>They’re Still Dead

I never met Neibi Brito. And, despite passing it almost daily, I never saw her children playing in the yard of the house in which they lived. I would have noticed. It was a great house, cottage-like and quaint, a small-scale Cape Cod. Someone painted the exterior powder blue. Had I been consulted, powder blue would not have been among my first choices but, accented by white trim, it worked.

My subdivision sits just a block off the main thoroughfare which acts as a sort of suburban life-line. It’s the way I get to the market. It takes me to my son’s school. If I follow it one way, it takes me downtown. The other way takes me to the highway and, from there, I can go anywhere. My house sits on one side of this road and what’s left of Neibi Brito’s powder blue cottage sits, smoldering, on the other.

On Thursday evening, my friend’s teenage daughter reported seeing Neibi running around her front yard. She was screaming and waving her hands. One of her neighbors later explained she was screaming “My babies!”.

A construction worker, drawn by the commotion, stopped and went into action unloading a ladder from the back of his truck. At times like these, communication barriers are of no consequence. Desperation is a universal language.

Seeing the construction worker leaning his ladder against the side of the house, two nineteen-year-old neighbors offered their assistance. By now, flames licked the outer edges of the front window frame, and black smoke billowed towards a street filling with onlookers and distracted rush hour motorists.

The men worked as a team to remove three children from a second story bedroom, through a window, down the ladder, to the ground where it was confirmed that three-year-old Ivan Guevara had died. His four-year-old brother, Isaac Guevara, and eighteen-month-old sister, Stacy Brito, immediately began receiving treatment from paramedics who had arrived on the scene minutes before. They arrived alongside firemen, whose boots flattened the garden hose Ivan Gonzalez had grabbed in hopes of squelching the flames without the assistance of emergency personnel. The last thing Ivan Gonzalez wanted to see was men wearing boots and badges.

As the children were loaded into waiting ambulances, Ivan stood attentive, just outside the vehicle’s gaping back end. The right side of his face oozed anew as soon as he removed the soiled rag with which he dabbed at it. He was missing an eyebrow. He relayed, to the paramedics, his intention to follow the ambulance to the hospital. It was a request made by most fathers; fathers who made awkward attempts at smoothing hair while crooning their children safely inside the emergency room.

Ivan did neither.

Ivan never showed up.

Ivan wasn’t their father.

Ivan was their mother’s boyfriend.

Twenty-six-year-old Ivan Gonzalez was a chemist,

a chemist who cooked methamphetamines,

a chemist who cooked methamphetamines which were later sold by his girlfriend, their mother, twenty-two-year-old Neibi Brito.

And that explains a lot.

That explains the fire.

That explains the $193,000.00 stashed between two slabs of drywall which explains how, despite appearing unemployed, they paid rent for a home in an area that demands anywhere between $1, 200.00 and $700,000.00 per month.

That explains what one neighbor dubbed “unusual activity” at their home.

Tragic as it is, that even explains the “signs of child cruelty” reported in the local newspaper.

What it doesn’t explain is the question the rest of us keep asking, “How could THAT have happened HERE, in THIS neighborhood?”

The question is asked in shock at the realization that our triple digit incomes don’t provide immunity from a “certain element”, which is a good Southern girl’s way of describing illegal immigrants, criminals, drug dealers, child abusers, or any other unsavory individual, or group of individuals, from which we hope to protect ourselves by ensconcing our families inside gated communities, which offer the privilege of being able to touch the house next to yours by simply extending an arm from an upper level window.

Anyone who looked at Neibi Brito, particularly as she wheeled her 2011 Cadillac into her rented driveway, knew she didn’t belong. She was twenty-two. She had three children under the age of five. She lived with a man who was not her children’s father, and neither of them left the house everyday at the same time and returned at a different same time. There was no visible means of support.

I’m not here to point fingers. There’s plenty of blame to go around; from the real estate agent, to the car dealer, to the neighbor so eager to share her suspicions of “unusual activity” on the 6:00 news. Ivan Gonzalez had been arrested just days before as an accessory to a child stabbing case. We could go there. But we won’t.

Three children died, and it doesn’t matter whose fault it was. They’re still dead. What matters is that next time something doesn’t fit, we ask the questions, we be the “buttinsky”, we care.

Suppose a neighbor had shown up on Neibi Brito’s doorstep on moving day? Suppose she carried a basket of muffins, and when Neibi answered the bell, she handed her the muffins and took time to speak to each of the three children pulling at Neibi’s legs? What if she came back, with her daughter in tow, the next day? What if she offered to take the children for a walk, while Neibi had some much needed alone time?

Would a drug dealer have set up a meth lab in Gladys Kravitz’s neighborhood?

Sometimes caring really is a matter of life and death.

>Valentine Red

It seems as though Valentine’s Day always fell on weekdays when I was a kid. It feels that way because I have this image. It’s an image of my father, work-weary and possibly a little buzzed, leaning forward in order to catch the screen door with one mud-encrusted workboot. The lean caused the shopping bags dangling from his huge Dad-hands to swing, leaving flashes of red, and white, and chocolate in their wake. I fight the urge to clasp my hands in anticipation…

Mother’s box came first, and it was huge. Though he may have chosen pink on occasion, my memories are of red, bright red, deep red, heart red, love red. And white; white lace, the scratchy kind, bunched along the border. The largest of these heart-shaped, satin-wrapped boxes featured silk flowers in the center, roses, of course. As my mother tore through the plastic on the outside of this candy-stuffed work of art, my sisters and I leaned forward slightly, in anticipation of a chocolate waft.

She never ate one right away. There was no spontaneity to the way my mother chose chocolates. Should you have happened upon the still beautiful box even a day or two later, you would have found most of the candies pinched. She always pinched before she ate. She was picky that way. And, I couldn’t help but think that at least part of her motivation lie in making her candy less palatable to those of us with smaller hearts, emptied sooner.

In elementary school we made valentine boxes. At first, we crafted as a class. We bent construction paper, and scrunched doilies, and shot arrows through our hearts with red and pink crayons. Later, left to our own devices, the boxes became more ornate or, maybe, just more shiny. Either way, they were impressive…and, to a girl who feared her valentines would be few, somewhat menacing. As I slid my box between two others whose owners’ low expectations directed them to end of the table furthest from those expecting the most traffic, I began to devise ways to remove it with as little fanfare as possible.

There was always a party during which someone else’s mother served cookies or cupcakes. We drank red juice and peeled red foil from thick chocolate hearts.

At the end of the day, I’d jump from the bus and run up the driveway, through the door and up the stairs to the first bedroom on the left. Closing the door, I’d dump the contents of my now disheveled valentine box onto the folds of my unmade bed. My favorites were the ones with red lollipops threaded through the message. They had white hearts painted on them and tasted just like Luden’s cough drops.

In high school, Valentine’s Day was marked by the Band Department’s carnation sale. In what proved to be a stroke of marketing genius, strategically placed posters throughout the school suggested that carnations weren’t just for “couples” anymore. Carnations could also be purchased for friends, and at two-for-a-dollar they were a steal. The Popularity Derby was on!

In high school, Valentine’s Day always seemed to fall on a Monday. It feels this way because I have vivid memories of Sundays marred by an overwhelming feeling of embarrassment yet to be experienced, and dread. Or, maybe it was just dread, and the embarrassment is embellishment supplied by experience.

Flowers were distributed during homeroom when two or three flute players interrupted morning announcements with a tentative knock on the institutional door. I know they were flute players because flute players didn’t look like anyone else in the band. Flute players were exclusively female and cloned apparently, as all were thin, and wore their wheat-colored, stick-straight, long hair parted in the middle so that, at times, it fell forward in cascades, hiding, for just a moment, their carefully cultivated poetically pained expressions.

They flitted about the room, dropping carnations on desk corners, often making return trips to the same two or three desks, over and over, again. White carnations were sent by friends. A pink carnation meant someone wanted “to know you better”. Red carnations were the real prize, and usually only appeared on the aforementioned two or three desks. Occasionally a boy received a red carnation causing the boys with empty desks to shoot him glances filled with envy later hoisted on pointed barbs.

As it does for so many things, age takes the guesswork out of Valentine’s Day. It isn’t about wondering anymore. You either have a Valentine or you don’t. If you have a Valentine you get a valentine. If you don’t, you don’t. For someone who used to retrieve her box from the other end of the table with as little fanfare as possible, it’s a better plan.

Roses are a mainstay. I’ve received them singly and in bunches. They’ve been wrapped in paper, shipped in boxes, and presented in vases. I enjoy them presented, preferably at the office. After all, it’s not about the flowers; it’s what they represent. Whoever came up with the idea of shipping in boxes fails to understand the power of presentation.

And, while I like roses, I would trade every one, even the salmon-colored ones and the yellow ones with red-tinged edges, for a single tulip. A red tulip.

Today I woke to winter sunlight filtered through empty branches swaying in winds that carry the hope of spring. In front of the window sits a table and on the table a vase filled with a fountain of red tulips.

>The Huff, The Peas, and the Egghead

Like many before me, I write from angst. I haven’t had much lately…

Today, though, I feel need. It’s a nice place from which to write. I much prefer it to sitting in front of a monitor willing an idea to form in between the occasional guilty click on my facebook page, which mocks me from its shrunken state on the bottom of the screen.

I’ve got a few things stuck in my craw…

Arianna Huffington sold out. Despite the rather dismal projections offered by many who know much more than I about these things, I understand the motivation from a business point of view. But I didn’t see Arianna as a business. I saw Arianna as a pioneer, sort of a new age Annie Oakley with a sexy foreign accent. And, I ask you, would Annie Oakley have sold her gun? Even if it meant she could grow her audience? What if more people took her seriously? Would she have sold it then? I don’t think so.

For me, Arianna represented “The Total Package”. She is smart, beautiful, savvy, brave, maternal, and charming. She gave the appearance of having “It All”. Recently, I listened to an interview in which she was asked why she wasn’t “seeing” anyone. (The fact that this is considered a pertinent question in 2011 is something that could get stuck in my craw if I let it. For now, I’ve decided not to let it.) Paraphrased, her answer was that she just hadn’t found anyone who was worth it. She was busy. She loved her life. She was a self-fulfilling female. I suppose she still is…in a way.

Did I mention I actually like the “Black Eyed Peas”? I do. They opened for “No Doubt” about a million years ago in a lofty, former Baptist tabernacle-cum-tiny concert hall now called simply, “The Tabernacle”. My date hated them. I suffered them in anticipation of things to come. But, even so, I could see their appeal.

Will. I. Am., despite obvious identity issues inherent in the chosen spelling of his given name and the unfortunate choice of headgear, is a brilliant musician and businessman, which is precisely why Intel recently named him “Director of Creative Innovation”.

Let’s agree they were over-ambitious. And, given that, and Mr. .Am’s recent recognition, there was no room for mistakes. If your desire, Will. I. Am., is to be known to the world as a creative genius, then you’d better think before you take on a job of this magnitude. Before you decide to create a light-show the size of a football field, teeming with human bodies, you should be absolutely sure the mikes will work. It’s a small thing, but in the end when we’re watching, and Fergie is singing, only we can’t hear it because her mike is going in and out, over and over, that small thing becomes huge.

As she lay bleeding, the vultures wheeled. If I had a dime for every time I’ve read a headline that promised tantalizing details of the time Fergie wet her pants, I could buy a cup of coffee…and a biscotti. Okay, so Fergie wet her pants. Video evidence is unequivocal. And, so what? She didn’t wet her pants at Cowboys Stadium, but she did do a bitchin’ Axl Rose impression.

Why is it that, once the bleeding starts, that’s all we know? We smell the blood, and nothing else matters. Why do we work so hard to bring down those we worked so hard to elevate? What is wrong with this picture? Are we really that bored…jealous…unhappy…small? Well, I guess we are.

Sometimes I only read the headlines; case in point, the recent brouhaha over abortion rights.

When I was in college, our English teacher gave us a choice of essay subjects. We could write about abortion, or we could write our own “Bill of Rights”. Declaring abortion rights a dead issue since it’s particulars seemed to have been bandied about since the time of my birth, I chose to construct a “Bill of Rights”. The paper is one of few I socked away for future generations. In it, I addressed the quandary that is dishwashing and made what proved to be a convincing case. After all these years the A+, written in red ink, shines bright atop the cover page.

And yet, here we are some thirty years hence, and my inbox is deluged with emails from “Move-On” and “NARAL”, imploring me to take action against Republicans who, they insist, would rather a woman die than end an unwanted pregnancy.

Oh, how I have waffled.

On the one hand, I sincerely believe that a woman who doesn’t wish to be a mother should not be. On the other hand, I have trouble arguing the point that a human is not conceived at conception. I know it’s just a bunch of cells. But, it’s THE bunch of cells. It’s the only bunch of cells capable of human life. Doesn’t that, in and of itself, constitute life?

And, on the other hand, why are we legislating human anatomy and physiology?

I don’t have answers, but I am fascinated that we are still talking about it. And, by the way, whatever happened to those cool foil suits our professors said we’d all be wearing by now? Nobody talks about THAT anymore…

I can’t decide if it’s cool or scary. Facebook may have incited a war. The headline reads “Inspired by Tunisia, Egyptians Use Facebook to Set-up Protest”, and we all know what happened next.

According to “The Social Network”, Facebook is controlled by a 20-something, egg-headed cuckold. I have children older than he, with much more life-experience, and still, I wouldn’t be comfortable following them “as to war”.

Once again, I find myself torn. I’m awestruck by the way Facebook shrinks borders. My friend’s list, alone, covers several continents. I socialize with people living in other countries every single day. I’m not sure my mother ever met someone from another continent, and if she did, I’m sure they didn’t converse daily. Facebook has improved my life in many ways. I’m more intelligent. I’ve learned things from people I never knew I wanted to know. I’m more worldly. I ask questions of my international friends. From them, I’ve learned more about Ireland and South Africa than I ever learned in Social Studies class. I’ve broadened my horizons. I’ve found new music, read new authors, and picked up health tips. Through Facebook, I’ve cultivated my interest in photography and found a new audience for my blogs.

And, I waste lots of time. There’s just no two ways about it. At least half the time I spend on Facebook is empty, mindless, and most important, time I should be spending looking at, or into, someone else’s face.

Like it or not, though, I believe Facebook, or something like it, to be a permanent part of our culture. Our mission, should we choose to accept it, is to learn how to maximize the positive parts of the experience and still have plenty of face-time with our favorite faces.