Category Archives: Sentimientos

Mathematician not Arithmetician

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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.

On loop

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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.

Catharsis

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“Be thankful you’re alive,” Lori wrote in a MySpace bulletin. I checked out the photo. It was the brown one in which she looks melancholy yet peaceful. It reminds me of an Elliott Smith song, “Miss Misery.”

I opened up the bulletin.

Today is a special day, it’s my grandfather, Bartolo Mosqueda’s birthday. :) R.I.P grandpa….

But no seriously i’m thankful i’m alive and everyday this year, i’m just a lil bit more greatful for everything i have, and have accomplished… and on my way to accomplising. So many years have passed, but some events seem like just yesterday.

I read those words, and thought, ‘has it really been five years? Today’s not the anniversary, is it?’ I forgot the day my sister wouldn’t ever forget.

I only remembered March 23rd as my Grandpa’s birthday. He would have been 82 today. I had completely forgotten another event that occurred on March 23rd five years ago. I almost lost my sister.

It was an incredibly painful time in both of our lives. I managed to bury those memories deep inside. But like most painful memories, it doesn’t take much to take you back to that day. All I needed was a photo and those words to recall what happened on March 23rd. Today could have been different. Rather than just thinking of how much I missed my Grandpa, I could also have been thinking about how much I missed my sister.

I found myself sobbing like I had when my dad told me the news. He showed up at my apartment on a Friday evening under the guise that he had a meeting with a client in the area. He didn’t even get out of the car, but we sat in his Jeep in my apartment driveway. He began in that calm voice he reserves for the news that ends with “has passed away.” The tears rushed out uncontrollably. I sobbed and heaved and hiccupped.

I needed something else to remind me of that day. The tears weren’t enough. I went back and searched for what I had written in the old blog. I didn’t need the words to re-open the wound and make it feel fresh again, but it helped.

Lori finds catharsis in playing on the swings. I find it in writing. The words take me back to that time and remind me that it’s all in the past. There are five years after it when Lori and my family got through that difficult time and grew from the experience.

Five years. Damn.

I finally heard the right words, she’s going to be okay

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My mom called today with a report after her follow up appointment with her surgeon.

She had the staples on her abdomen removed. They made a vertical line about five inches, with the middle of the line being the belly button.

Her surgeon also told her the results after having studied the tumor. It’s not cancerous, but if it had not been removed it could have grown and eventually burst. He told her she was healed and “see you in a year.”

This is where my mom started to get emotional. It was the first time I had heard (or seen) her cry or lose her cool throughout this whole process which began in late October. My mom is not one to hide her emotions, so I imagine it must have been hard for her to tell her children that she had a tumor and maintain a calm and controlled tone.

As my mom choked up, she said that it was a blessing to have the initial scare of breathing problems. Without looking at her lungs, the doctors might have not noticed the spots on her liver that worried them (her liver is fine, by the way). Once they looked at the liver, they noticed the tumor near the colon.

***

My mom spent four days in the hospital. She was rarely alone and more often than not had more than the minimum 2 visitors. It’s a good thing she didn’t have a roommate, or else the nurses would have not let my dad stay overnight and we surely would have been reprimanded for having a half dozen visitors squeezed in to the tiny room.

When she returned home on Sunday afternoon, she found a dining table full of flowers, a hastily made “welcome home, mom” banner, a dozen family members and very excited dog who wouldn’t leave her side. Neighbors came later and offered to bring soups and other soft foods throughout the week. One neighbor, a middle-aged man, cried a little as he told my dad how worried he had been when he heard the news “porque queremos tanto a la señora Luz.”

***

This process has been tough, but it was easier with the thoughts and prayers from family, friends and relative strangers. We appreciate it… we really do.

The nerd within

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One of the reasons I wasn’t so ready to give up on my PhD program earlier this fall and summer was because I knew I’d have the opportunity to work on my own research.

As I wondered “should I stay or should I go?” I talked to friends within the program and others outside education. I came to realize that working on a research project that was not quantitative based and focused on a topic of which I was genuinely interested would help me stick it out. I’d been a research assistant for the first two years and liked it, but I was also tired of trying to figure out how to do something using SPSS (a statistical program) and then not knowing how to interpret the results. I was also working on projects directed by someone else… which is definitely not the same as doing something you want to do.

I decided on doing my 299 research project on Latina science, mathematics and engineering undergraduate students. I wanted to know why some students stayed in the SME fields while others switched major. Half of my interest in this area comes from my interest in the retention and persistence of Latino student I’ve had since I worked as the director of MEChA Calmecac (counseling and mentorship program at UCLA). The other half comes my current work with science students.

One of the first things I need to do when I start my project is read the literature and get a sense of what is and is not known. There’s a lot that is not known in this area which is cool because that means I can add something with my research.

The following are brief passages and things that stuck out when doing my literature review.

“[G]irls’ self-esteem drops precipitously after adolescence, with the drop for Latinas being the greatest” (p. 255).

Leslie, L., McClure, G.T. & Oaxaca, R.L. (1998). Women and minorities in science and engineering: A life sequence analysis. The Journal of Higher Education, 69 (3), 239-276.

“[I]t felt good to be in a room with so many Chicanos. I felt strong. In fact, I go every week now just because of the strength I get from being around my people. It’s tough going to class and being the only Chicano. If it wasn’t for MEChA, I don’t know if I’d still be here.”

“MEChA was vital to their persistence at the university, and, like their families, MEChA was an important source of cultural nourishment from which to draw strength.”

González, K. P. (2003). Campus culture and the experiences of Chicano students in a predominantly white university. Urban Education, 37(2), 193-218.

“[E]xperiences of discrimination have a depressing effect on latino students’ feeling of attachment to the institution.”

Hurtado, S., Carter, D. F. & Spuler, S. (1996). Latino student transition to college: Assessing difficulties and factors in successful college adjustment. Research in Higher Education, 37(2), 135-157.

“According to the National Center for Education Statistics, Latino students have the lowest completion rate of all college students, with only 32 percent finishing.This compares with completion rates of 34 percent for African Americans, 47 percent for Asian Americans, and 48 percent for whites.”

Torres, V. (2003). Mi casa is not exactly like your house: A window onto the experience of Latino students. About Campus, 8 (2), 2-7.

“The 31.6% increase in Latino PhDs during [1994-2001] is particularly impressive when compared to the slight decrease in the total number of science and engineering PhDs. However, as mentioned earlier, the number of doctorates in science and engineering awarded to Latino students in 2001 still numbered only in the hundreds.”

“Among Latinos, about a third of all PhDs and more than 40% of science and engineering PhDs granted in 2001 went to holders of temporary visas.”

Chapa, J. & De La Rosa, B. (2006). The problematic pipeline: Demographic trends and Latino participation in graduate science, technology, engineering, and mathematics programs. Journal of Hispanic Higher Education, 5 (3), 203-221.

“Because nearly half of all Latinos in California are immigrants from Latin America, it is instructive to compare this physician-to-population ratio with those of Latin American countries. Some Latin American countries have physician-to-population ratios close to that of non-Latino California: Cuba at 1:226, Uruguay at 1:268, and Argentina at 1:364. Mexico has a ratio that is nearly twice that of non-Latino California, at 1:593. Latin America’s overall ratio is 1:649. California’s Latino physician-to-population ratio, at 1:2,893, exceeds the ratio of every Latin American country…

Hayes-Bautista, D. E., Hsu, P., Hayes-Bautista, M., Stein, R. M., Dowling, P., Beltran, R., & Villagomez, J. (2000). Latino physician supply in California: Sources, locations, and projections. Academic Medicine, 75 (7), 727-736.

“If one looks at Hispanic representation in STEM fields, Hispanic faculty represented from 2% to 4% of all faculty.”

Millett, C. M. & Nettles, M. T. (2006). Expanding and cultivating the Hispanic STEM doctoral workforce: Research on doctoral student experiences. Journal of Hispanic Higher Education, 5 (3), 258-287.

“It is intersting to note that although females earned higher [math/science] grades in high school than did males, were somewhat more liley to attend four-year colleges and universities, were somewhat more likely to take advantage of minority support systems — all of which contributed to greater science ambition — they still had less science ambition by the end of the sophomore year than did males.”

Grandy, J. (1998). Persistence in science of high-ability minority students: Results of a longitudinal study. The Journal of Higher Education, 69 (6), 589-620.

You know what happened when I was doing all this reading and writing at the last minute (I still need to work on that bad habit)?

I was glad friends convinced me not to leave the program. As much as I grumble and claim that PhD programs are for suckers, I’m still a nerd deep down inside who thinks that research is fun, loves to write and can’t get enough of the methods section in qualitative papers.

Enamorados

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In the past few weeks, it has happened three times. I visited one of my favorite blogs and found a few simple or eloquent and an accompanying image that told so much more.

This is my girlfriend, Mari. She’s beautiful and she’s kind. I love her very much. (Oso)

I asked…she said “Yes”. I love you Noni! (Gustavo)

This past Saturday, Nov. 4th, Ale and I got married through the Church. It was a beautiful happy day.

Our family and closest friends surrounded us with their love and best wishes. The Mariachi filled the church with loud and lively music. (Agustin)

Those guys don’t know it, but the instant I read their news I smile from ear to ear. I curse the limits of the internet and the hundreds of miles between me and my fellow blogeros because I can’t give them a huge congratulatory hug. A comment with too many exclamation points and no (or little) trace of sarcasm will have to suffice.

If Oso, Gustavo and Agustin might have made these announcements before my birthday, I would have given a Scrooge-like response. It’s true. I found out a few times during the summer about engagements and upcoming weddings. I rolled my eyes at the friend who changed her MySpace name to “the Future Mrs. Fulano de Tal” and skipped out on three weddings for friends I’d known since high school.

I’m not anti-love or anti-marriage. I just didn’t care to celebrate anyone else’s love (exceptions: César’s wedding and my cousin Ernie’s wedding). It was hard for me to really be happy for someone else when my own situation was kinda crappy.

My situation changed on my birthday. He gave me red roses and said, “I love you, Cindy.” It was the first time I heard him say that. As cheesy as it sounds, I actually found it difficult to stay on my feet as I processed the words.

Things aren’t perfect, but I’m in love and in a general happy place.

Two friends pointed out the change recently. One said, “you look great! You’re glowing.” I brushed off the comment and attributed my “glow” to soap, a comb and the fact that I was at the end of the laundry cycle and wearing a skirt rather than jeans. A week later, while taking a break during “study hall” another friend looked at me and said, “you look different… you’re smiling.”

Thankfully, there are a lot of things that have made me smile lately. My grandparents are healthy and just back from a trip to Zacatecas for las Fiestas de Octubre. My parents are doing well, though my mom has had some health scares. Danny is doing good and singing his heart out with his a capella group. Adrian is no longer working in a bowling alley and instead at Express. We also took a great trip to the Bay Area a few weeks ago. Lori and her boyfriend, Mikey, bought me an iPod as a belated birthday gift (yes!). She’s also the employee of the month at her dealership and the recipient of a nice raise and an even better bonus. The rest of the familia seems to be doing good and I can’t wait for the Thanksgiving holiday.

And last, but not least, blogeros in love make me smile too.

Canto Funebre

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“Let’s call Girlpants and see what she’s doing,” I told Adrian as we walked from the BART station to the parking lot.

Our conversation quickly changed from lighthearted chatter about our trip to the Bay Area to something quite somber.

“I don’t know if I should tell you, or if I should let dad tell you,” she said softly.

“Just tell me.”

“Mando-lo passed away today.”

“Ooooh. Hold on, let me tell Adrian.”

I turned to Adrian and told him, “Mando passed away.”

“Oh shit,” he exclaimed, his eyes widening a bit and face growing concerned.

Lori continued to tell us what else she knew about Mando. He passed away on Saturday morning from complications to diabetes. My parents found out that morning and had seen him recently.

I hung up with Lori. Adrian and I left the BART station in a somber mood, thinking about Mando.

***

Mando and my dad met in 1997 (or maybe it was 1998). They worked together in finances and would often meet at my house before going off to meet with clients. And that’s when I met Mando.

He made an immediate impression. In a know-it-all manner, he told me what I needed to do to prepare for college. I’d have to search for scholarships, apply and get them. Mando knew that my parents couldn’t afford to pay for college and I’d need to help myself. It was good advice, but it rubbed me the wrong way.

From then on, Mando was frequently around. My dad and mom got to know him and his family well and as a result, Danny, Lori, Adrian and I all got to know Mando too.

***

“You know, it’s weird how much Mando and I have in common” my dad said. He went on to list the many ways they were alike.

“We’re the same age.”

“Really?” I asked rather surprised. Mando seemed a lot older than my dad.

“Yeah, we’re both from ’54, he’s just a few months older. We’re also from East LA, we both went to Garfield, we did the same work in financial services, and we both love to sing.”

“You guys do have a lot in common,” I admitted, but I was left feeling uneasy.

I don’t like my father comparing himself to a man who had just passed away.

***

“You know what I’ll always remember about Mando?”

“What?”

“That song he sang, the one about the vato.”

She tried putting together what she could remember of the lyrics.

“Oh, I know! ‘Hey, baby que pasó? I thought I was your only vato.’”

“Yeah, that’s it. That song will always remind me of Mando.”

“Me too.”

***

At Mando’s funeral, I stood between my parents as dad introduced me to Mando’s family.

“This is our older daughter, Cindy. You met the younger one, Lori last night at the rosario. I don’t know if you remember, but they sang Las Mañanitas for him at his 50th birthday party.”

I had forgotten about that until dad mentioned the party. I don’t sing Las Mañanitas too often for people, and even less often when it’s around many people.

I didn’t remember feeling nervous at all. Lori and I did our best to emulate Mando that night. We sang just to bring joy to our family and friends.

Rest in peace, Mando. Hope you get to sing “Hey, baby que pasó?” with Freddy Fender soon.

Summer cleaning

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I’m cleaning my room. I mean really cleaning. I switched rooms last October, but still have a bunch of boxes of stuff piled around my room and apartment.

Cleaning always takes me a long time, mainly because I’m a sentimental pack-rat. As I sort between mementos to throw away and those to save, I take a look and try to figure out what made me keep such an item in the first place. I have about a dozen old journals and notebooks. They’re fun to look at for a sense of how I’ve changed, if at all. I opened a journal covered in a woven red cloth from Guatemala to find a collage of memories from September 2001 to December 2002. I found a post with a few words in a fragment of a sentence.

I quickly remembered the complete sentence and who said it, but can’t recall the context or if the words were spoken or written in an email or IM conversation. I can remember my reaction was the same as when I saw it today.

You remind me of summer, because you’re short, warm and beautiful, and I miss you when you’re gone.

I smiled.

Business or pleasure

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Lonely Oakland Airport
Oakland International Airport, evening of Friday June 7

Traveling used to be fun. This was back when the only times I went to LAX or Long Beach airport to escape work or school for a mini vacation. It meant I’d see good friends who are separated by too much California or the “fly over states”. I would arrive to find people waiting for me at baggage claim. I got a big hug and sometimes a kiss… but always a big hug. The cities were sometimes new, and other times they were familiar. Getting on a plane back then meant going somewhere to play.

Now, I go to LAX or Long Beach Airport and play is far from my mind. The trip is all business. When I arrive, no one waits for me. There’s never a young man with a rose. I get my bags and walk over to the curb to await the shuttle to the car rental agencies a few minutes away. I don’t talk to anyone until I arrive at the checkout desk. And then it’s only to say that I don’t really want the optional insurance.

When I arrive at the hotel the loneliness grows exponentially. It’s always worse than the empty airport and quiet baggage claim.

Girls (little or big) don’t cry

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My mom had a simple way of dealing with six-year-old me whenever I decided to express my frustration and anger through streams of tears.

She would pick me up and place me in front of a mirror. My reflection showed a six-year-old mocosa breathing heavily, eyes red, face flushed and wet with salty tears. My hair looked messy and uncombed as these fits often came in the middle of getting my hair braided or arranged into tight pigtails.

“Mira que fea te ves. Cuando las niñas lloran, no se ven bonitas.”

She was right. The fresh, clean, smiley and peinada me was much cuter than this llorona. Somehow aesthetics were supposed to motivate me to be happy, content and quiet.

My mom’s words echoed this afternoon as I stared at my reflection in the hotel room mirror. A 25-year-old mocosa breathing heavily, eyes red, face flushed and wet with salty tears looked back at me.

Being pretty was the furthest thing from my mind.