Posted on by Anelemc

Spam I am…

Spam

The disgusting radioactive nitrate laden meat substitute 
my single mom working full time 
served with love and a pan-fried egg drenched in Mazola

Spam

Cooked in a small non-stick pan by
I, the latchkey kid to consume
after a vicious name calling day at Catholic school

Spam

Easy to open, cut into parts and thrown
into a pan of hot oil-how
the outside world treats a BLACK kid 

 Spam

The adult me still craves it and cooks it
although it’s now cooked in olive oil
as mom passed on   

 Spam

The consumption of this toxic delicacy is triggered by
childhood memories popping up time to time
along with mom working so hard

 Spam

The packaging feels like steel protecting the 
soft meat inside 
like how mí alma prepares itself before stepping out…

 * mí alma-my soul


Posted on by Anelemc

Being Unprivileged in a Privileged World…or Being Privileged in an Unprivileged World

Privileged
having no clue what it means to be privileged.

Unprivileged
you damn well know your lane

Privileged
having an easy path based on a phenotype

Unprivileged
knowing where the colour lines begin and end

Privilege
not moving out of the way while walking down a street

Unprivileged
moving out of the way

Privileged
the giver of condescending treatment based on speaking a language so well

Unprivileged
the recipient of the condescending treatment because the language is not in line
with the King’s English or Castilian Spanish

Privileged
knowing a promotion is inevitable because you are white, male, full of testosterone

Unprivileged
knowing a promotion is not coming your way because you are black, female, lacking
in estrogen

Privileged
having others bow down to your so called uniqueness, your identity at being
celebrated when once the outcast of society

Unprivileged
having others skin up their noses because of your so called darkness, your identity
ostracized at not fitting core perceptions of what you should be

Privileged
using your PHD in passive/aggressive tactics

Unprivileged
raising your voice to drown out the passive/aggressive tactic

Privileged
I am the unapologetically angry Black and Hispanic old woman who sure as hell does not speak the Kings’ English but loves to spell certain words the English way and an intelligent seasoned woman

I am the unapologetically angry Black and Hispanic intelligent and seasoned woman
who can claim both sides of her culture shamelessly and can proudly speak the little Honduran Spanish I know with a smile on MY face.

Posted on by Anelemc

Memory Box or…How Many Times Does The Word Memory Appear

My memories are stored in a Memory box located somewhere in mi alma (soul) and accessed through the head. It is not made of rose gold or lined with fancy crystals, no lock or combination to enter or exit. The Memory box is invisible as are the memories stored inside. Like all other boxes, there is a limit as to how much can be stored. In the case of the Memory box in which memories are thrown in haphazardly it can be trying when it comes to cleaning out the rubbish-what to keep, what is of no consequence and of course, there are the ones we would like to burn.

We all know what happens when we refuse to clean…

Memories are a tricky lot. Some are laments, regrets, pain, joy, happiness, and anger with a bit of mad tossed in. Memories have the ability to teach us lessons, that is, if we pay attention. Some try hard to forget them while others spend too much time in them, in the box, going through the clutter, ruminating over opportunities lost and not seeing opportunities gained. 

And…
We all know what happens when the clutter wins…

I have 58 years of memories stacked in my box and the ones before 7 years of age are not accessible. Good memories are as fresh, vibrant as the day they happened, bad ones are fuzzy fading colours and trauma comes in stark black and white. Those are the ones you can’t throw out. They are there for keeps, reminding you of the space they take up when least expected. The trick is to confront them, waddle in them, bring them close, hug them tight, then let them go. They will still be in the box but the space they take up will not be so overwhelming.

And…
We all know trauma is not good but if we acknowledge it, healing can occur…

***photos from the world wide web

Posted on by Anelemc

Intertwined…or No Drink

Isolated and the deaths of my felines, a brother and sister, two days apart was the ‘woke’ to my consumption of alcohol. What went from drinking after 5pm morphed into drinking at 10am. Half bottle of vino to full bottle. Full bottle thrown in as a chaser for bourbon. 

Bourbon and wine intertwined.

Sobriety literally began as one day at a time. One day drinking, one day not drinking, repeat for two weeks. Get the wine from around the corner, then go four blocks over for the bourbon. Next day wine from two blocks up to bourbon two down and four over. Then repeat every day, seven days a week.  “Silly rabbit…!” Buying one day reserves instead of a grate and handle make me a control drinker.

Bourbon and wine intertwined.

July 1st, 2020 arrived and no drink that day. Or the next, or the next. Reached out for help on week three of no drink. Completed a ninety day program of no drink. Met others who no drink and others who gave up and drank falling off the continuum of no drink.

Bourbon and wine no longer intertwined.

Three months, six months and now 9 months free. A mind not terribly wasted in a hangover pool brings hope to the present.  On occasion I’ll jaunt down memory lane in my mind to remember all the gains with no drink. The future is not for me to see. Hoping no drink will follow me.

Bourbon and wine no longer intertwined.

The glasses made to hold wine sit on the top, top, shelf of the kitchen cabinet. Shapes, colours, pieces of artwork not to be tossed. The bourbon glasses now hold plants swimming in water, toothbrushes and pastes of the human and greyhound kind.

Remnants of what once and is no longer. 

Posted on by Anelemc

Nig…

At the age of 56, last night on a Zoom meeting that was ‘bombed’ I was called a nigger. 

‘Elena is a nigger’ is what someone wrote on their screen at the AA Zoom meeting that was ‘bombed’

Interesting fact, I guess. 

Can’t say that I didn’t already know I was a nigger. Knew from the age of 11 when an Italian classmate enlighten me at the Italian/Irish Catholic school.

But an AA meeting? 

A Zoom meeting not password protected nor protected with adequate bouncers to monitor the room? An AA meeting where sobriety is sacred and protected at all cost? 

Not when you’re a nigger.

So last night during an AA zoom meeting that was ‘bombed’ someone called me a nigger.

Society has been using nigger from the time of slavery or even beyond and I’ve been privileged to hear it all through my days on this earth. Although, I stopped hearing it in my 40’s. I guess those people knew better to call a nigger a nigger especially in the workplace, in church, not on the subways though or on the street.

Nigger/Nigga

I heard the rappers take it and turn it into our own. No longer nigger but nigga. How quaint, how eloquent, how ballsy to take what They branded us and turn it into our own brand that They do not hesitate to use, to be cool, to be hip, to be damn bloody fools in my worldly view. But as Jay Z says during the Ballad of OJ, “Still Nigga”.

Being called a nigger in your 50’s hurts just like it did at 11.

I ain’t your nigger though I may be a nigga, but being a nigga to me is not being a nigger to you and you best not call me a nigger to my face because after this bullshit on zoom I just may cut you deep, really deep but not with a knife as I see in my mind but with words that flow from the scarred vault that holds the many, many, niggers I was called by the ones I choose to call They.