- and I could not have felt more love and friendship.

I wish I had the talent to draw this feeling of coming back from a long school day to my Pi Phi parents, sitting on the stool in the kitchen eating my dinner, chatting with the lovely pair, and feeling at home. You will just have to imagine it yourself. 

The Grammar of Music: Out in Space

I am taking a group beginning piano class, with the first priority being an excuse to see my good college friend; the piano comes second. The class is a hoot, with frequent snack breaks and chatty cathys. Nevertheless, we always get to the piano part. As the students attentively listen to each other perform our pieces, I get to thinking.

We learn about notation as the grammar of music, everything that makes and creates a coherent piece of music. The accidentals, pauses, time scale, chords, all contribute to something that would sound like a well-formulated, educated...sentence? Indeed it is true, as a faulty note makes you cringe just as a conjugation error might. A wrong chord makes you as unsure as a misused word. Pauses make for a dramatic effect; the speed and strength of playing also add drama, just as they would in speech. And then there's the spaces between notes, as important as the spacebar on your keyboard.

One question from a fellow student got me thinking about what's in a space. "Why do they even divide the notes like that?" Our teacher Ms. Rodriguez responds, "Spaces, Kathy, it's all about spaces!"

About a year ago, I was writing a paper on a few poems and I was heading in the direction of describing how black ink makes words on a page, but the contrasting white paper defines it. Without the contrast we couldn't understand a thing. As annoyingly metapoetic as this is, I see the white page now as SPACE. Just as the space within the lines of a measure in music. Without those spaces, we don't have music- no harmony or melody or symphony or song.

Yet very often we disregard those white spaces- the simple tap of the space bar, the simple break in a line, the simple indent on a page. And yet, they are the structure, the foundation, and the creation of music and literature alike.

Certainly psychedelic is the idea of space, just as it is in our daily lives. To ask for some space or time alone sounds antisocial, odd, and kind of offensive. Yet, really, how are we to live without just a little bit of space to be an individual note on the measure, word on the page, and individual in this grand world? The grammar of music has shown me how to be an individual, and also a member of a chord. Both versions (individual or member) have unique attributes; either one depends on the time and place.

I guess all I'm really saying is that we all need some space to make ourselves individuals, but it doesn't hurt having someone else close by. 

Pitching the American Game

As the movie 42 swept the nation, even I made the effort to go see it. Granted, I did have a free movie pass, so that only further motivated the hopelessly frugal side of me. I had been thinking a lot about the American game in the past months before I saw Chadwick Boseman's fabulous bat at Jackie Robinson's character. Boseman hit it home. This would be a good time to warn my reader of the terrible baseball analogies to come throughout this post. However, if you are in a cheesy mood, you're in the right place.

My cousins are a baseball family, six boys and one girl, with a total count of nine teammates. Recently, my sister and I have been to a couple of the boys' games at Long Beach State and Orange Coast College. Let me tell you, sometimes it takes someone close to heart to understand something otherwise you would never really appreciate: baseball.



Long Beach State game

What caught my attention was the silent moment before the pitch. Filled with tension and the unknown, the pitcher and catcher subtly communicate with funky signs and hand motions. On the mound after shaking off a pitch a few times, the pitcher and catcher come to agreement and decide on what is to come. Then, the tension before the pitch sets in: stomping feet like a bull, slyly checking on the runners, and winding up with one knee to the sky. In scientific terms, the potential energy peaks at this moment.

As I see it, baseball is a game of patiently waiting for action, quick decisions when the action comes, and then assuming the position of patience yet again. From what I remember of my first and only(laughable) season playing softball in 8th grade, staying in the game was all mental. It could drive you mental, too, if you didn't play it right.

That being said, the other day my dad made an analogy to baseball and the game of life sitting with his aging dad. It was a few weeks ago when we were visiting our grandparents in Florida at their senior living center, a relatively new situation for the couple. Grandpa Palmer, an 89-year-old WWII Purple Heart Veteran and former Chicago cop is a tough guy and is used to keeping busy. Now, he has a grumpy old man attitude about selling the house and living in this new place. I can't blame him- they take care of everything for him so he is left with nothing to do.




Grandpa Palmer and son on the Gulf

After a few days of visiting with my lovely grandparents, my dad's baseball analogy came out of left field while conversing with Grandpa the night before our departure. It went something like this: "You know Dad, some may think of life as a baseball game; that last pitch can be just as important as the first, the game winner even. The last inning could change everything." Grandpa kind of grumbled over the point, saying something about counting his blessings, and moving on to the topic of organizing his investments before his passing. But the message struck home for me.

The message I heard was that of making progress in every pitch, before every play, after every error, and through all the tense moments. Making progress we play the American game every day up to our last, awaiting moments of action and appreciating the tension in the silence. How is that for some cheesy food for thought? I believe Jackie Robinson would agree that each moment matters, for a homerun is just a pitch away.

Gaga for Good, Not Great

We know of the world's greatest: Steve Jobs of Apple, Messi on the pitch, and Sasha Fierce at the Superbowl halftime show. But I know good. Here's a poem dedicated to my Grandpa McWeeney, who has known the two sure things in life being death and taxes, and has lived with the other uncertainties one day at time. Now arriving at 97 years old, three cheers to the good man:

He was great at it all.

From making sandwiches to making smiles
From riding his bike to walking miles
Cook lemon chicken, that he'd do
Pasta primavera, indeed that too.

He was a classy man.

From head to toe, no denying it.
From shoelace to collar, the perfect fit.
White hat and green jacket
We'll never forget.

A family man.

He combed their hair
A 20 minute nap, back into the lair.
For every special date,
Memorizing the license plate.

A true Renaissance man.

Yet to pull a boast from him-
More likely you'll get toast with jam,
With all your might, I doubt you could.
The best of his greatness, he was so good.

You've Got Mail, Somewhere Over the Rainbow

Who doesn't love the feeling of getting a soulful piece of mail? Not the bills or advertisements; rather the thoughtfully written, sealed and sent letter from a good friend. I have a few nostalgic tendencies, and snail mail is my favorite by far. Whenever I am feeling down, these notes grow a smile and all my pearly whites see the break of day. Sometimes, I'll admit, revisiting past letters can draw out tears as well. When I studied abroad in Spain, nothing comforted me more than receiving a few gems from home including my "Happy 21st Birthday" chocolate cake shot from my bartending brother, wrapped in a bandana (1 part kettle one, one part kahlua, sugar on the edge, lemon to chase and it tastes just like a piece of chocolate birthday cake). Amazing that it even made it overseas, unharmed. Other good mail gems I've received over the years include Anne's stationary from Berlin; Jenny's handpainted card from India; the singing birthday cards I got in college every year from my mom; and a cat-shaped letter from Cate in Italy. If you could capture the joy of mail in a jar, it would surely make fireworks and then explode once you tried to put a lid on it.



Patiently waiting for the mail, courtesy of Creative Commons

For every yin there is a yang. The downside of snail mail is the waiting game. Void of modern speed and delivery assurance, there is a certain mystery to the mail you send. Will they recieve it? When? How? When will they respond? How long do I wait for a response? These are some parallel feelings to the macrogame of life that we are all playing together, as really I find our patience is always being tested. We wait to get test results, anticipating the best and preparing for the worst. We wait to be accepted into a dream graduate program, unsure of where we may be placed. Our patience is tested as we wait 9 months for the baby to come, hoping everything goes well. We anxiously apply to jobs as we wait to see where we may land. In the anticipation, though, we learn patience. We must. And behind patience is hope, as hope is the only thing that can make the waiting game endurable.

A lot of our lives is a test to our patience, up until our final breath. We don't know what path our life might take, as much as we try to plan for and pursue certain opportunities, careers, and lifestyles. Thus, we become patient people, hoping that we will get that neatly wrapped package with the pretty bow on it soon, and yet fully prepared for a mangled disheartening package as well. Knowing that we are all in it together, I believe we should make it easier on each other whenever possible. A smile, a lift, and a thank-you go further than you'd imagine. And hey, why not take a moment out of worrying about the future and spend some time frolicking in the fields. Okay, maybe there is no field to be frolicked in near you, but a park will do.

Perhaps, somewhere over the rainbow, we will feel something like this:

 

Profile: Mike the Bike

I wanted to share a poem I wrote for my brother on his 21st birthday. So here's a tribute to my not-so-little brother:

Mike the Bike ain't no tyke anymore.
Now he's all grown, chin fuzz his own,
And plans on his mind to soar.
Ain't no Mike I don't like,
Though some I truly favor.
Microwaves I can do without,
They rob away the flavor.
Microphones? Don't need their help,
I alone can hollar and yelp.
Microsoft, another type of monster,
Though keys and cookies ain't that gangster.
But Mike the Bike, you grass-eatin' rascal
No doubt in my mind, you win the tackle.
Ain't no Mike I could love more
Right on down to your soccer-lovin',
Bear-huggin', side-pinchin' core. 

Hidden Treasures in Optimism

Omar and Arcelia from 107.5 Superestrella radio told me that if you want to lower your cholesteral without working out, without a pill, without a diet, you could try optimism. A study at Harvard recently concluded that an optimistic attitude equates to lower cholesterol. Though it sounds like bogus, perhaps that is grandpa's old cough medicine. When it comes down to all the problems, obstacles, and heartaches we have to endure, doesn't our attitude change everything? How we handle things internally determines more than we know.

All from a grain of sand, Courtesy of Creative Commons

We can find hidden treasures even in the most desperate situations. For example, one day 6-year-old Jaylee and I went to the park looking for adventure. Imaginative Jaylee started looking for hidden treasure in the sand at the playground. Determined that the "X's" (that so magically appeared in the sand) were signs for treasure, she dug and dug and ended up finding a dollar underneath an "X". Truth be told, an inconspicuous 6-year-old was marking the sand, and an incognito 22-year-old snuck the dollar under one of Jaylee's treasure marks. And, just like that, with a little bit of improvisation, we had an adventurous day at the park complete with treasure. What we make of it, hiding a dollar in the sandbox to find a treasure for Jaylee. Turns out, our life is all what we make of it.

So next time you are worried about ordering egg whites, deciding to go on an extra-long jog, or looking at medicine to lower cholesteral, consider going the optimistic route and try changing your attitude in stressful situations. Attention: Please note this is coming from a completely unprofessional source, and that I have no medical background. But I do take the optimistic pill and have no problems with cholesterol.