19 Feb

Sadly, I don’t have a monopoly on pain.

Even when it expands to the point that I feel it,

drip, drip

from my pores,

no more room.

I try to contain it.

I swallow harder, its roughness scraping my throat – like sharp elbows refusing to relax as I push it down,

to where it belongs – unseen.

It marinades in my intestines.

It simmers when I read

about Trump, ICE, Syria, Racism, home, parents, who I was.

It bubbles, when I see Facebook growing, and


and growing,


Doing Nothing.

Falling in line with the script to refresh,

to like, to post,



Looking for something new.

Things. Ads. I want them.


But clean.

I want, I want, I want – to…

Do something.

Teach me how to Do Something –

Change Something,

Be Something –

or Someone


That what?

Holds a monopoly on Sadness?

Let me expand.

Let the sadness dissipate onto me,

filling every crevice and hidden space,

Let me absorb.

Let me gorge.

Swallow hard.

Shove it down,

like an overflowing trashcan.

Let me stomp it with my foot to shove it in,

make it fit.

Crumple it up until it’s light.


Help me make it light.

So I may see

a better tomorrow.

So I may see your kindness.

Be kind. Untangle yourself from:

selfishness; and

laziness; and

emotional lack of intelligence.

Be with me, one with me.

See that I suffer as much as you do.

And if you suffer as much as I do…

I understand.


Most of You Don’t.

Most of you have so very many


And your vote made me realize that

pain is subjective, and

Sadly, I don’t have a monopoly on pain.





19 Feb

12 year olds


As if the world’s borders ended where Boyle Heights and East LA became


Walking around the beige colored-lunch benches

by the student store

salivating at treats

50¢ I didn’t have

Into the bathroom with the metal reflectors

No glass for us

in East LA

My face a tan brown

lips lined with Jordana honey

hair half pulled back into a tight mean bun

I’m looking at You

Our blindingly white collar polo shirts tucked into our rolled up mini uniform plaid skirts

Trying so desperately to be


To the chain link fence that surrounded the blacktop PE area

our brown fingers grazed that fence as we walked towards the running field

holding on tightly as potholes broke our gait

And I grabbed on and looked out



And while they hollered a “Heeeey!” in response to the high school and above guys dressed in their Chinos, crisp white t-shirts and Nike Cortez, I

faltered. Not wanting a part of it. No desire to be looked at by shaved heads and face tattoos.

But not knowing how to step back and walk away alone.

12 year olds.


As if the world’s borders ended where Boyle Heights and East LA became



ABCs of Life

8 Feb
And she smiled
Because life is worth smiling for
Curiously strange 
Excruciatingly painful at times
Forgiving yourself can truly be
Hating or Having Understanding for Those Who don’t Have it Back
It’s a Choice
Just be at Peace with your decisions
Know that you won’t always get it right
Love and celebrate when you do
Make the good news count
Nebulous concepts are better than
Opaque feelings
Persevere in your quest to explore and learn
Question, question, question
Reveries are medicine for the soul and the intellect
Swim in your dreams, thoughts, and observations
Track your growth
Unless you are continually going backwards
Value your progress
When you find yourself stumbling, don’t panic!
X-ray your life and examine it the way a doctor would: clinically, carefully
Yielding the options to step forward require the
Zeal of a smiling, open face and the will to place one foot in front of the other

Stain on Your White Dress

23 Jan

My hands twist together

grubby, brown fingers hiding each other.

It seems selfish to mar your fragile innocence,

your crisp, white, clean slate,

with my damaged truth.

You speak of your hardships

and I listen without judgement.

But I can’t help but feel dirty in comparison

and I shuffle my feet

and I bring my arms tight against my body

my hands under my thighs,

pinching hard.

It’s my turn to speak.

My voice catches in my throat,

mingled with the swallowed past trying to escape.

Like an overflowing trashcan,

I push it down and I blink away the sting.

I would speak

but I don’t want to be a pesky stain,

soiling your beautiful white dress.

Or worse,

a stain that doesn’t stick

and is washed away with water.

I want to linger.

My words remain inside,


But they remain mine.

I got into Stanford and I’m a Stanford Kinda Gal

9 Oct

I can’t remember how I first heard about Stanford and started dreaming that I would attend one day. I do remember the walks home from Roosevelt High School freshman year vividly.  I lugged my backpack over my hunched shoulders, leaning forward to offset the weight, and dreamt. As I passed by the Food 4 Less parking lot I dreamt about getting the acceptance letter. As I passed by the 7 Mares, I dreamt about walking on campus and attending lecture. I dreamt and I dreamt until I walked into my home.

My life took many turns and the Stanford dream slipped away, seemingly impossible to reach.

Three years ago, Bella, Iza, and I made the joint decision to uproot our lives and move to the bay area. A few months later, I enrolled in the local community college and went to school on Thursday nights, Saturdays, and online. For almost three years I juggled a demanding career, being a mother, being a partner, and school. I studied after everyone went to sleep and studied before anyone woke up. At times it seemed impossible to continue. But no matter the road bumps, I made it work. I persevered.

When I kept getting straight A’s semester after semester, the Stanford dream crept back in. But this time it wasn’t a dream, it was a fantasy. During my morning runs I would pound the pavement for 5 miles or more until my body could take no more. I think I was physically punishing my body. Punishing myself for daring to dream about Stanford. I equated that dream to fantasizing about becoming a billionaire (from my multiple successful startups of course) and solving the world’s problems. I didn’t dare hope that it could happen.

When it was time to apply I applied to the UCs and hoped that Berkeley would say yes. I started the Stanford application weeks ahead of the deadline but didn’t know if I would submit it. I loved the questions they asked, how thoughtful and insightful they were. I enjoyed working on the application and I figured it didn’t hurt to write. I could always use those answer for my UC applications.

As the deadline neared I agonized about asking for recommendation letters. I felt like others would see me as ridiculous for daring to apply. But I asked.

The night that the application was due, I kept toying with the submission button. Everyone was asleep and I was downstairs staring at the screen until I hit submit at 11:30 pm.

I would have put it completely out of mind if not for Ryan telling everyone that I applied to Berkeley and Stanford. I appreciated his confidence but I felt incredibly pained when he said it out loud. I could see others thinking – Does she know the acceptance rate hovers around 1 – 2 %?

I found out that I got into Berkeley the day after I had Valentina. I thought we were set to move to Berkeley and make it work.

During the drive up to Berkeley for a transfer student welcome event I figured that I would log in and check the response from Stanford. I had received an email the day before from Stanford and had to request a password reset to access my account. I hadn’t told Ryan that I had a response. I neededed to compose myself and process the rejection by myself first before telling him. I figured I was in such a high from getting into Berkeley that I could take the rejection. Valentina, only a few days old, slept in the car seat next to me. My mother (staying with us for a couple of weeks to help) sat on the other side. Ryan was driving and braving traffic as the day was grey with fog and rain.  I logged in from my phone and saw the letter. I read the first few lines. Puzzled, I read it again. My blood ran cold and I felt disoriented; only the heaviness in my stomach anchored me to my seat.  “One of the best parts of my job…” Only after I read it a third time did I cry out suddenly, “OH MY GOD!” “Oh my God! Oh my God!”

Ryan braked and accidentally exited the freeway. He and my mother both looked at me with a mix of bewilderment and concern. “What’s wrong?!”

I couldn’t speak. I took a breath, and another. “I GOT INTO STANFORD!”

My mom teared up and Ryan cried out. He pulled over and parked on the side of a road and I read them the acceptance letter. I called my sister and told her. We screamed with joy and excited energy.

We did attend the orientation event and I was inspired by the future Berkeley students but I was still dazed by the news. We left early and went home to tell Bella and Iza.

A few weeks later and I’m now two weeks into my first quarter at Stanford. It is everything and so much more that I dreamt it would be. This place is paradise. I feel an incredible sense of belonging, of being cared for and guided, and of the infinite possibilities for my future (well finite only because at some point I will have to graduate).

When I started this blog I wondered if and when I would be able to write happy stories. Would I only be sharing stories of pain and survival? Would I ever be able to share stories about my life thriving?

I am incredibly fortunate to have so many people around me that love me and that I can pour my love into. My life has been healthy and happy. But it is now bursting with the promise of personal achievement. I thought that I had permanently failed all of my great teachers, coaches, and cheerleaders from my youth when my life took a different path. But I now have the luxury and great fortune to be able to go back to school and invest in myself.

Now I run without bounds. I recognize no limits. I’m taking life by the horns and making it my b!tch. And damn, does it feel good.

I got accepted to Berkeley as a Transfer student

1 May

Three years ago a young Latino with a very promising future passed away from a car accident. Sadath Garcia was the son of immigrant parents, a first-generation American, and was a rising star with a bright political career to look forward to. I met Sadath through friends and saw him at various parties and his fabulously planned picnics at the Hollywood Bowl. When he passed suddenly, it really shook me. How could someone with so much strength and potential be gone?

During his memorial service at UCLA Law School, I came to the realization that I needed to take a hard look at my life and what my future held. My own background was very similar to Sadath’s, but unlike his, I veered off the education path and struggled to find my place as a single mother. Throughout high school I had been told many times that I had a lot of potential but the personal and internal roadblocks that I had did not allow me to bring them to fruition. I felt that I had failed so many. After hearing the many touching and inspiring stories that Sadath’s colleagues, classmates, friends, and family shared I resolved to no longer be a victim to my life circumstances. I didn’t want to just be content with what I had accomplished professionally in spite of a lack of degree but to instead set out on a path to achieve my bigger ambitions. I promised Sadath and myself that day that I would go back to school to pursue my degree, no matter how long it took.

Shortly after I enrolled in a political science class at Los Angeles City College. My mother or sister would pick up my daughters from school every Thursday so that I could leave the office and go straight to class. It was a sacrifice for everyone and the day was exceptionally long which made my already heavy work week at a law firm all the more tiring. But I looked forward to every Thursday because I knew that it was privilege to be there. When I got an A in the class I had a hard time processing the feelings I felt. I couldn’t believe it and I couldn’t stop smiling. When I moved up to the Bay Area I enrolled in the local community college and attended class after work until 10 pm every Thursday, all day every other Saturday and had online classwork. Last semester I had class every M-Th from 8 – 9:20 AM after which I would rush to work and stay even later to make up the difference. All the meanwhile I kicked ass at work and was promoted. I took every opportunity – both at school and at work – as a learning opportunity and I immersed myself in it. After work I would spend the evenings being a mother and a partner and wait for everyone to fall asleep so that I could do homework and wake up at 4 AM to continue studying before everyone woke up. I did this for the past three years and was able to maintain straight A’s.

I can now proudly share that I was accepted into UC Berkeley as a transfer student. I cannot put into words the weepy happiness that I feel every time I think about that but I wanted to thank Sadath for being the activator that set me onto this path. I’d like to thank my high school math teacher Mr. Quezada who always reminded me that there were many paths to the same destination. I’d like to thank my life partner Ryan for being supportive in this journey, for being a true 50/50 partner in life and an excellent father. I’d like to thank my two little girls who always cheered me on during midterms and finals and whose pride in my efforts was a deep well of energy and motivation that I could draw from. And I’d like to thank the Susana from three years ago who didn’t listen to naysayers who warned that it would take forever to get an associates degree if I only went part-time or who thought it was useless to get a degree at this stage in life. I look forward to sharing my next steps as they develop and to seizing the opportunities that come my way.

Thank you for reading.


A Sprinkles Cupcake Tastes Like Survivor’s Guilt

27 Feb

I just finished watching Freedom Writers with my 10 and 11-year-old daughters.

We had a great Saturday which started with cuddling in the morning in my bed with our puppy Willie Nelson sniffing and licking our faces. I asked them to help me tidy up the house and the patio to start the day off on the right note. A little work now would allow us (me) to relax and enjoy the day and they quickly agreed and did a great job.

I had my first tutoring session with a local tutor that I found on Wyzant to go over my online Discrete Mathematics class which had been stressing me and had me hitting a mental block. It’s one of three courses that I am taking this semester, my last at a community college before I wait to hear where I will attend as a transfer student for the Fall 2016 semester. I felt energized and motivated after the session, ready to revisit concepts that I had been struggling with.

For dinner we decided to walk over to P.F. Changs for lettuce wraps and egg noodles over lemonade, chatting non-stop the whole way. On the way back we stopped by Sprinkles for a treat and bought two cupcakes to share.

As we settled into the sofa we chose our Saturday night movie. We finished watching Freedom Writers after a lot of pausing to answer questions and to reflect on various scenes. As I swallowed back tears from the familiarity of the pain in those students’ lives I felt a mingling of bitter and sweet aftertaste in my mouth.

Part of me is incredibly grateful that my girls will never have to face the themes and struggles depicted in the movie. They won’t have to feel the ice cold fear of being chased down a street or beaten by someone who should love them or the desperation of knowing you can’t protect those you love. If someone in their circle dies, they won’t be numb to it or unable to grieve because of the repeated news of those losses. They won’t wonder if they will live to be in their 20’s. They are able to watch the movie and feel inspired by the strength of these children but remain untouched by the pain of real similar memories.

Part of me is still in disbelief that I am happy, healthy, and safe. I have a happy home filled with love, compassion and good. I have a career and am thriving as an evening student who is very close to achieving the milestone of transferring to a four year university. I am alive and my life has meaning and purpose.

But part of me looks at the crumbs of the $4 cupcake and can’t make the connection that this is my life. If only I could tell the teenager Susana that all of this was coming, living would have been so much easier.

I work hard to prove myself and succeed at work. I work hard to succeed in school. I throw myself head-on into my role of being a good and loving mother to these girls. I do everything wholeheartedly and with purpose because not doing so would mean that I am living just to live.

And that is survivor’s guilt. I could choose to wash it down with alcohol and find plenty of valid excuses to not try or succeed. I could lay down and give up and allow the wind to blow me in the direction of its choosing.

But I choose to stand firmly on this ground. I choose to carry some of the hurt in my heart to honor it, to recognize that I am not a victim to it, to celebrate that I did not and have not and will not succumb to it. And I choose to move forward in a meaningful manner so that the path that I take is a credit to those who believed in me and gave me a kind look or word or embrace when I needed it most.

I choose not to let guilt overpower the delicious red velvet cake that I shared with my girls because the sweetness of knowing that they appreciate it and that I can give it should trump any feeling of self-doubt.



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