A new hole in my heart

and just like that. 

my mom called me this afternoon as I was in the library waiting to meet with a professor. I was a little annoyed (with the professor) because I left what would have been a great interview to go meet him. Since we had been playing phone tag for months, I chose this meeting over the interview. I arrived at his office and he was in another meeting. so I waited.

then my mom called.

I couldn't hear her at all. As soon as the phone disconnected my brother called from his cell phone. That is when I knew. My mother called me the other day, the day I found out my friend Lisbeth had passed away. She never asks me where I am when she calls. That day, I was in a taxi on my way to a meeting. No importa, she connected me to my aunt who had just had surgery. Today, I didn't think too much of my mother's call. She has a plan now where it doesn't cost much to call my cell phone here and I know she is going through a hard time with my Nana's health. But my brother? We haven't spoken in months. He called me immediately after my mother. 

I didn't even want to answer the phone because I knew. Hearing the news would not have made it any more real than the feelings in my gut, which was already quite real.

It was not my brother, but instead my mother's voice on the other end, telling me my grandmother passed that morning. She was crying. I was crying. Maybe she heard me trying to muffle my sobs, because only then did she ask where I was. "in the library," I answered.

she apologized profusely as if there was anything that could have been done. I already knew why she called and even if she had asked where I was, and if I had responded "in the library" before the news was delivered, I would have demanded she say the words. Because I already knew.  She continued apologizing, as if she did something wrong, and I said I would call back when I got home.

Immediately I cried. Loudly. Publicly. in the library at the university of Panama. I ran out. Luckily, the university is walking distance from my apartment so I walked furiously telling myself "aguantalo. aguantalo. aguantalo" (hold it in. hold in it. hold it in) I almost made it all the way home. They are repairing one of the elevators and the wait for the lone functioning elevator was too long. I could not aguantarlo anymore. So there in the lobby, I just let it out.  I am sure the people in the elevator felt awkward upon their exit, but I am trying to get over my distaste for crying in public. 

Then all my guilt hit me. For days I have been wanting to call my grandmother. but I didn't. why? because last time we spoke I wanted to breakdown and cry right in her ear because she did not sound anything like herself. and to stop myself from doing that, I just didn't call. Well how do I feel about that decision now?? selfish. and like shit. Who cares how hard it is for me??? She would have appreciated the calls. and I should have made them. 

For the first few minutes I just cried. Then I wanted to clean (because that is what I do when I am sad. I cook. I clean. I organize). Our cleaning lady (this is normal for Panama) just came that morning so I had nothing to clean. I called my mother. 

Last time I spoke to my Nana, no one wanted to end the conversation. We just kept saying I love you. I didn't hang up because she didn't hang up and for about two full minutes it was bye. I love you. I love you too. bye. I love you. I love you. bye.  I know there are a million ways to regret what should have happened during someone's life. I am glad I told her I was planning to go see her for her birthday rather than keeping that a surprise.  I am glad I saw her before I left for Panama and that I treated her to dinner at her favorite place, USA diner. I am grateful for all the wonderful things she did for me in her lifetime.  I can't even begin to imagine holidays without her. I will never again see my grandmother alive. 

Just yesterday I went to the funeral mass for one of the best people I have met here in Panama. And today I have no grandparents. The doctors said six months. None of us believed that. Be that as it may, no one thought it would be less than one month either. We thought we would get to celebrate her 90th birthday on June 18th. This is our 30 (me), 60 (mom), 90 (Nana) year.

We are an incomplete triangle. 

I would have gone back sooner, Nana. I thought about you every single day. If I knew it would be this quick, I would have gone back. And I really really hope you knew that.

... Bye... I love you...

Loss of a beautiful life

To be honest, I have been feeling down for some time. Life just piles up the emotion and I was having trouble wading out of it. Just today I snapped out of my funk.  I have a busy week of meetings and interviews planned, a talk to attend tomorrow and my road-running between Panama City and Colon would recommence tomorrow afternoon.

Then the phone rang.

“Oh great, Lizbeth!” I thought to myself.  It has been nice to make a research related friend... or better said, to have connected with someone (my own age!) through my project. She has been such a ball of energy and assistance to me when I go to Colon.  I had been meaning to call her and let her know I would be back on the Atlantic coast tomorrow and for the parade in Colon on Sunday.

It was not her voice on the other end, however. It was her brother.

It is still incredible to me to even write this. He called to tell me that Lizbeth has passed away. I am completely devastated. 

In research like mine, I am at the mercy of kind souls helping me. She was one of the kindest I have encountered. I interviewed a woman who gave me her name and number. I called her and that same week we met, hitting the ground running. Lizbeth is only slightly older than I am so she herself did not qualify for my study, but eagerly introduced me to people who did. She never simply told me about events, but rather took me to events. She traveled all the way to Portobelo with me for a Sunday morning mass. I met a few people at the University in Colon through her, and she shielded me from unwanted advances from staff members lol. We went to the Sheraton for a book presentation, where she took me from group to group introducing me to people, making sure I sampled the food, knew about the dances, understood colloquialisms.

We knew we were early for the book event at the Sheraton and I could not help but see the way her eyes lit up when she saw the Cinnabon next door . Unfortunately the most I can say is: I was able to treat her to a pecanbun and a lemonade to repay the time and effort she spent assisting me.

She was a person who loved life and lived to help others. I have never seen someone so happy with a pecanbun lol. She spoke excitedly with her hands and her eyes lit up each time she had an idea about anything.

This news is still very fresh. And sad. I will reflect more, I am sure, after the services on Wednesday. Not exactly the trip to Colon that I was planning… 

deserved?

I have been working hard. I have to remember I am a qualitative researcher, and that even if I am behind on my interview mark, the meetings, talks, exhibits, parades, and presentations I attend are just as valuable.

so the question is: Do I deserve this gift? I would like to say yes lol but I will give it to the end of the week!

If you don't know this about me: I LOVE the Adidas originals store. World Cup gear is my favorite, especially the track jackets. I can get Argentina, France, Germany or Brazil another time. Brazil is my favorite team, but I already have a jacket. Old yes; however, I feel like this year, I need to support South Africa
 (this would be me buying this jacket for myself. Yay world cup!)

botched census?

According to an email sent by Alberto Barrow, of each 10 census takers, 6 did not ask the question about African descent.

I was asked.


My roommates were asked. Fenaba was visiting and she too was counted! She was asked. I have tried to casually ask friends of mine if they were asked and some yes, some no, some were asked one part but not both.

A Colombia friend said he was asked if he was Black or African descent, to which he replied yes. When I asked how he answered he 2nd part (was he West Indian, colonial, Black, other, none) he had no idea what I was talking about, then hypothesized that my male census taker was making up questions to stay and talk to me. ummmmm no. lol He was just doing his job.

As soon as the census was over, or rather as soon as the 95% of people who were counted were finished being counted on census day, leaders of the Black community voiced their discontent with the census process, lack of funding, and the problems with the upcoming results.

The full census results should be available in December. For now, these are the preliminary results, which do not include information about indigenous or african descendent populations. Remember the Panamanian census is population and dwelling (poblacion y vivienda)

census day!!

It is finally here! Census Day. We are all stuck in the house until someone comes to count us, and, even then, there is no where to go. Everyone is required to stay home. There is no public transportation. Businesses are closed. (Some restaurants might open around 7pm I heard...) I was hoping they would come to us early in the morning so I could at least go jogging.... but no census taker just yet.

Here in Panama the census will be taken door-to-door. I know many people in the US are asking: What?! That would take forever! But please keep in mind the population here is less than 3.5 million. The census itself, which is populations and dwelling, is quite long.  The 2010 booklet has about 12 pages of questions.

I am not sure how long it will take to get the preliminary results, but I am most interested to know, after all of the campaigning, conversations, workshops, and discussions all over the country, what will be the results of the questions that ask about African descent. How many people will answer, "yes. I am of African-descent" and where will they be located around the country??

vamos a ver!

Happy Census Day!

Happy Mother's Day!

This was taken summer 2008 in Valley Stream Park, NY. Happy Mother's Day to my mom, my Nana, and all of the mothers reading this!! (Mother's Day here in Panama is December 8th)

a rant. the way these men talk to me makes me sick.

I am at home today, organizing, planning, cleaning, grocery shopping and such.  Before I get started on my administrative day, (but after my coffee and breakfast of course) I figured a blog entry is appropriate. I have not been blogging as much because many of the issues make me emotional, and thus take longer to get out and edit than I would like. This is not polished, but true nonetheless.

One of the things that bothers me/pisses me off/surprises me most during this fieldwork experience is the liberty men feel in talking about my appearance. I am not talking about men on the street. I am talking about the people I interview.

 Please keep in mind that all of my interviewees were born in 1960 or earlier.

A man claimed at various times during our interview that I remind him of his daughter, although she is older than I am. He asked if I could get him a cup of water, located on the other side of the restaurant. He walks with a limp. How can I say no? Well, obviously I should have because I return to the following comment:  “The Hottentots Venus has nothing on you.”   

One man has called me “bellisima” or “beautiful lips” when he calls. Every time we meet he tells me I am pretty in some form or fashion.

I can’t even get into the livid exchange I had (well I was angry. He was not) with a man who essentially told me as an intelligent and attractive woman I owed it to the world to have a baby, and soon. Asked me if I was taking contraceptives. Asked me if I am sexually active. And told me if I didn’t want to take care of a baby while I traveled and did my dissertation, I should have it, leave it with the father, and come back if I chose to later, or not come back at all. He believes I am trapped by my own idealism about families and need to let that go and … do what he says I guess? Here I was thinking I am a person with a right to make my life how I choose. Thanks for reducing me to a vehicle through which a new person can enter the world.  Should I be barefoot as well, or may I continue to wear shoes as I pursue my PhD?

Before we began our interview, one man excused himself for yawning. “I don’t sleep well at night. I only sleep well after I make love, after I have good sex. I didn’t last night so excuse me for being a little tired.” Again, is all of that detail necessary? Would you say that in a professional meeting?? Would you want some man to speak to your daughter like that?

The post is inspired by Wednesday morning’s interviewee who, out of nowhere, told me I would look better if I had dreadlocks (my hair was straight at the time. I will probably make a post about the different reactions to my hair when it is curly versus when it is straight, but that is another emotional issue that I need to harness first)

IN A PROFESSIONAL CONTEXT, or any context if we want to be totally honest, WHY DO THESE MEN FEEL COMFORTABLE AND JUST IN MAKING UNINVITED COMMENTS ABOUT MY APPEARANCE, MY SEXUALITY, OR THEIRS?  I take my work very seriously.  I take my project seriously. If I am asking you about political events and economic realities, why are you, in turn, responding about how I should have children, or how I should wear my hair? Why can’t you just say “thank you” for the water, rather than comment on the size of my ass. I consider it the ULTIMATE disrespect and get especially pissed when these men claim to “honor” or “love” black women.  I know they do not consider it disrespectful (yes. I asked. Accused. Yelled. Protested.) I also know that my fieldwork walks a thin line between personal and professional.  “we” Panamanians. “we” Blacks. “Our” community. I do not trivialize the fact that many, if not all, if my interviewees include me in those pronouns and that my access to them has everything to do with my color, my father’s place of birth, and perhaps my appearance. My acceptance into their imagined community should not mean I am subject to their ascetic judgment. They would never say these comments if my father was present. They probably wouldn't say them if ANYONE else was present. But in these one-on-one contexts, their characters are revealed.

Female professors constantly receive course evaluations that comment on their hairstyles, frequency of smiles, clothing much more so than male professors. At every turn, women are judged on how they look.   Think about how YOU speak to the women who cross your path.

DEAR OLDER BLACK MEN WHO HAVE AGREED TO TAKE PART IN MY DISSERTATION RESEARCH PROJECT, YOU NEED TO TAKE A LONG, HARD LOOK AT HOW YOU SPEAK TO WOMEN OF ALL AGES AND THINK: IS THAT HOW I WOULD WANT SOMEONE TO TALK TO MY WIFE, DAUGHTER, NEICE, GRANDDAUGHTER, SISTER, MOTHER? I don’t care what your intentions are. I do not appreciate it and I do not like it. I should have not to tell you this more than once either. I am judged by people every day in every way. I do not need it from you too. Respect me. Keep your opinions about my appearance to yourself.  Sincerely, Ariana Curtis

in lieu of a post, please enjoy these pictures!

they are a little out of order now but:

Visit to Gatun Lock (Atlantic side); afro mass in Portobelo; Panama-Nicaragua baseball game in Rod Carew; juegos centroamericanas (swimming awards); study break at El Caribe 

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