Category: Editorial

The Color Of Far, Far Away That I Found In Peru

Posted on by Jonathan

I had never traveled internationally or spoken any language other than English. Yet somehow, something so seemingly impossible became real. I was about to step out of my comfort zone and personally experience a giant leap of a trip outside of just pictures or videos on the internet. 

Last September, I left my five children for twenty days, crossing the 2,800 miles from North America into South America, but I found myself in Peru. My friend Ana, a native Spanish speaker from Mexico, grabbed my hand before we exited Lima airport, telling me, “Don’t talk to anybody, and stay right behind me.” Her take, not mine, but she was Latina, so I didn’t argue. 

The doors slid open and a sea of faces — clustered close together and vying for attention — called out, voice upon voice, begging to take someone, anyone, any place they could possibly want to go. Ana already had a taxi driver waiting for us, her name written on a board he was holding, standing just outside the swarm. She held me close behind her until we were loading our bags in the trunk.

I sat silently in the back while Ana and our driver chatted. Apparently, the driver asked where I was from. Upon hearing the States, he responded with “Oh, so that’s why your friend doesn’t talk?” 

Rules of the road

The road had no rules. Lanes meant nothing. Other vehicles meant nothing. Horns meant nothing unless you were the one honking, which meant you were serious. 

Our ride and every Peruvian ride we took from then on was a series of “We’re not gonna make it” action movie scenes. The cars maneuvered the way motorbikes do, weaving through the small in-betweens. The bikes, and there were many, carried up to three people at times.

Doorways to other worlds

Our hotel entrance was a doorway stuck between all the other buildings and so simple that I glossed over it every time we returned to lay our heads down. That could have been because a doorway does not speak the same way that a door does. 


(Image courtesy of the writer)

A doorway is but a hole, a near emptiness, a thing which may be crossed. But the Peruvian doors are entryways, mystical, unknown, and bursting with the knowledge that an entire life unlike your own exists just beyond. 

They are made of color, of gated iron, of broken down wood, of stories. Doors became my obsession. If the drivers of Peru were number one on our “ways to die” list, the act of getting a photograph of a specific door was a close second with how dangerous getting to some of them ending up becoming. 

(Image courtesy of Rod Long via Unsplash)

Cathedrals, shanties, museums, and houses had elaborate doors kept safe behind bars whereas some others were left open and easily accessible. Bikes were left to lean around everywhere we looked. One open door, the one to church, required payment to enter. The closed ones — with their lion heads forever keeping their iron rings prisoner — were the most telling.

Closed doors and grated windows were sometimes guarded by the police, all of whom were more than welcoming when I asked to get a picture of them. They said I could join them, or sent me across the street to go beyond a gate there to get a picture with their other police officer friend. The doors told stories. 

Transported to the beautiful unfamiliar

The people told stories, too. The architecture. The murals. The mist that forever kept the city of Lima the same gray as the inside of a cloud: light and dreamy. 

Ana and I walked and walked our first three days, before we moved deeper into the city. Among the people, it was easy to feel like the distance from home wasn’t quite so great. It was a crowded city like any other, where people had little dogs wearing sweaters and booties. We were by the ocean, which felt foreign enough for gleeful excitement, but not enough to feel transported. 

That enchantment happened when we came across the first woman dressed in traditional Peruvian layered Inca clothing. Rich jewel-toned colors and knit patterns wrapped her, and a baby was swaddled against her chest as she walked while selling homemade chocolates. She was petite and beautiful. Gentle like a doe.

(Image courtesy of Yosef Baskin)

Ana spoke with her while I looked on admiringly. Her woven basket of chocolates was just a bit too large for her to reach across its diameter. The chocolates were wrapped in paper with bright stripes of blue and orange. Their tops were cut into strips, erupting from them like a little carnival.

Ana, who is allergic to chocolate, gave her some small change. A blue bundle left the basket as she turned and asked if I wanted the peanut butter chocolate. I gave her my coins. An orange carnival tent came in exchange. I gestured and asked in English if I could see her baby. Shyly, she pulled part of her colorful wrap aside. 

I was stunned by the baby’s beauty — its unknown power that all babies possess — but even more so by his sheer size: to think that he came from his mother’s small frame, and that he was still only seven months old!

That was the moment. The moment that felt like thousands of miles away. The moment when a stranger became a life and a place became a home. The moment that even my best imagination could not come close to comparing to. Peru was just a few thousands of miles away from home, different but similar, and knowing that made it feel surreal. The ground we walked upon, the air we walked through, and the mist-covered mountains that seemed to float in the sky, were always there, yet always out of reach.

So many wonders we will never forget

We ate plenty of food – mostly good, some not. We had a spontaneous paragliding adventure, but that wasn’t nearly as terrifying as the drive to the beach without a seat belt. We were overwhelmed by the marketplace on our “gift getting” day. We spent a day in the plaza and burned our tongues on the best churros ever. During all of these experiences, every single person was kind.

We spent three days in Lima, every second of them filled, and each one with a story of its own. After those three days, we next made our way across the Andes by plane and up the next mountain by car. We traveled deep into the jungle towards Moyobamba – a place where we would train to become certified yoga teachers. 


(Image courtesy of the writer)

In Moyobamba, we spent fourteen days nestled alongside the river at the Kantu Lodge. Thirteen people – nine students and four teachers – got together every day from 5:45 am to 10:00 pm. 

There were also the adorable black spider monkeys with tails as long as their bodies that swung from the trees just outside the shala (a shaded, open pavilion, from the Sanskrit term for adobe) where we practiced. The local butterflies were the size of both my hands together and flew lazily about, their sky-blue iridescence unreal in their authenticity. 

We hand-washed clothes in the bathroom sink and hung them out to dry with the hope it wouldn’t rain. Except for the single day of a continuous 12-hour downpour, our clothes stayed relatively clean. We shooed tarantulas, huntsman, and every other spider from our bedrooms, the shala, and the girls who screamed at every insect that came near them. 


(Image of Amazonian Spider Monkey orphan courtesy of Yosef Baskin)

We did yoga with the children on the streets who happily ran around barefoot —

some no older than four, asking us “Yoga? Yoga!” 


(Image of Peruvian Golden Spider courtesy of Yosef Baskin)

We traveled misty rivers, drank cacao, and visited a remote region filled with medicinal plants run by indigenous women, and to swim in the waters there. We saw hummingbirds and huge, ruddy brown birds with reddish eyes, looking in as they watched us from behind glass. We feasted on 42 total different vegetarian dishes served at every meal. We danced while thunderclouds rolled above us or while a fire crackled between us. We sang loudly from the balcony and along the paths. 

But most importantly, we laughed. We laughed with hearts who knew what it was to really laugh. We left as certified yoga teachers, but that piece of paper holds within it stories of adventures I never thought possible and that were truer than ink can describe. It holds a piece of the world that really does exist, so far, far away from home. 

From Greasy Shop Floor To  Cushy Office

Posted on by Jonathan

Careers in the rough terrain of the automobile industry frequently scale amazing heights. In this dynamic industry, my journey encapsulates the spirit of growth and success – from a machine operator to an office administrator in new product development. 

(Image courtesy of Lenny Kuhne via Unsplash)


Stuck on the shop floor

My story begins in 2002 when I joined the shop floor of an automobile company as a machine operator. Back then, the automobile sector in India was undergoing substantial technical advances. Working hands-on with machinery and production processes allowed me to gain a thorough understanding of the industry’s operations, sharpening my skills and boosting my industry knowledge. This experience provided me with a comprehensive view of our company’s cohesive functions.

(Image courtesy of Lenny Kuhne via Unsplash)

As the years went by, I became more interested in the subtleties of office administration, and  in heading away from the greasy shop floor and on towards a more interesting challenge. That was when I knew I had to pursue a Masters of Business Administration (MBA).

My metamorphosis

Fast forward to 2015 when armed with a newly-minted MBA, I embraced the opportunity to go up from the shop floor to the office; a dynamic shift just like I wanted.

My journey from a machine operator to earning an MBA degree had required a remarkable combination of energy and psychological strengths. My energy levels were fueled by my determination to pursue higher education while working in an altogether different field. My self-motivation strengthened my resilience, adaptability, and aspiration for going up the corporate ladder. It also played a pivotal role in overcoming challenges and staying focused on my goals throughout my MBA journey. This transformation paved the way for growth and success. It also demonstrated my ability to recognize and capitalize on opportunities for expansion, critical in an industry constantly disrupted by innovation. 

Pursuing an MBA alongside a full-time job, came with the significant stress of balancing my time effectively. During my self-actualization process, I experienced a mix of emotions ranging from excitement and pride to moments of doubt and anxiety. Juggling professional responsibilities with academic demands tested my time management skills and flexibility too. I believe that  my commitment to self-improvement and career advancement fueled my determination to push myself through the pressures. I thus became who I wanted to be through the struggle of work and study.

(Image courtesy of Kanhaiya Sharma via Unsplash)

Unsurprisingly, I faced opposition, jibes, and taunts from both previous shopfloor and new colleagues in the office. It was not easy. Building resilience in the face of such challenges required me to have an unshakable inner strength and determination. Despite these demotivating reactions to my promotion, I chose not to engage in or get distracted by any discussions about it. Rather I decided to remain focused on my professional growth. I put it down to my inner strength of character, and real commitment to my career advancement.

The transition from machine operator to office administrator represented more than just a change in jobs; it also represented a skill metamorphosis; a process in which I drew on strengths that I probably already had within me. 

My transition wasn’t just oiled by my linguistic abilities, though these were vital. My attention to detail, honed as a machine operator, schooled me, and then established me as a crusader for precision. Furthermore, my time management abilities, which I had cultivated over the years, guaranteed that assignments were completed swiftly, without sacrificing quality. 

After my MBA, I felt like my transition to office administration could have been worse if I had not had a knack for languages. It was my saving grace and allowed me to rise above the taunts from the shop floor colleagues I left behind. As an innovative company, we are expected to excel at international liaison, so I took it upon myself to learn multiple languages earlier. In new product development, this was definitely an asset to me. 

I was pleased that my skills in proofreading, article writing, and foreign language translation were recognized. My fluency in English, Japanese, German, Korean, and Chinese helped me to easily overcome linguistic divides for cross-cultural collaboration and global relationships. 

I’ve managed to communicate industry ideas, addressed varied audiences, and contributed to knowledge dissemination through my writing. This skill has not only expanded my professional career, it has also established me as a trustworthy creator of quality material. 

In essence, my skill set bridged the gap between the technical complexities of the automotive sector and the need to communicate information adequately to stakeholders. 

I grasped that adaptability is essential in a field as dynamic as the automotive industry. I worked on shaping myself as a professional who accepted but also flourished in periods of change. My professional progression highlights the potential inherent in skill development, education, and seizing chances — from the spinning machinery of the shop floor to the edginess of developing new products — an  all-new world.

Finally, my diverse abilities have been crucial in paving my career and the projects I’ve handled. I have been involved in developing new automotive products and this role has demanded all my creative strengths.

It has been challenging to move up from the greasy shop floor to the comfortably air-conditioned office. But from language translation to time management, my commitment to quality remains unwavering as the industry evolves. I eagerly await the opportunities and challenges of the road ahead on this high-gear journey. 

Losing My Hero-in-Law

Posted on by Jonathan

It all started in October 2022. Our peaceful lives were disrupted by a devastating diagnosis, like a riptide at the beach. 

My sister-in-law took Alberto, my father-in-law, to a cardiologist. Multiple tests revealed that he suffered from heart problems, and they recommended open heart surgery as soon as possible. 

Scary for Dad, and for all of us too. 

More tests brought more bad news: aggressive stage 3 lung cancer. 

From that day onward, everything changed;  not just for him, but for all of us. And so began all the countless appointments with countless doctors. There were so many of them that my partner and his sister rearranged their lives to ensure he made them all. They used lunch breaks or left work early.

Heart surgery, a stent and a port, chemotherapy, radiation treatments. Physical, mental. He went through it, we went through it. 

Seven months to the all-clear. He still had to see a doctor every three months, but everyone was so relieved to hear the good news.

Dad, our salt of the earth icon

Alberto Dela Cruz Jr. was a humble, loving,  and hardworking man. 

He would wear aloha shirts no matter the weather, loved sweatpants because he always complained of being cold, and wore Crocs because he said they were comfy to just slip on. Though he had turned 75 just before his diagnosis, he looked younger because he always colored his hair brown whenever gray hairs started to show. 

Alberto raised five of his children by himself after losing his wife to cancer when she was just 43. 

He missed her every day.

He brought three of his kids to Hawaii, including my other half, for a better life. His two eldest stayed in the Philippines. They were already married and too old to petition to come to America.

An agriculturalist back in the Philippines, he put his head down in Hawaii and labored as a security guard to provide for his grown kids back home, and those that he brought over to his adopted homeland.

With Dad, everything was better

(Unsplash/Nikola Duza)

Two things I loved doing with Dad were traveling with him and cooking up family barbecues. 

He adored heading back to the Philippines to visit family. Going with him was the best. We stayed for three weeks the first time I went there with him. The experience was ten times better because we were with family and, in particular, Dad. We laughed together, told stories, and ate rich and mouthwatering food. 

Dad sure did love singing karaoke both there and in Las Vegas. His favorite song was Sinatra’s My Way. Every lyric of that song matched him so perfectly. He owned it. Whenever I hear that song, I think of him.

Keeping close through the wipeout

Sadly, Dad’s health crises were not behind us.

My partner got a call from his aunty saying that Dad felt like he couldn’t breathe.  In the hospital,  they couldn’t keep his oxygen levels up, and they admitted him. It wasn’t cancer, but Alberto would never return home. 

I actually worked at the hospital he was staying in, so I visited him daily before work, on my lunch break, and after work. I made sure to make the most out of every day because I knew that it wasn’t looking good. 

He would always greet me with, “Hello, Shannel! Oh, you work today? Thanks for coming to see me.”  We would trade stories, and he would always tell me about his day, and how he struggled with his treatments.

 He even shared that he knew he was not going to make it. He urged me to  tell my partner and his siblings to forgive each other and be there for each other when he no longer could be. I tried to stay strong and hold back my tears in front of him. I prayed day and night that he would recover to see my daughter grow.

He would always hold my hand so tight, and introduce me to  the medics caring for him: “This is my daughter-in-law. She works here. I really appreciate her coming to see me all the time,” he would tell them with a big smile on his face.

Towards the end, a diagnosis of fibrosis, when the lungs cannot produce enough oxygen on their own, saw doctors summon  the family to break the news to us together.  Dad had two choices. One was  to have a tube inserted into his throat to boost his oxygen levels, but which would likely prove fatal due to his underlying health conditions. The other option was comfort care, delivering  morphine via IV, that would allow him to pass away comfortably. 

Dad chose comfort care, so he could end his life peacefully with our crew by his side. We all surrounded him in his final hours and held his hand until the end. It hurt even though, or maybe because, he had the chance to say goodbye before he took his last breath on May 12, 2023, when he left us. 

We couldn’t believe he was gone. And so we cried, and cried, and cried… 

I vividly remember my other half yelling and trying to wake his dad up. 

I have never experienced a death that hurt so much. The fear in Dad’s eyes made me so sad. They were the eyes of a man who didn’t want to go yet; who wanted to fight to live and to be here for his grandchildren. It was heartbreaking. At least we know that he is no longer suffering, and feel that he is now in a better place, watching over us all.

We’re mourning, but buoyed by his strength 

I will forever hold onto the memory of his strength. He was steadfast in everything he endured, from losing his wife and having to take care of his five kids by himself, to losing his son to suicide and having to bury him. Then, after all that, facing his serious health problems, he was still a fighter, and he never ever gave up.

Seeing my other half grieve also pains me. He talks about his father and reminds me how long it’s been since he left us. He still can’t believe that he’s gone, and he wishes he could see him or hear his voice again. I remind both of us that it’s okay to mourn Alberto.

Now, when we miss him, we clean his grave and bring him beautiful flowers, but it will never be the same. When a person passes, it is their spirit that you will forever be longing for. I can no longer hear his voice, his laughter, or see his smile. 

We will always miss Dad. All the memories we shared with him will live on through pictures, the retelling of stories,  and the little things in life that remind us of our departed hero.

Not Playing the Game: The Bitter Cost of My Youthful Resistance

Posted on by Jonathan

In my 20 plus years of existence, I have learned two important lessons: (1) if you want to succeed, you have to play the game. (2) I am not good at playing the game.

My life started out in the usual way, for a boy from a lower-middle class family in a Pakistani village. I grew up going to the village school and dreaming of joining the army. I never gave too much thought about the purpose of school or an education — I, like many of my classmates, never planned to study past the fifth or sixth grade. 

But fate stepped in when I was accepted to the school run by my father’s employer. This company school was an entirely different world: there were large classrooms and playgrounds — and the language of study was English. For me, that was a major hurdle since I had only been taught in Urdu. 

I was a good student, though. I worked hard, mastered English, and kept progressing in my studies. It wasn’t until I entered fifth grade that I started to question what I was being taught. In Pakistan, students in the fifth and sixth grades already have a firm understanding of politics and the country’s political parties. My loyalty lay with former Prime Minister Imran Khan, who was gaining ground against Pakistan’s two-party system.  

He mostly talked about changing the corrupt system and motivating youngsters to join his struggle. I was very much fascinated by his battle and political moves. This fascination strengthened the rebellious feeling that was taking root inside me.

I started to adopt a policy of applying the knowledge learned from theories and books. When I began this implementation of the knowledge I had learned from books in my practical life, I started to question my teachers for being very different in how they teach and what they do. I was criticized and disciplined. Often that meant I missed classes. 

These punishments didn’t demoralize me; instead they made me stand firmer in my beliefs and committed to raising my voice against the education system in Pakistan. I started to ask teachers questions when their words contradicted their acts.

By this time, I was in eighth grade — a pivotal moment in the Pakistani system — as schooling changes from general education to specialized tracks. 

I was not interested in my choices: computer science or biology. I wanted to study the arts but that was not allowed, in part because private schools in Pakistan compete for students. Children’s scores in popular and challenging subjects, like the sciences, are a critical part of attracting parents and new pupils. 

(Image courtesy of Roman Mager via Unsplash) 

I opted for biology, even though I was not interested in it, and passed my eighth grade exams with flying colors. I was poised for success! Except I didn’t agree with the way the school system divided ninth graders according to their exam scores. Basically, the system divides children into two groups: the “average” group — kids who can pass the national exam but are unlikely to get top scores without a lot of tutoring and support — and the “strong” group: the chosen ones the school believes can achieve national ranking scores with enough attention and guidance. 

I protested this division. Even at that age, I understood it was fundamentally unfair to give one group of children more resources when all the kids would benefit from more education. Why should a child’s future be sacrificed so a school can pour its resources into a chosen few?

I refused to follow the rules for exam preparations: I firmly believed — and still believe — scores should be given based on the value of your response, not the formatting or tricks you use to present your answers. As the exam date grew closer, the school coordinator even called my father to plead with him to convince me to follow their rules and get a good score. The message was, in short, the answers don’t matter: exam graders want to see how you format your responses, not the value of your words. 

I was shocked to hear that, and instead of acting upon my coordinator’s advice, I continued my rebellious policy of just writing the answers without proper presentation. I used to say I never studied for marks; I studied to learn and use the knowledge I have learned daily. That was the point of being educated. My teachers, however, believed you can only succeed by being a part of this system. Admissions to prestigious universities and jobs in Pakistan are always given to those who have good grades.

In short, I could not get good grades in 9th and 10th classes and was strictly criticized for not following my teacher’s instructions and for not bribing the exam monitor. So, I could not secure admission to top colleges like my other classmates, who also acted upon their teacher’s advice and compensated the exam monitor.

Once I finished 10th grade, however,  I realized I could still shift from the biological sciences to engineering or computer sciences for 11th and 12th grade, known as college or higher secondary education in Pakistan. So, with no additional preparation, I jumped to engineering. But, unfortunately, my experience there was the same: if I didn’t play the game, I couldn’t get the grades I needed to succeed. 

(Image courtesy of Nathan Dumlao via Unsplash)

I still dreamed of joining the army, so after I graduated, I went to an academy in Lahore to prepare for the military exam. There, retired army personnel coached us on how to behave in interviews and tests. There was a Catch-22, however:  I needed to prepare for the exams, but the military would not accept anyone who prepared because the point of the exams was to assess a potential soldier’s natural abilities and talents. My instructors told me directly to lie to the interviewer and say, when asked, that I had not received any coaching.

But I thought, why should I start my new career by lying? In short, due to my decision to tell the truth, I was shut out of the military and my lifelong dream was crushed. 

Instead, I was admitted to the food science and technology department at university and decided to get my bachelor’s degree in this field so I could continue my education. I did not like the field and did not fully understand which jobs I could get with this specialty. With little guidance and my usual critical eye toward the education system, I struggled to do well and ended up graduating with average grades.

Now, I am sitting in my bedroom writing this story, thinking about my mistakes. I don’t want a master’s degree in my field and, after almost 24 years of life, I finally understand my true calling was not engineering, the military, or biology. My passion is literature and the social sciences: international relations, regional studies, and other similar subjects best fit me. I realized this after every opportunity has gone, and now there are limited chances that I can find a master’s program in any of those fields with my current degree. 

Today, I realize that if I had followed the flow and kept all these rebellious thoughts to myself until the day when I would have had some power to change the typical education process in Pakistan, it would have been a much better way to make amendments and improvements in the society and system.

Instead, however, I just kept resisting, and my resistance as a child and young adult was useless. It deprived me of every opportunity, like attending an excellent, reputable college and studying the subject of my interest and choice. I could not analyze my interests and chose only the fields that were not my cup of tea.

So, in the end, Pakistani schools taught me an important lesson: resistance at the wrong time and age is useless. If you have to change the system, just be a part of the system until the day you reach the stage when your decisions or resistance will matter. We resist at the wrong time, and this ill-timed resistance has wasted many of the talented voices that were intentionally interested in bringing a positive change in the system. Instead, it is too late when we finally realize we have resisted at the wrong moments.

It is my hope that, by reading this, other young people will learn from my mistakes and understand that there is a time for every expression of resistance and every voice to be raised. If you want to change the system, work hard to obtain a position where your words may have some power to bring about the change you desire.

We Built La Familia

Posted on by Jonathan

Maybe it was the traveling we always used to do. 

A family of six that would pile into a fire-engine red 1985 Chevy van, a vehicle that could easily hold a family of six. However, we would always load the van with all kinds of toys and goodies, so I imagined it looked like Santa’s sleigh, filled with as much joy and happiness as he delivered on Christmas Eve. 

This is something that my family would do every December for as long as I can remember. A strong family, with beliefs our parents would instill in us and to one day show our future family.

Meet the crew

Our crew of four kids was made up of serious, silly, and sometimes not-so-well-behaved kids. There was my youngest brother, who could not have been older than eight years at the time. He was a chubby child with curly hair that had more waves than the ocean. I remember all my aunts would comment how it was the look their hairdresser should mimic. 

Next was me, a doe-eyed kid with thin, long wavy hair and glasses to finish off my innocent look. Then there was my older brother, a lanky child who would constantly be outgrowing his clothes because of how tall he was getting at that time. The oldest among us was my sister, who stood at 5 foot nothing, with the longest black, spiral shaped hair of anyone we knew except for my mother. While she looked like a little girl that wouldn’t hurt a fly, to us, she was the guardian of the bunch. She was like a second mother to us boys. 

My mother was no taller than my sister, but the respect she demanded from us kids was that of French wrestler Andre the Giant . My father was the tallest man I had ever seen back then, towering over us like Dwayne Johson does to Kevin Hart (compare heights of 6’5”/196cm with 5’2”/157cm). He looked like a Mexican version of Mufi Hannemann, former Mayor of Honolulu, if Mufi had a thick black mustache. 

This is the family that would show me what it means to be la familia. 

Memories of our journeys

Family trips were some of the fondest memories I could remember. While it felt like we  would travel for what seemed like days, it was only about 12 hours. The long hours were not the reason for the fond memories, but how we came together as a family to make the trip the most memorable. 

We would laugh at each other telling jokes, play card games, and make lonches de aguacate. These avocado sandwiches were not some mediocre meal that anyone could prepare. No, this was left to mi madre, who could make a simple aguacate y jamon con queso lonche (adding ham with sliced cheese) look like the best meal you would have ever had in your entire life. 

My mother would tell us how much of her heart was in making meals for us on the road. It was so important to us that our mother would make the lonches, that when my father wanted to stop at a restaurant to eat, we all would object, “No. Just buy what mom needs.” 

Some of the best jokes told on this trip were, in the opinion of my older brother, “So funny you could laugh so hard that you may laugh your head off.” He would say knock, knock and everyone in the van would have to respond, because if we did not, all anyone would hear for the next century was him nonstop saying, “Knock! Knock! Knock, knock!” Do you see how annoying this was? Nails on a chalkboard. The joke would finally end with, “Well, you made me so mad that I forgot what it was.” 

My older sister was the one who, in her mind, had shuffled the deck of the cards in a manner that would put a Vegas dealer to shame. She would grasp half the cards in the right hand and the other half in the left, then she would bring the cards together to shuffle them and mix the two decks into one. She would finish off her shuffle with a tap of the deck on the cooler that we were all treating as a luxurious green table from the MGM. I never thought it was weird that, as a child, I knew how to play poker. The stakes were high back then, where we all had our one sock that was filled with marbles to place a bet with. 

The scenery would change so much as we traveled south. As we traveled, we would see mighty chunks of rock rise all over the land. To be able to witness mountains that stood with such firm, vertical, gravity-defying peaks was always something to admire.

So many times we would have to travel on a road that hugged the mountain and our van would hug the road just as tight as a child hugs their mom after the first day of school. Just as the mountains came, so did the landscape of the desert. The desert was full of sand, flat, crumbing rock, sandstone, and cacti that looked like it was leaning over searching for water. 

The family reunion

(Image courtesy of Andrik Langfield via Unsplash)

Many of these trips would take us to our family in a little village on the outskirts of Durango, Mexico.

Our arrival at the village my parents grew up in was always something that brought a smile to me and my siblings. The entrance to the village was not very noticeable, but we knew that we had arrived when we had passed the only building that everyone got their hielo (ice) from. This building from the outside looked like it was built with adobe clay. It was as long as my little eyes could see. There was always a line of gente (people) to get their hielo. 

Next would be the road to my grandparents’ house. Believe it or not, there was a La Palma landmark very well known to us. That palm tree was as tall as the Eiffel Tower and would tower over all the houses on that block. My grandparents’ house was in sight from there and we could see the metal french-style door, which changed colors according to which color my abuelita  (granny) felt like at the time. It was a fun guessing game to see what it would be every time we visited. 

The nights in the village were actually brisk and always made the senses feel so much better, as it was the season of Christmas. Coming from a desert-like environment to a colder environment made us embrace the jackets our parents would make us wear, running around with our Parka jackets with our breath visible in the air and our noses as red as a reindeer. All this did not matter to anyone, as we would spend all day and all night in the courtyard of my abuelo’s house. 

My abuelita’s is a 5-bedroom home that at max capacity could hold maybe four families, but we squeezed in and made room where we could lay down. Being able to enjoy this time with our extended family was the greatest time in our life. Our family was as large as could be, with 20 primos y primas (cousins), not including my family and 10 tíos y tías (uncles and aunts). 

Family festivities

Every year was a family reunion with a party that would top the last, with the slaughtering of a goat so that we could enjoy a feast. The party was an epic scene, as it would start in the morning with Abuelita making breakfast for everyone. The adults would be having their cafecito con pan dulce (espresso with sweet buns) and us kids would be eating pan dulce with abuelita’s hot chocolate. 

(Image courtesy of David Guerrero via Unsplash)

Mariachi con la familia

With festivities comes music, of course. Since my father’s family is extremely musical, there would always be music playing in the background so everyone could sing along. My father’s brothers and sister would start singing like a Mariachi concert. It did not matter that the adults were singing ‘til the roosters crowed. It was always a delight to hear so much music coming from the courtyard. 

The laughter would continue with the younger siblings. My cousins and I had spent all day buying up all the fireworks we could gather from the corner stores. Each firework had a distinct shape and size. There was one we called La Palomita, it was the size of a pigeon. Not only was the size something to marvel at but, when La Palomita would go off, the paper that was holding what we believed to be gunpowder would fly everywhere like if a bird had just been struck. 

These times ensured great bonds were created and treasured. There was so much to enjoy, so much time — and so little time. These memories are the building blocks for what my belief in family is. La Familia is something that you have to work on. Not only with your immediate family, but with all your distant relatives. This will always be the strongest value that anyone can instill in their children.

(Image courtesy of Nubia Navarro via Pexels)

Millennial Customers Are Prickly, But I’ve Adapted!

Posted on by Jonathan

I have spent 38 years in the business of owning and running operations. 

Since 1987,  I have seen people of all shapes and sizes coming to buy from all walks of life. I have experienced people’s tastes rise and fall, change and change again. I have seen people’s attitudes change and reshape themselves both positively, negatively and emotionally. As a businessperson, I either had to adapt to the changing environment or fade into obscurity. I chose to adapt. It is an essential part of business. 

In the small business world, I have few or no employees, so my experience in an ever-changing environment stems directly from dealing with customers — experience in how to deal with them during each and every sale of the day. 

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Customers were courteous

In the early part of my business venture, customers exhibited a welcoming social grace. Customers were courteous, they used words like please and thank you. A customer would hand me the money and thank me for serving their needs and being there for them. Customers then knew what they wanted when they shopped, and they were grateful for the experience — appreciative  that you were providing a service. They would hold a light or humorous conversation and give you a laugh, a smile, a wave when they left. No agenda, political hatred, or need to voice opinions in spite. They dressed with style, enjoyed the community experience around them, and cared that others experienced shopping as a joy, alongside them. 

Then. 

(Image Courtesy of Ludvig Hedenborg via Pexels)

In 2016, the customer atmosphere changed. It became stormy. The change came in the customers’ attitudes. This generation of customers was no longer interested in the community experience or in savoring the experience of shopping. They now shopped with a “me” mentality. 

It’s not all about me, but it is about me

Open for me, serve me, order this item for me, serve me the quantity I want. The unwritten rules and social graces were no longer honored or followed. Customers felt entitled to be entitled and to bluntly let you know.

 If I want my stuff at 6:30 AM, who cares if you open at 8 AM, serve me! 

Customers now dressed in slippers and pajamas. Bras were suddenly not socially awkward. Shirts with the words “One, Two, F^^% You” and “If You Stomp on My Flag, I’ll Stomp on Your Face” are okay for children to see. Arrogance and outrageousness are badges of patriotism. Now, when I wish them a nice day, they grunt or spit out, “Who the hell do you think you are!” As a business owner, this is a shock to the system, both emotionally and physically. 

(Image Courtesy of Rachel Claire via Pexels)

The customer is always right, even when wrong

These days, a business owner must adapt to the mentality and attitude of every customer. I held my tongue and did just that. I have adapted to the ever-changing attitude of what is “important” to every single customer. I have applied my knowledge of conflict resolution, psychology, and psychoanalysis to customer service. One customer is happy and enjoying their shopping experience, the very next customer tells you you’re an asshole and to f^^% off. The question of “What would you like today?” turns into a nasty political conversation where the customer is always right. 

I must be quick on my feet to be able to deal with today’s customer atmosphere. I am. I must treat each customer with an outward respect — and inwardly store the knowledge of what to do differently next time. I must be thick skinned and let go of past gripes and grievances. 

For me, the knowledge of understanding has come from my training in conflict resolution, psychology, and anger management. Empathy over the years led to continuing success in my little business. And otherwise. 

Procrastinate Enough? Let Me Help — Tomorrow

Posted on by Jonathan

A signature feature of my own lifestyle is Procrastination with a capital P. That is how much influence the word holds in my life. 

I can now help others. 

Procrastinate by honoring distractions — Instead of reading on, for example, you may want to daydream on the sleepy head of a unicorn implicit in the pools of color in the nearby photo.

Then let me show you other ways you, too, can introduce this complex, lay-back, and artful element in your life.

Procrastinate by replacing alarm clocks and structure with hope — I often go to sleep hoping to wake up early and finish my tasks. And the early morning never appears. 

The clock strikes 8: a.m. and I am left to mope in sorrow. Because my work meeting will start right at 8:30 a.m. 

Procrastinate by overstating your goals — On the work front, I have been constantly thinking about finishing my brand plan. It’s a grand plan. Still thinking. 

Most of the day of some damsel in distress is spent idly waiting for her Prince Charming. 

Procrastinate by freezing up in idleness, chaos or both — Damsel or prince, most of my day goes about dreading work. The problem is, more work piles up before the pending gets taken care of. And the chaos intensifies.

Anyways, the influence of the moon also brings some much-needed clarity. Numerology says I am an excellent creator. And so I believe myself to be a creator of finesse much more than an analyst of facts and figures. Right brain versus left brain. Sounds counterintuitive, right?

Procrastinate by collecting worries — It all stems from my habit of overthinking—what ifs and what nots. And this peculiar habit has landed me in trouble time and again, with unnecessary bouts of anxiety and tension.

In the end, will it be all worth it if I lay everything on the line to make this one task a success?

Not really. The universe does not operate per the whims and fancies of an individual. It is us, we assign notional importance to events and elevate them to grandiosely to earth-shaking. What is gold for one is pebbles for another. 

(Photo courtesy of Nico Smit via Unsplash)

So the gist of my take is not to over-credit the importance of any single task you have on your agenda. 

Procrastinate by overrating each detail, or your own importance — Well yes, your presentation might save the company. The single dot you put at the end of the sentence might protect an orator from years of public shame. And the one step you did not take by the pavement changed the course of history for a homeless man. It might have.

But, it is also okay to enjoy the triviality of our endeavors. Saves us the pain.

This brings me to the end of this short, sweet homily about the many trials and tribulations of distilling my personal skills in procrastinating, all captured and crafted to tutor my readers.

(Photo courtesy of Anni Roenkae via Pexels.com)

Slowly and steadily, I am mending my ways, isolating work and life, and learning the art of letting go. Tomorrow. 

Moving Away From the Cliff’s Edge: A Mum’s Story of Her Child’s Mental Health

Posted on by Jonathan

It is no understatement that the last few years have been difficult for various reasons. It’s almost too obvious to state that we, in the West, consume a lot of environmental, social, and political information that clogs up our web browsers and mental state.

Meanwhile, the external world provides further insights with its doom and gloom, and you wonder what this does to your internal world and, more importantly, the internal world of your dependents.

Impact on my son’s world

My son is almost twelve years old. He had rolled through lockdown like most kids his age; with an interest in what is happening in the world and not attending school online.

Days turned into weeks, which turned into months. We were let out briefly, then locked down again.

We didn’t force homework on the kids; we ate meals together and walked around the neighborhood, trying to follow the advice of mental health advocates by maintaining a calm atmosphere.

Eventually, we all returned to our pre-COVID routine: school, work, supermarket shopping, and socializing.

My son entered a new school, a major leap, as he was now a little fish in a big pond. Senior students were young men dressed in school uniforms towering over him. He was excited and wanted to go, especially since many of his friends from his primary school were joining him.

Things went okay; there was lots of new stuff to remember, which was overwhelming for any kid. 

But, as the year passed, he stopped communicating, wanted to stay home more, and got irritated when asked to do his homework. Children undergo emotional cycles that coexist with physical changes, which we understand. It’s natural! 

Let’s face it: We all have to deal with many life changes, so we are all in the same boat, right? 

Then, arrived that moment, when my son uttered that one sentence, which changed my perspective forever!

“Mum, please don’t freak out, but sometimes I think I am pointless and don’t want to be here.”

To this day, I still recall that visceral experience whenever I drive down the street where he said this to me. 

I was ready for a conversation about bullying, but not for one about suicide.

In line with my son’s request, I did my best not to freak out and decided that today was not a day for school, but for getting hot chocolate and heading to the park.

We talked and shared moments of silence before heading home.

Later, I had a breakdown in my bedroom, experiencing a complete red-eyed, sobbing meltdown.

You see, suddenly you understand that your child is grappling with their persistent  suicidal thoughts.

You can effectively address bullying or support someone coming out, as our society is much better at dealing with these issues, and schools are well-placed to help. But, conversations around suicide are different and tricky. They are complex to hear and even more challenging to own. 

(Photo courtesy of Anastasiia Chaikovska via Pexels) 

Finally, navigating the cliff’s edge

One way to describe this experience  as a parent is to imagine that you are in a field, whose one of the boundaries is a cliff.  You spend most of your time in the middle of the field, with your life seemingly moving along with little fear or disruption.  You can’t even see the cliff edge because there is a natural boundary of beautiful trees or native bush. This vegetation represents the details in your life that keep you intact: a comfortable living environment, the love of family and friends, food on the table, and the power on. 

When something happens, such as a life-threatening health diagnosis, the death of a friend, or, in my case, your child experiencing extreme mental strife, you are catapulted from the relative safety and comfort of the middle of the field to the cliff edge. It triggers a raft of strong feelings, a desire to run away, but a relentless obsession with looking into the abyss. 

You see your friends and family in the middle of the field carrying on with their lives, which now seems pointless or distracting. All you can do is live in a void between the edge of the cliff and the threat of falling to the bottom.

Consequently, your mind gets so tied up in problem-solving and self-doubt, and the need to wrap them up that it gets harder to sleep and talk to anyone about it. It feels like a personal failure. 

Why can’t I make my child feel happy and safe?

What did I do to him?

Can I pinpoint the moment all this started?

Of course, I could not answer these questions sufficiently. All I could do was stop looking over the cliff’s edge and secure my footing to secure my child’s.

Taking the necessary steps

After meeting his facilitators from school, who were helpful and constructive, we consulted a counselor to assist him with his overwhelming feelings.

It’s been a long, difficult road, full of sleepless nights and moments of terror. For any parent, checking your child’s room for anything that may harm him is distressing..

Acknowledging that you can’t fix everything is something we parents instinctively know, yet knowing and fully internalizing that knowledge are two very different paths.

Mental health issues are a part of the human experience, regardless of age. I am incredibly proud of my son for having the strength and bravery to tell me how he felt, especially while being so young.

He is bright and quirky, with a great sense of humor, a talented artist, and a loyal, compassionate friend. He is also a troubled soul with a profound understanding of his darker side. 

As his mother, I am in awe of him, but it feels bittersweet that he carries this self-knowledge.

(Photo courtesy of cotton bro studio via Pexels) 

I love him to the moon and back

Shifting Fortunes, Shifting Fates

Posted on by Jonathan

I still remember the night my father died. The years before were a blur of lavish parties with older men shrunken with age and tall bottles of wine and beer. They visited often, these rich men with their families. 

Sundays saw my mum and Aunty Nneka, barely a teenager herself, in the kitchen pounding soft yams in our large brown mortar until the ground shook. Laughter could be heard for many hours. They spoke boisterously in loud voices over peppered chicken that made their noses run. It felt like the excitement would never end. Until it did. 

I am five

We were a typical Nigerian family. My father attended the men’s meeting and the community meeting, and he donated rather too generously to the church. My mum would tug on his white kaftan as he called out hefty sums like five hundred thousand naira or when he volunteered to finish the church building single handedly. He walked with a poise that oozed pride. His gait was daunting and my mum complemented his look, sitting beside him in a pretty embroidery that radiated affluence. Her headscarf did not make crunchy sounds like the biscuit-like wraps worn by other women in the church. Her gold did not tarnish, nor did her lipstick wane. Her skin was as radiant as day, fresh from the beauty products my father bought her. I ran around the church in my pearly white gown and ponytails, and Aunty Nneka chased me, pulling me by one hand and dusting off my dress when I fell on dirt.

Everyone clustered about our Peugeot after mass and greeted my father, but even as a child, I knew most of their overcompensating pleasantries were borne out of their desire to ask for money. Many carried me high on their shoulders. I was five, but I remember it all. They said I was turning into such a lovely and plump child even though I was scrawny, for my age. My father would dip his long fingers with perfectly manicured nails into his pocket and pull out a wad of crisp notes, giving it to them. He dropped two hundred naira onto the enamel plates held by people begging  by the church’s gate when others dropped torn ten naira notes. 

(Image courtesy of Adi Goldstein via Unsplash)

I am six

My sixth birthday was bright and festive with balloons floating in the air and children running about our compound. I stepped on my gown and the lacy extension got torn. My mom scolded me by tugging my ear, so my dad reprimanded her. 

As usual, he was clinging tightly to his phone and would hurriedly pick it up at the first ring. Mum was pregnant with my little sister then, and since she was a full-time housewife, she worried over things that ordinarily should not be a concern like when Aunty Nneka put  the stew in the yellow bowl instead of the white one. They were both large enough but with my mum, details mattered. No one worried that her nagging was becoming unbearable because she was pregnant. She alone knew, however, that it was not the pregnancy that made her so quick to anger. My father had been cheating on her.

***

He is coughing

Our lives changed a few months after the birth of Chidinma, my baby sister.  My father fell ill. He coughed more often and ate less. He shrunk, looking shriveled on the bed. My mother worried about him even more when the hospital could not figure out what ailed him. 

The parties became few and far between. Friends rarely  visited. My mother dug into the last of my father’s savings and discovered, rather later, that we had fewer assets and more liabilities. We were drowning in poverty as she pumped money into different hospitals, hoping he would get better. He did not.

Aunty Odinaka called rather abruptly on an early Sunday morning. My mother sat with a drooping breast stuck into Chidinma’s ready pink lips. She had stayed up all night to attend to my father, who had remained motionless on his back, struggling to breathe. Aunty Odinaka was my father’s younger sister who had lived with us when she was a student. She referred my mum to a spiritualist in the village, and for what seemed like several hours, my mum refused. 

“Ekwu Zina, don’t say that,” she said over and over. She pointed out how diabolical and fetishistic the practices were, how the bible was strongly against them, and how she could never take my father there. 

She changed her mind, however, when my father deteriorated to the point that he stopped moving. My mum tried reaching out to Alhaji Muhammed, my father’s best friend and business partner, who had a round belly and white stubble across his chin. He had given her an envelope heavy with cash, greedily consumed by the hospital in a single day. When my mother called him again, he cut off all communication with us. Even I, now grown and fully able to grasp the gravity of always asking for help, understood why he did that. 

My mother was flustered. The very people she threw lavish parties for now ignored her calls. At first, our house still looked the same with the central gold table and a low chandelier that glowed gently with warmth. It burned my eyes when I stared for too long and the tiny bulbs hung like mango fruit. Then in a few weeks, the golden center table had been sold, and the family car and everything that smelled of luxury had been removed. 

I watched butter leave the table as my mum told me that it tasted sour so she stopped buying it. 

(Image courtesy of Ravi Kant via Pexels)

Later, she would stop buying my favorite treats: Sugary Capri-Sonne drinks were no longer at our usual shops, she explained. I had stopped going to school, because she was no longer satisfied, it seemed, with the teachers. 

***

I am present

The spiritualist was a short man with white material wrapped over his shoulder and under his arm. He often had a leaf frond between his lips and hummed on it fervently. I came to watch the healing magic at the spiritualist’s request: he said that I was a major connection to my ailing dad and must be present.

I stared in disbelief as I watched him pace about the lanky remains of my father and dunk him into the shallow river. He picked up a gourd from a calabash — its edges so poorly cleaned that tiny bits of wood stuck out — and he ran it over father’s face three times. 

After an hour passed and we were sure that no magic was going to happen, we asked the spiritualist what the matter was. His eyes burned a painful red, the kind gotten from downing tall bottles of alcohol, as he urged us to be patient. He proceeded to apply a mild cream over my father’s body and towed him back to the car. 

Fear enveloped us all when my mother felt his face. She could no longer feel the  warm breath from his slender nostrils. Only our shifting fates. 

(Image courtesy of Godiva Omoruyi via Pexels) 

A Connecticut Snowflake Comes Out to Play

Posted on by Jonathan

As far as I can remember, I have not liked cold weather. 

And I have my own reasons for it. 

My birthday falls in the summer, so you can say it’s in my DNA. 

I’m not a fan of sweaters or long-sleeved shirts. 

I have lived in Connecticut and dealt with brutal winters while growing up. I catch a cold easily and have worn jackets until early May. So naturally, winter isn’t an enjoyable time for me.  Most winter days, you could find me at home, lying on my couch under at least one blanket, snacking on something, and feeling sorry for myself. Though I do it well. 

I have never been officially diagnosed with seasonal depression or seasonal affective disorder. However, many of my bad mental health episodes have occurred during winters, especially in recent years. As I’ve gotten older, the allure of the holidays, playing in the snow, and days off from school faded away. The latter two definitely have.

Gloomy December 

In December, I usually freak out about the end of the year. 

I feel like I haven’t done enough throughout the year. I feel like I should’ve gone to more fun events. This usually leads me to wonder what could’ve been, and I hate going down that path. I’d rather be happy for what I did than feel bad for what I didn’t do. I get caught in cycles of regret and self-hatred whenever I start wondering about all these things.

Lazy January

In January, I feel okay at the start of the year. 

Like most people, I try to stick to my New Year’s Resolutions, but I usually only manage to honor them for about a week. I feel bad for not sticking to them, but I’m unable to overcome my laziness, and I’m not sure why. January also seems to be the longest month. I spend the second half basically hoping it’ll end.

(Image courtesy of Lenin Estrada via Pexels)

Emotional February

February is usually tough for me. I’m single, so Valentine’s Day isn’t fun. 

By this point, I’ve been in the house for three months. It’s the last month of winter, and I just long for warmer weather. I feel like spring is dangling over my head, making me jump for it.

The onset of Spring

The start of March makes me feel better. 

Even though it doesn’t get warm until the end of March or early April, I feel it’s sunny, or at least I convince myself there’s more sun out there. It also seems like more events are happening in my neighborhood during this time, or I’m in the mood to check in frequently.

I have had these feelings for three months, so this past year, I decided to find ways to enjoy myself.

(Image courtesy of Javon Swaby via Pexels)

Overcoming challenges

I made 2023 my “year of health.” 

This past January, I started taking apple cider vinegar gummies. 

I also made it a priority to go to the gym more often. I did new workouts like weight training, and even lifted 25 pounds. I also enhanced my skincare routine by trying new products to see what works best for my skin.

Prioritizing my physical health has helped my mental health. This past winter, I didn’t feel as sluggish as I have in the last few years. It also motivated me to not just lay around my house when not working. 

Want to take it outside?

I realized that one potential source of my winter depression is the lack of sun and going outside. 

This winter, I tried to be outside more, as long as it wasn’t too cold. I realized that I needed exercise, vitamin D, and a change of pace from my usual routine, if only to walk to the grocery store or bookstore up the street during the day. 

Even when it’s cloudy, getting out makes me feel better. It also allows me to add variety to my winter schedule, instead of doing the same thing each day. Maybe connect with nature or reality, but it works. 

I have been trying to go out a lot at night, too. I love going to local drag bars and Meetup events with friends, even if it’s just a casual game night. It’s another thing that helps me break up the monotonous winter darkness.

Even though I’m an introvert, I enjoy going out and spending time with others, selectively. I think it uplifts my mood. Since these activities are indoors, I only have to be outside in the cold for a brief period of time. 

I discovered that spending more time outdoors and strengthening social connections have significantly improved my winter outlook and boosted my overall well-being. 

In body and mind, less isolation. In the end, tougher hide and tender heart. Maybe I created my own behavior modification program without realizing it.