By the end of the fireworks show, I was crying. They weren’t big tears. I don’t think Alan, Danny or Lori even noticed. During the show, they were fixated on the sky like everyone else on Main Street. Afterward, we rushed through Main Street trying to beat the throngs exiting the park.

No one asked why I was wiping away tears. I’m still not sure how I can explain it. There’s the easy answer: I’m a sucker for Disney music and classics like “When You Wish Upon a Star” backed by fireworks get to me, just like the Disney Imagineers intended. That’s part of it, of course, but the music and show were just a backdrop to my own feelings about where I’m at in my life right now.

I’m far from finishing graduate school. Last year, I dropped out of a boot camp to work on my dissertation proposal before the first meeting. That set the tone for the academic year. I didn’t make any progress on my proposal, avoided meeting with my advisor and only stepped into the Moore Hall, home of the education department, to visit friends. I skipped the graduation ceremony as I didn’t want to be reminded that I was so off track. I’m unsure of what this next year brings. I’d like to take a year off, but this depends on my advisor’s approval.

Three years ago, a similar situation had me depressed and miserable. This time around, it hardly bothers me. What little anxiety I feel about school is offset by the great feelings I get when I think about others areas of my life. I’m happy and healthier than I’ve been in my adult life. I know I can count on my family, boyfriend and close friends for support or just to lend an ear.

I’m not sure what comes next. I’m okay with that.

Each day I describe the accident a few times to family, friends, co-workers, insurance, my doctor, etc.

They ask, “What happened?”

I’ll describe the little I saw. I leave out the sounds (a deafening crash, the popping of airbags, Los Lobos on the CD player, my cell phone ringing, sirens) and smell (something burnt).

“Are you okay?” they’ll asked with genuine concern.

“Yeah,” I’ll say and then sigh. I show them the the marks on my chest and forearms from the seat belt and airbag, respectively. Those scars and bruises are the only sign I was in an accident.

They’ll respond with something like, “well, the important thing is that you’re safe. Your car can be replaced, but you can’t.”

I look okay, but don’t feel that way.

The susto lingers.

The Friday after Jose’s untimely death some friends gathered to create a collage of photos to display during the services.

A half dozen women cropped and trimmed photos and laid them out on a large poster board. The two guys stood back awkwardly. One suggested outlining the black letters of Jose’s name in silver. I might have cracked a Raiders joke. I don’t remember.

The collage making was bittersweet. We laughed a little, nobody cried. Five days after we’d received the news, we had used up all our tears. When the jokes and small talk subsided we were left with silence, our own thoughts, and dozens of photos of our always smiling friend.

Jose Luis Vasquez passed away on July 1, 2007.

Dear José,

Happy 26th birthday! It’s your day, π day, the perfect birthday for a man destined to teach mathematics.

I miss you, man.

It’s been over eight months since we lost you. Of course, that initial pain we all felt on July 1st — that extreme shock and sadness — has faded.

I still think about you all the time. It’s hard not to considering your picture sits atop my bookshelf on my mini-altar. You’re there next to Cindy Rabuy and Grandpa and Grandma.

Most days, I feel okay. But there are some days when that initial pain comes back. It catches me off guard like a rough wave that leaves my eyes irritated and red from the saltwater.

That’s what happened in September. I was looking through some photos from Ralph’s Halloween 2006 party. I don’t look at those pictures much. They remind me of loss and severed relationships.

I came across this photo:

It took my breath away to see you and Jonathan grinning like fools. I have no clue why you guys are smiling so broadly. It doesn’t matter. It was just good to see that smile. I miss that smile and your positive energy.

I know I’m not the only one.

Love,
Me

I currently do not have a crush.

Anyone who has known me for more than a minute knows this is weird. Chispa noted after I posted my 100 facts that in the nearly 10 years we’ve known each other, she’s never known me not to have a crush. Well, that was because most of the time we’ve known in each other, I was actually meeting lots of eligible young men. These days, most of the guys I interact with are ethically off-limits (married fellow grad students, undergrads in the program I work with). I just don’t get out that much.

I love crushes. Well, not the aspects that suck. You know, getting nervous around him and trying to analyze all his mixed signals (which you later learned weren’t mixed, but you just made things more complicated).

I love the beginning of the crush. I miss realizing that I like him and maybe he likes me too. That feeling makes me giddy. I’ve even been known to swoon, just ask anyone who was around late last summer when I met my last crush. It’s a nice feeling and I miss it. I think I might even be addicted to that feeling (which makes a lot of sense if you listen to Radiolab’s This is Your Brain On Love episode from last August).

I think I got addicted to it after my first crush. I was in first grade. My crush, Juan, was in second grade. Yes, he was Mexican and short. No, he did not have a goatee. I don’t know any seven year old who can grown facial hair. I liked Juan enough to get self-conscious about my appearance. The bad aspects of crushes start early on! I worried that he wouldn’t like me because my mom made me wear my hair in two trenzas (braids). I thought the trenzas made me look like a baby — nevermind that at 6 years old I was still a baby.

I don’t remember why I stopped liking Juan, but 20 years later, I’m going to blame the demise of my crush on my older brother. Danny and Juan became really good friends. (In fact, they’re still good friends after 20+ years.) At six, I understood that siblings’ friends were off-limits, or at the very least weird. Naturally, I stopped liking Juan. Instead, I became friends with Juan and when I was 14 I asked him to be one of the chambelanes in my quinceañera. It’s been a while since I’ve seen Juan, but he’s since had a child and gotten married.

La Pregunta: Do you remember your first crush? Tell me about him/her.

You know what’s ironic?

A few weeks ago, I was trying to compose a text message to a friend about feeling rejected. When I wrote rejected using the T9 predictive text, the first word to come up was selected.

2007 has definitely not been my year for being selected. Instead, I keep getting rejected. I’ve taken lots of L’s (losses) this year. Take a look:

1. January: submitted conference proposal, it was rejected (repeat two more times in August and November!).
2. April: boyfriend breaks up with me. I try to plead my case a few weeks later in May. He still says it’s best if we’re not together.
3. May: apply for the legislative liaison position with the Graduate Students Association. Get passed up for someone with more experience. Ah, politics.
4. November: X, the guy I’d been dating for a couple months, gets bored/disinterested/whatever with me and we stop dating.
5. November: take qualifying exam. Doesn’t go so well. Have to retake one of three questions.

I’m hopeful 2008 will be better and that I’ll find “someone who cares about the world as much as I do” or just get some serious work done toward graduating.

A little gift: State of Affairs by Los Abandoned [right click, save as]… sigh. They broke up too.

The truth is, you are a phenomenal person and I’m just average.

Those words still make me smile. They still take my breath away even though the man who said them is hardly a part of my life and the pain I felt after our break up has long since faded. It was horrible. I moped. I cried. I got angry. I felt lonely. I was distracted at work and when driving. I even got in a car accident. I didn’t foresee how I could go from feeling shattered to feeling okay. I made it through. I forgave and moved on.

Since then, I’ve felt that pain again… rather recently in fact.

Thinking about that pain, breakups and moving on reminded me of a line from Sandra Cisneros’ Caramelo. When I first read the novel four years ago, I jotted down my favorite quotes. I searched for that list of quotes because I wanted these words:

Like they say, one nail drives out another… Yes, and the second bullet dulls the pain of the first.

As violent and pessimistic as these words seem, I still find them oddly reassuring.

9 a.m.
St. Lucy’s Church in City Terrace for Jose’s funeral Mass. The strange yet pleasant incense smell hits me as I make dip my finger on the sponge soaked with holy water and make the sign of the cross. A few minutes later, the same balding priest enters to begin the procession of pall bearers, casket and family. As the priest says the prayers, few people respond, a sign that there are lots of non-Catholics or lapsed Catholics (or simply people who don’t know the prayers in Spanish) in the church. The Mass is simple and somber. There are few tears, I think most were shed the night before at the velorio.

9:50 a.m.
Gabriel, Ralph and I decide to leave the church parking lot before the procession to Resurrection Cemetery in Monterey Park. I tell Ralph, I know how to get there. Mando and my madrina Bertha are buried there. We take the 10 east to the 710 south to the 60 east and exit Findlay. We make a left at Markland, where we saw a horse-drawn carriage just waiting. Soon, we arrive at Resurrection. I tell the guys, I think we should just drive around until we find somewhere that looks like it’s about to be the location for a burial. A few minutes later we find the right location. Ralph double checks the flower arrangements. He sees one with blue and yellow flowers dedicated to a beloved Bruin. We wait a while in the shade. Soon other friends arrive, they all ditched (or were ditched) by the procession.

10:30 a.m.
The casket and procession arrives. The priest begins his prayer at the grave site. It’s short and sweet. The sun beats down on us and I tell Chonsy to grab the umbrella from my trunk after taking a cue from some of the other mourners. The prayers says a short prayer and gives the final blessing. The guy from the mortuary tells the pall bearers to put their white gloves on the casket and then asks them to give flowers to everyone so they can place them on the casket as well. I get a blue rose. It’s lovely. When I say goodbye, I don’t know if I should say a prayer or tell Jose how much I’ll miss him. I just pray, it’s easier.

After this, an older woman begins a rosary. In between each misterio, we sing a verse of “Pescador de Hombres”. I love the song, but she doesn’t sing it as beautiful as my father and choir back at St. John Vianney. I try to sing too, but I forge the words. It’s a good thing, without fail, the song makes me cry.

11:50 a.m.
All the friends, fellow UCLA/MEChA alumni say goodbye to each other. We’re the only one’s still hanging around at Resurrection. The family already left to the reception and we’re still trying to figure out the next thing to do. Ralph, Gabriel, Jake, Chonsy and I make plans to go a Hawaiian restaurant Jake recommends.

11:55 p.m.
Lunch at Shakas in Monterey Park. We barely beat the lunch crowd. The guys all have giant snow cones to go along with their loco mocos and teriyaki chicken. We discuss baseball, particularly the Seattle Mariners of the mid to late 1990s. I hold my own in the conversation. I think, we must look odd. We’re all dressed in black.

1:30 p.m.
I got conned in to driving to the Kwik-E-Mart in Burbank. Ralph promised me a Squishee. On the way there, he suggests going to see a movie after the Kwik-E-Mart. Harry Potter? I ask hopefully. Ralph and Gabriel actually agree.

1:45 p.m.
We arrive at the Burbank Kwik-E-Mart. The line is shorter than I expected, but we still have to wait a little while. It’s also not as hot as I expected, but it’s still hot. We take pictures with Comic Book Guy and Marge. Whoever thought that going to a gussied up Simpsons style 7-11 would be exciting? Ralph keeps his promise of buying me a slushee in a collectible pink Lisa cup. I buy a couple of bobbleheads and cookies shaped like Simpsons characters. Ralph buys a half-dozen

2:30
We head over to the AMC movie theater and arrive just in time to buy our tickets for the 3 p.m. Harry Potter showing.

5:30
Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban is over. On the escalator down, the guys say they liked it and I clear up some of their questions. I go into an explanation of why I thought the book was much better than the movie, even if I did enjoy the movie. While looking for a place to get some water, the guys suggest grabbing a beer. I can’t argue and we end up at Elephant Bar’s happy hour across the street from the parking structure. I have a margarita. The guys have beer.

6:45
Gabriel offers to pay, he just got a promotion. I don’t mind at all. I’ve been driving him around all day. He should be paying for my drink. We leave the Elephant Bar, which has quickly gone from being busy to being downright hectic. Ralph guides us back to East L.A. without having to get on the crappy 5 freeway.

7:15 p.m.
Back in City Terrace, we unwind at Ralph’s apartment. I’m hungry again. I finally grab one of the pink sprinkled donuts we bought at the Kwik-E-Mart. It’s good, but it’s a little too sweet. The Dodgers game is on TV, but Ralph doesn’t have cable. Boo. Gabriel leaves to head back to the Coachella Valley. I check my email for the first time that day and while doing so Ralph invites me to dinner in Van Nuys at Dr. Hogly Wogly’s Tyler, Texas Bar-B-Que.

8 p.m.
Dinner at “the Hog” with David, his father and Ralph. David and Ralph do the ordering. Two orders of beef brisket, one order of beef ribs, and sides of bread and french fries. The food is good and so is the conversation.

9:30 p.m.
Traffic on the 101 sucks, but at least I don’t have to drive this time. I tell Ralph that today, Friday July 13th, was an almost perfect day. Well, if we don’t consider the fact that it started with Jose’s funeral. You know, I tell him, the only reason you, me and Gabriel were away from work today was because of Jose’s funeral. This great day would have never happened if… well, you know. His death brought together a bunch of people who don’t see each other enough as we’re all scattered around California doing our own thing. Suddenly, the great day doesn’t feel so great anymore. I feel exhausted.

Eli, José and I after the 2005 Raza Grad Celebration

The first call came at 7:44 a.m.

It was Ralph. He still has his own ring tone, but by the time I reached my phone, it had stopped ringing. A minute later, the phone beeped and I checked my voice mail.

“Hey Cindy what’s up? It’s Ralph. Can you give me a call when you get this message?”

He sounded a little groggy. I called back right away.

And then the words I’ve been trying to deny and forget all day flowed through my phone.

He asked if I’d heard from Eligio, a mutual friend. I said no. He asked again if I’d heard from him. I replied no again. He paused. I knew that pause. It was the hesitation of someone who is about to be the bearer of some awful news.

Last night, one of our friends, José Vásquez, was hit by a car as he walked home from a party. José died.

I didn’t comprehend the news at first. The details weren’t clear. They’re still not clear. From what I know, José was at a party with some friends. Those friends left him and he decided to walk home. He walked home on the freeway. We don’t know which one, but we know he was hit by a car and that he was taken to County/USC Medical Center.

I couldn’t sleep after hearing the news. I kept myself busy throughout the day by doing the things I had planned to do when I returned from Mexico late last night. I did laundry. I met up with a friend for a Dodger game and sat in the hot sun while I watched them beat the San Diego Padres. Then I went to a wedding.

Throughout the day, I tried to reach friends who were a little more removed from UCLA to give them the terrible news. They deserved to know as they had all once been part of the same circle while we were students.

I met José in 2001 when he joined MEChA. He entered UCLA in 2000 after graduating from Wilson High School in El Sereno. He was one of a few Salvadoreans in the organization, proof that our definition of Chicana/o was more than just being of Mexican origin. José got involved in some of the high school outreach projects and put his math major to good use as a tutor at local high schools. I think he even became the tutoring director for Xinachtli, MEChA’s outreach project. By his 4th year, José was in a special two-year program for undergraduate students interested in becoming math teachers. He finished off his BS in math while at the same time taking courses toward earning his teaching credential. He graduated from UCLA again last year with a Masters in Education. In the stands at Pauley Pavilion sat a few dozen students from Jordan High School, where he taught algebra. They held colorful signs congratulating the Jordan teachers graduating that afternoon. José was one of them. He was 25.

I told Vane the news in the morning. In the afternoon, I got ahold of Gabby, Isa and Chispa. Chispa and Isa referred to José by his nickname, Mighty Mouse. Isa mentioned that she had just seen him last week. Gabby called him her unofficial concert buddy because they ended up at the same concerts pretty often.

Eligio called me later as I was on my way to the wedding. “We’re all meeting up at Cynthia’s house in Echo Park,” he told me. The we he referred to was a bunch of UCLA alumni who were friends with José. told him I’d be at the wedding. I felt bad for not going, but I wanted to keep my mind off death.

Right now, I cried for the first time as I logged on to MySpace and saw that mutual friends had changed their profile pictures, names and headline messages in reference to José. I think it’s hitting me now that I’ll never attend another Halloween party, watch an early morning World Cup soccer match, eat tacos late at night at La Estrella or go to a UCLA basketball game with José.

I’m gonna miss him. A lot.

Torture is the wrong word for the situation, but it keeps coming to mind even though I doubt that the folks who wrote Article 17 of the Geneva Convention envisioned someone playing the same song on loop when they decided to outlaw torture against prisoners of war. Yes, I know. I’m not a prisoner of war, I’m just a lowly graduate student. However, if you had to hear Sean Paul’s “I’m Still in Love With You” at least three times every evening for the last two weeks, you’d be tempted to call it torture too.

My roommate, Adja, is not a bad person. In fact, Isa and I loved her when she first moved in. Not only did she pay rent on time, she also brought home pasta dinners from the Italian restaurant where she worked. However, we never asked her about her music taste when we interviewed her, if she played the music loud and if she ever got in a mood in which she played the same song over and over. Adja is still cool, she just doesn’t realize that the other inhabitants of apartment 3 don’t care much for Sean Paul.

On Friday evening, I put on my dancing shoes (slip-on black Rocket Dogs) and headed over to the Temple Bar for the Maneja Beto show. As soon as I entered the familiar Santa Monica lounge, I headed over to the bar and bought my usual bar/club drink, an amaretto sour. I then entered the room with the stage and took a seat at an empty table lining the west wall. I was alone, but it didn’t feel weird. I just sipped my drink and patiently waited for the band members to come out.

Everything felt fine until the resident DJ played a version of “I’m Still in Love With You” by someone else besides Sean Paul. It was less annoying, but I still felt like banging my head against the table, screaming and kicking someone. Yes, all at the same time.

The irony hit me.

Even when I tried to go out to enjoy music I like, I was still forced to listen to those lyrics. Maybe someone — my roommate, the DJ — wasn’t trying (albeit without knowing) to annoy me. Perhaps it was all just a grand effort by some higher power to make sure the words in the bouncy hook stay seared in my consciousness. Honestly, no one needs to try. Those words are stuck in my mind, and it has nothing to do with Sean Paul.