Quick update

This will be a short post. I am getting ready for finals next week, lots of time at the library. Dave is holding down the fort. The kids are enjoying the nice weather. My parents are coming down to see us this weekend--I am so excited to spend time with them. I took a nap in the sun yesterday-my favorite thing so far this week. More info next time..........

Why I love him.....

Recently, we have had a little shake-up at the Mack House. I am pleased to say that our marriage still stands solid. I wrote this a few weeks ago in my Creative Writing class, and Dave needs a reminder as to why I am still by his side. So, bear with me as I stroke his ego a little bit.







The smell of roasting garlic was something new to me. Growing up, my mom used powdered garlic, and she used it sparingly. So, the papery cloves of garlic in the cupboard were just one more thing that changed. Once peeled and pressed, the cloves were usually roasted in the pan with olive oil to start almost every meal. They had a distinct, spicy smell- almost indescribable. It was a new scent for me, in this time of new scents-his deodorant, his shirts, his sour morning breath; all these aromas that came with sharing a home with a man. But, the garlic was the one that I liked the most. It filled our home every night. I would come home from work, and he would be starting on dinner. The scent of roasted garlic would fill the stair case up to our second story apartment and I would know that I was home.
The taste of the fresh garlic would explode in my mouth, filling it with excitement. How could I have lived so long and not experience the intense flavor of this wondrous little thing? The first time he made a roast, covered in minced garlic I knew that he was the man for me. His love of cooking, the passion he showed in preparing our nightly dinners –this was a man that knew how to live. He would spend hours in the tiny kitchen, chopping and stirring, teasing my senses. He didn’t always know how the dish would turn out after he tweaked the recipe; a little thyme, less pepper. He would hold the wooden spoon to my lips, a sample of the feast to come. With him, nothing is simple, nothing is predictable. Because of this, life with him is an adventure. With him, its new foods, old foods in different ways; new love and old love with the romance of a chef of life.

Those little boxes.......

I never really know what to put on a form when it asks for race/ethnic origin. I come from a biracial home, but I don’t like to label the family I belong to. We are not a label, we are unique and full of all the love and dysfunction a family can have. We don’t fit into a one letter-defined term. My dark skinned father fell in love with my pale skinned mother. My little brother and I have my father’s dark eyes and the “Vallejos” nose; my mother’s Caucasian genes lost that battle. But, we are observant and logical like my mother; she passed those traits on to us. The “other” box on those forms can’t possibly encompass all of that.
My father is the oldest child of a big Catholic Hispanic family. His youngest sister, my aunt, is almost 2 years my junior. They are a loud, physical bunch; my husband said it was like another world when he attended the first family event. You are expected to hug and kiss everybody as you greet them, coming and going. They accept anybody into their midst; race or financial status has never mattered to them. They will share their beer with any friendly face, as long as you are willing to be the brunt of the playful jokes and prodding they toss around as free as the beer bottles. Any get together is an excuse to make chili and tortillas, beans and salsa that will singe your hair. The women serve the men their food first, not because we are inferior, but because we want the last chance at the homemade tortillas-they disappear like hot cakes. I am proud to share my heritage with them, but to mark “Hispanic” on that form would deny the other half of what makes the whole me.
My mom is the youngest girl of a large LDS family. She grew up with 5 sisters and 1 little brother. She told me a story about seeing a Native American boy once when her family was traveling through Arizona. Her mother had her pose next to the boy- it was an opportunity for a picture. My mom had never seen anyone that wasn’t “white” before then. She grew up in a small town near Salt Lake; the Civil Rights movement wasn’t even a fleeting thought in her world because she only knew other “white” people and didn’t understand what the problem was. The gatherings with the Florence family were quiet, formal affairs, with planned activities and games at scheduled intervals so that everyone had fun. And, they were fun. It was a different fun that contrasted with my dad’s rowdy family perfectly. I remember getting dressed up for these gatherings, happy at a chance to wear a dress to twirl in. The food was always served around a big table with place cards. As I child, I always felt so grown up as I scanned the cards for my name. I am equally proud of this piece of me, but to mark one box means to deny the other.
Part of the reason I chose to hyphenate my name when I got married was to hold on to both identities. I am truly a mix of these two races and cultures. My husband teases me about being “the worst Mexican ever” when I scoff at his spicy foods. I have been lucky to have never experienced racism fist hand, but I have always wondered if it was because I could “pass” as white. I hate the form for wanting to fit me into a little box. I hate the fact that we have to have little boxes in the first place.






P.S. Okay, so I was depressed last week, but seeing Dave for 1 day this weekend and well wishes from my good friends made it better.