I cried this morning as I drove to work just as I did one year ago as I drove home in the morning from campus after working on a paper all night long. Except this time, I think I finally let myself grieve. I did it as I passed the cemetery where Grandma and Grandpa are buried. I felt so much pain and anger. I didn’t grieve only for those who lost their lives on September 11.

I grieved like GM did when he wrote this article last year in response to another in the Daily Bruin (October 10, 2001):

I end this submission with a response to Jones’s statement that I should join Jones in “howling for blood” in order prove my “Americanness.”

I condemn these attacks on innocent lives as I condemn all innocent lives being taken. I grieve for the daughters whose father was working on the 101st floor of the fallen building; my heart aches when I think how those passengers aboard those ill-fated flights must have felt before the horrendous impact; and my eyes lower in grief whenever I see a view of the New York skyline.

Yet this pain is not new for me or for many others around the world who have seen the same horror of innocent life being stolen away countless times around the world, whether it be in Sudan, East Timor, Chiapas, Bosnia, Nicaragua, Chechnya, the Phillippines, or in my homeland Iraq.

Excuse me, Jones, if I don’t “howl for blood” along with you, for I have already seen more innocent bloodshed than my eyes can bear to stand.

Last year, I bought the September issue of Latina magazine. I think I was really feeling down that day and just picked it up at the drug store.

Months later as I flipped through it, I found the calendar it had for the month of September, 2001. In the box for Tuesday the 11th was the following: a dove with an olive branch, and the words “International Day of Peace: Make peace with your suegra (mother in law)” [or something like that].

Que ironía.

Peace to all those who lost loved ones, peace to those in war ravaged countries, and peace to those who continue to suffer the brute force of US military intervention.

Paz. I’m off to listen to Marvin Gaye’s “What’s Going On” because it’s as fitting now as it was 30 years ago.

I remember staying with my friend Jonathan late in to the night. I was writing the final paper for my summer school class, research methods in sociology. Jonathan was writing a funding proposal so he could have a job. He didn’t stay until about 7 am like I did. I left at that point because parking in the school lot was no longer free. When I left the underground parking structure I could hear the radio without static. I was waiting at Sunset Blvd to head out to the freeway while the news came in. I was very confused, but by the time I was on the 405 south, I knew something was wrong. The freeway was eerily empty and I momentarily freaked. What if New York wasn’t the only city to be attacked? What if something happened in LA or elsewhere? When I got home, I turned on the TV. My roommates were just waking up and I told them what happened. We watched in horror as the planes crashed in to the two towers of the World Trade Center and then they collapsed.

I returned to work and class later. The bus was empty, so was campus. I chatted with my friend, Chris, while at work and he thought it would be safer if I stayed home. I told him I didn’t have a choice. In the afternoon, I went to class. My professor didn’t mention the attacks, but he said it was okay if we just turned in our papers and left. I don’t remember what I did.

My family hosted Iván, a 6-foot tall 16-year-old from Asturias in the north. Through the month of July we tried to help him work on his English skills. Sometimes it didn’t work and we’d end up making fun of the way he commanded us to quit teasing. “Eh-stop!” That just made us laugh more. When Iván returned to Asturias, he told us “te voy a hechar de menos” (I’ll miss you). I didn’t know what the phrase meant at the time, but now like it more than the more simple verb extrañar.

In the mornings, Iván, Sergio and their peers took English classes. In the afternoon they were free to hang out with their host families, go on beach trips, go to the mall or simply hang out in someone’s pool.

One afternoon after summer school, Danny borrowed my mom’s Durango and we drove Sergio and Iván to the Guitar Center in West Covina. Sergio wanted to buy a guitar. I jumped at the chance to go as I’d already decided that I sorta liked Sergio.

Danny drove down the streets playing KROQ just loud enough for us to hear the music but now drown out the conversation. I sat in the back seat and stared out the window at car dealerships, banks and fast food restaurants. One song ended and the next began. Without thinking, I sang along to Red Hot Chili Pepper’s “Soul to Squeeze”.

I noticed Sergio singing too.

Where I go I just don’t know
I might end up somewhere in Mexico
When I find my peace of mind
I’m gonna keep you ’til the end of time

He caught our simultaneous sing along and smiled at me. I blushed like the smitten almost-16 year old I was.

When I got home, I called my friend Janine (she was hosting a Spanish student too) and told her all about how I was sure Sergio smiled at me and our mutual like of a hit single by one of the most popular bands of the day meant something. My crush intensified.

I spent the next few weeks making up excuses to go to Janine’s house (she lived near Sergio’s host family) or Sergio’s host family. It soon became clear Sergio wasn’t interested in me. He just wanted to play his guitar. Plus, he smoked.

My crush was over faster than a monarch’s lifespan.

At the end of July, Sergio, Iván and the rest of the exchange students returned to Spain. I continued my ho-hum summer of band practice, summer school and babysitting.

Fifteen years after the moment with Sergio, “Soul to Squeeze” was the first song that came to mind when I thought of summer music memories.

I saw Robbie recently at Cain’s house for a little get together. There was beer, food, beer pong and wading in little Becka’s pool. And a story from Robbie.

As you can see, Robbie has a tattoo or two. They’re pretty neat and easy to notice. His toddler cousin saw Robbie’s tattoos and wanted one of his own. He asked his mom.

“Mom, can I get a tattoo?”

“Yes, but only after you get older and graduate from college. When you graduate from college, I’ll take you to get any tattoo you want.”

The toddler was satisfied with his mother’s answer.

Later, at a family gathering in East LA he noticed a heavily tattooed veterano (older, retired cholo).

The precocious toddler walked up to the man and asked innocently, “What college did you go to?”

We couldn’t stop laughing.

Thanks to Robbie for letting me post this.

I’m still unsure. I’m waiting for more response to the survey before I close it and begin analyzing.

In thinking about the atmosphere, I reflected on my own experiences. Dodger Stadium is one of my happy places, but I’m not always happy there. That’s inevitable as I’m going to see my team lose. However, my worst experience had nothing to do with the actual game. In fact, I needed Baseball Almanac to refresh my memory about the game details (SF v. LA, Giants won 1-0).

In September ’08, I attended the last home game of the season with my brothers, Papá Chepe and six cousins. The cousin/grandpa outing was my cousin Ernie’s idea. He asked Chepe about the last game he attended and found out that it had been years, maybe decades, since he’d been to Chavez Ravine. We bought a dozen tickets in right field on field level. We chose those seats because they were close to the handicap parking and Chepe wouldn’t have to walk much or climb up/down too many stairs. We arranged ourselves in one row with Chepe in middle of his nietos.

The game was slow and scoreless until the 11th inning, but I still witnessed the kind of drama that gets my heart beating fast and makes my palms sweaty.

In the 4th inning a middle-aged Latino, I’ll call him el Veterano, in front of Rene turned around. Being a metiche (busybody) I leaned over across Adrian so I could hear what el Veterano was saying.

“For the past 45 minutes I’ve been sitting here listening to you talk shit in front of my wife and kids. I’m tired of it.”

I wasn’t surprised he was complaining. Earlier in the game, I shushed Adrian and Rene because of their language. I expected someone to turn around and ask, “can you guys watch your language?” They talked a lot too and only quieted down to drink their beers, munch on snacks, and eat Mexican candy.

I knew the guys were at fault, but I was on their side as soon as el Veterano began speaking and said “shit.” I didn’t like his tone nor hypocrisy. I figured he should use FCC approved or “pre-school toy” friendly words if he was going to complain about cursing.

Rene responded with a half apologetic, half surprised look. Adrian remained quiet. I leaned in closer.

El Veterano went on, “And it’s even worse that you sound like a nigger.”

I was shocked. Really? He used that word? In public? To complain about strangers’ language? And next to his wife, teenage son and pre-teen daughter?

I couldn’t help it. I jumped in.

“You’re offended by his language and then you go and use a racial slur?! I can’t believe you’re complaining about our language and saying you’re offended. You’re offending me with that word!”

My face reddened, my hands shook and my blood pressure shot up.

El Veterano shifted in his seat. His wife and kids, who had previously been listening, didn’t dare turn back to look at us.

“I… I’m sorry,” he said. He turned back to face the game and never turned around again.

The guys looked at me, still in shock over what had just happened. Beside me, Chepe sat oblivious as to what had just happened. Danny and Nancy leaned over to be filled in on the chisme. Adrian said, “I knew as soon as he said that you were going to jump in. I’m glad you did.”

Later in the game, Adrian (also a metiche) told me he’d read El Veterano’s pre-teen daughter text message to a friend. It read, “what are you doing, bitch?”

Last night, Sean asked me to marry him. And I said yes. I know we’re Facebook engaged, but now it’s official.

Sean asked me at my apartment after we had gone out to dinner at my favorite Mexican/Salvadorean place in Palms, Gloria’s. While waiting for our food, I brought up something we talked about last fall. Then he told me that his friend’s friend was planning to propose to his girlfriend as she ran the NY Marathon, her first. I thought it was a dumb idea. So did Sean. We’d talked about proposals before and I’d expressed distaste for public proposals, jumbo screen proposals at Dodger Stadium, and proposals in the middle of a big family event. That may be great for some women, but not for me.

I brought up the marathon proposal again last night. “You know, now that I’ve actually run a marathon, I think a proposal then is an even worse idea. I know how I am, and I know I’d cry. And then I’d get boogers and that would affect my breathing. I’d be mad.”

Sean nodded and re-agreed. We laughed and ate more chips.

When we got home, I took some pictures of some of my marathon stuff and had Sean crouch down to take a picture of my shoes on the floor. It still hurts to squat and sit down. While I had my back turned to him, I got a text message. It was a Twitter update (I get Sean’s tweets via text message).

I turned around.

He was kneeling.

“The marathon is over… So I’m asking.”

I knew he was serious, but I still asked, “Are you kidding?”

He pulled a small black box out of the pocket of his hoodie. He opened it to show a ring.

He was silent. I started to cry.

“You have to ask me.” I wanted to hear the words.

He choked up a little as he softly uttered, “Will you marry me?”

“Yes.”

He got up, we hugged tightly like we used to at baggage claim after weeks without seeing each other. We call it airport hugs. I sniffed and said something about getting boogers on his hoodie. He didn’t seem to mind.

“You talked to my dad right?”

“Yes.”

We hugged more and then I whispered, “I love you so fucking much.” He kissed me.

Then he let go and got back to the ring, still nestled in its box.

“Oh, let’s try this ring on. Let’s see if four and a quarter fits. It looks small.”

It wouldn’t go past my knuckle. I freaked out momentarily and then realized it was my right hand.

“Wait, this is the wrong finger.”

We tried the left ring finger, it got tight around the knuckle, but it fit.

Of course, I had to make some calls. My mom had actually called during dinner to check up on how I was feeling. I found out soon that my parents knew Sean planned to propose, but didn’t know when. Last week, he enlisted Lori’s help to get my dad alone on Saturday at the party/fundraiser. They were surprised it was so soon. Sean was too. He didn’t know he’d be asking last night, but he had to. The ring was, “burning a hole in his pocket” and he just had to do it.

Read Sean’s side of the story, here.

Did I dream it or did someone tell me the story? I can’t remember where the truth ends and the talk begins.
- from Caramelo by Sandra Cisneros (p. 20)

When I was a kid, my family went camping on some bluffs overlooking the beaches of Santa Barbara. I can’t remember the name of the campsite or how old I was. I do remember joining up with my tía Susana, her sisters and a couple other families. There were a lot of kids left unattended as our mom’s played la baraja.

On Sunday morning, while everyone was still asleep in their tents, my mom woke us up for Mass at the Santa Barbara Mission. I’m sure we grumbled about having to go to church while on vacation, but we went anyway.

There weren’t many people in Mass that Sunday, it was much emptier than our usual 8 a.m. service at St. John Vianney. I remember thinking it was cool and weird that I was inside one of the same missions we studied in 4th grade.

At least I think I remember this. I stopped by the mission briefly on a recent trip to SB. It didn’t look familiar, nor did I get the feeling I’d visited before. Perhaps my memory is distorted. I know we went camping in SB and went to Mass on Sunday, but maybe it wasn’t at the mission. Maybe I imagined that part.

“My flight’s been canceled. I scheduled another flight for Thursday.”

I was disappointed, but not surprised. For the past couple of days, I’d been crossing fingers, lighting candles and bajando las ánimas de mi tía Macaria in hopes that Sean would be able to get out of New York despite a blizzard. But the weather didn’t cooperate.

Sean grumbled that he felt like he had been running a marathon only to find out the finish line had been moved. I just accepted it and hoped there would be no issues a few days later.

The next day, most of his boxes arrived via FedEx. I shoved the heaviest in to the closets and joked that he should’ve shipped himself in one of those boxes.

I kept myself busy that week doing work from home (or trying to) and running when it wasn’t raining.

Thursday came and there were issues. Of course there were. Sean’s brother was got caught in traffic and was late to pick him up. Sean would have missed his flight, but it was delayed. That meant he was about to miss his connecting flight, but that one was held. He made it to LAX that evening, 20 minutes after originally planned.

I was there with a sign welcoming him home.

My dad woke me up on my birthday. He called and cheerily offered his best wishes. Half awake, I thanked him. I hung up, and stared at the clock on the nightstand, and then at the dying sunflowers beside it.

‘I need to throw those out,’ I thought. Sean had sent the lovely bouquet two weeks earlier with a short “get well” note. The cold didn’t kept me from work and affected my sleep, but didn’t stop me from running. And even though the flowers were dead, the cough was not. I had still woken up a few times that night in a coughing fit. It sucked.

Despite my sleepiness, I knew I couldn’t stay in bed. I needed to get ready to go to Hacienda Heights. I’d made arrangements the night before to take my mom and Lori to get pedicures. After running 90-odd miles, I needed to pamper my feet. I wanted to treat my mom, the one who did the real work 30 years ago (and then raising me too). I knew Lori would appreciate a pedicure in exchange for baking my birthday cake (well brownie).

I got out of bed and took the vase to the kitchen. I washed the vase and still in my pajamas (hot pink mesh shorts and a purple t-shirt) took the dead flowers out to the dumpster behind the apartment building.

It was a nice sunny morning and I relished the feeling of the warm sun on my legs. As I crossed the driveway, I heard the familiar beep of a neighbor remote-locking a car. I turned toward the street and saw a man who bore an uncanny resemblance to Sean walking past the building. He walked the same, carried the same brown satchel, wore the same black flat cap, and dragged along a carry-on sized bag.

I was confused.

Sean was supposed to be in New York, at work.

I watched as he disappeared from view and then turned around toward my driveway. He noticed me, and waved.

It was him. I waved back and then went inside to wash off flower gunk from my hands.

I returned to the door. He stood outside bearing gifts.

“Hi,” I said and hugged him, feeling incredibly lucky and thankful for his presence.

A little while later, I showed up at my house with Sean. My parents and siblings were just as surprised as I was to see Sean. We had lunch. Lori and I still got pedicures, but my mom didn’t come along. Instead, she took the money I would’ve use for a pedicure and got a foot massage. She took Sean with her. He was happy for a massage (and a nap) after a long flight and little sleep. Later, Lori fixed some fudge brownie sundaes. Sean took Adrian’s spot at the Dodger game with me (Adrian was okay with).

I didn’t think my thirtieth birthday would be memorable (aside from the number), but it was thanks to some incredible people.

[Note: For those wondering, Sean didn't come out the weekend before due to a wedding. I had the same conflict in July during his birthday weekend, which meant I traveled to NY on his birthday and left two days later. Yeah, it gets expensive, but he's worth it.]

The Monday morning I moved in, Danny drove me to campus. He brought along Lori and Adrian to help. I don’t remember why my parents didn’t go, but it was probably related to work and the fact that few days later they’d be on campus for the 1-day parent orientation. Still, they weren’t missed at the moment. The siblings were more than enough help.

Once I’d checked in and received my key, we took my stuff up to my room on the third floor of the north wing. The floor was already busy with other students and their parents moving in.

I don’t remember if Lily had already arrived at the room. The details aren’t scribbled in my old journal. I do know she was in the room before we finished moving and the siblings left. Lily was one of several students from Garfield HS in the program. She left to lunch with some other students from her high school.

The siblings stuck around a little while, but soon they had to leave. I walked them out. They hugged me and wished me luck.

When I returned to my room, all that waited for me were a few boxes ready to unpack. I sat on the bet, a bit overwhelmed and feeling lonelier than ever. And I cried.

Every summer for the past 4 years I’ve gone back to dorms about once a week to meet incoming freshmen for work. I was up there this morning, admiring how “the hill” — the residence hall area — has changed. After my meeting, I walked over to the shiny, new Bruin Café and had a drink. I pulled out the Adrian Tomine book Sean lent me and got to reading.

Except for the newness of sitting in the Bruin Café, sitting by myself at table didn’t feel strange. I wasn’t embarrassed or terrified of it as I was on my first day at UCLA. I didn’t know anyone and didn’t want to eat at a table alone. Rather than go hungry, I bought a sandwich from the convenience store on the hill and ate in my room.

I still feel alone sometimes, far from my family, but I’m more comfortable with it. I’ve become quite independent and there are times when I relish in those quiet moments.

But there are still times when I want nothing more than to be back in Hacienda Heights with the parents and siblings. Invariably, those are the times when I get bad/sad news and just need a hug.

Before the first date, I had already:

(a) promised to love him forever, and not just on his birthday;
(b) negotiated the terms of a long-term relationship and picked out at least one future child’s name;
(c) given him a Valentine’s day gift (and received one from him too);
(d) kissed him;
(d) checked the yes box when he asked, “will you marry me?”; and
(e) made it public.

Despite all this, I was nervous. So was he.

It was like the previous times we’d gotten together to watch TV, have dinner and drinks, play video games, go to a baseball game hadn’t happened. Of course not, that was all while we were just friends.

That Friday night, I spent more time than usual getting ready. I combed and blow dried my hair (when I do this, people usually think I got a haircut or something). I curled my eyelashes, applied mascara, dusted some blush on my cheeks. I applied and then took off some lipgloss. It was took dark. I wore a dress I’d bought right before I gave up shopping for Lent. I consulted with a friend to figure out which shoes went best. He picked the red peep-toe sandals with a low heal.

I picked him up at his hosts’ house nearby. (Hey, we are kinda nontraditional here.) We shared a plate of pad see ew at a cute Thai restaurant and then headed over to the El Rey Theater for the Bird and the Bee.

With drinks in hand we took our place close to the stage. As we waited, we listed off all the firsts we couldn’t wait for. First fight. First time making up from said fight. First time I cook for him. First birthday together. First holiday. First time he meets my parents. First vacation. First day in LA when it’s officially Sean’s home. And on and on. We waited a while.

The opening act, Juliette Commagere, took the stage and we quieted down. But we started up right after she finished.

“How do you like our first date so far?” I asked.

“I love it.”

We brainstormed more firsts until a very-pregnant Inara George (the bird), Greg Kurstin (the bee) and the rest of the band took the stage. We quieted down again. The Bird and the Bee played a great show. We danced and sang along.

Hey boy, won’t you take me out tonight? I’m not afraid of all the reasons why we shouldn’t even try. Hey boy won’t you make me out tonight? I get excited when I think of crawling in to your arms.

During “Fucking Boyfriend” I sang in to his ear.

“Won’t you be my fucking boyfriend?”

He turned to me, “yes.”

After the show — which included surprise guest John Oates playing along to the Bird and the Bee’s covers of Hall & Oates hits — we made our way home.

“You know what I was thinking, what would our anniversary be? When did we actually get together? The 17th? Today?”

“I think it should be today, because then I can remember something actually happening, not just sending a fax.”