La negrita blanca (The little white Black girl)

La negrita blanca, or The little white Black girl

This poem tries to explain how the n-word is widely used in Puerto Rican society, often free from negative connotations, and the shock I received when I learned things were different here. You have been warned.

~

La negrita blanca

I don’t really like your enthusiasm for colored walls.

I now live in a land where I can’t even say nigger,

even though that’s who I’ve always been.

Torn like flesh from bone from a country

where black still reigns in even the lightest-skinned ones like me.

I see black in my people, in the food I eat,

in the air I breathe, in the soil I used to play with as a

child. The music that moves my bare feet to the beat of that drum,

played by hands of many shades of mother land.

Nigger, not demeaning, but endearing.

Nigger, not disrespectful, but full of love.

Take it as you will, I’m a nigger among niggers—centuries all

mixed up, our blood, our sweat, our tears, millions of fears,

Niggers—we are all.

I stepped into this foreign land where niggers there are none,

because it’s wrong, head-turning, battered, tarnished meaning,

meaning all gone.

And here I lay, broken-hearted in culture shock.

My pet name lies unmentionable, unintentionally oppressive on my lips.

My heart lays shattered in splintered pieces of

honey, sweetie, angel, nigger.

Don’t worry, grandpa. I’ll always be your little nigger.

(Just not when my feet are stomping on this country’s blessed earth.)

~

Cheers,

Char

Shoo flu, don't bother me!

So, I'm officially down with the sickness.

After a couple of hallucinations due to intermittent episodes of high fever, my friends finally convinced me to go to Campus Health Services. My doctor sent me home and told me to stay there for several days.

I'm so terribly used to getting sick that the flu doesn't seem half as evil as what people tell me it is. That's good, I guess. Much love to my friends who have sent me sweet texts and Facebook messages wishing me well. I especially love Kathia Davidson's message, "Char will beast flu! Flu, prepare to be beasted by the masterful Charita!!!" Thank you. You make me feel like a superhero. <3

On a more serious note, I'd also like to thank my wonderful professors and TA's for helping me get through this horrible semester. If I would've known about all of the health problems I was going to face this year, I would have taken a medical leave of absence. I'm truly grateful that they've made special accommodations for me; I know I wouldn't be in such good academic shape if it weren't for those considerations. Hopefully, things will be easier for me next semester when I start my treatment for ADHD, anxiety, depression, and all of that good stuff.

I also have to thank my family for taking good care of me. They've been treating my like a princess; I know I'll miss them when I go back to the university for finals. There is absolutely nothing better than to be at home with your mami, papi, and sis when you're feeling like crap. I love you all! <3

And last, but not least, I have to thank Henry Neufeld for being my life buddy. Henry came to see me a couple of weeks ago before Thanksgiving Break--it was the best visit I've had in a long time! It felt incredibly good to finally see him after long months without face-to-face communication. He took this beautiful photograph of me at the Old Well. What an eye! I love you and miss you!

Oh, lawd. I CANNOT wait for this semester to be over. Cybernetic hugs and kisses to all!

Cheers,

Char

The Diff. bet. Medicine & Poison is in the Dose

You don't miss the...

October 2, 2009

2am

2^nd Floor/ UNITAS Lounge

Morning full of laughs after a night full of tears

Savannah Copeland's words of wisdom:

You don’t miss yo’ water ‘til the well run dry.

You don’t miss the milk until your cow dies.

You don’t miss your electricity until it gets cut off.

Savannah: “I can’t believe you’ve never heard that!”

Iesha Bailey: *surprised* "Nooo!!!"

~*~

Iesha: “Do you guys even have a Walmart?”

Savannah: *stops* "We don’t have one in our town, but I’ve been to Walmart."

Iesha: “Do you know who the President is? He’s Black.”

Savannah: "Actually, he’s biracial."

Char: "LOL!"

~*~

Sigh,

Char

Super Melodramatic Romanticness, Part 1

Our love is the title...

We sometimes wade in ankle-deep water,

We sometimes drown atop towering stilts.

We swim in this virginal, wondrous whirlpool,

Wanting more—sextant set to perfect degrees.

Wicked wonder gets wetter and wetter,

And we don’t know any better. Whether

To sleep on quilts of qualm, or to Love on

Different beds. Sea of sheets untucked, to rest.

We search for everything, nothing at all,

Spin-waving, head bursting with lullabies

Of old. New songs fill our souls. We hold hands.

Welcome aboard. Hold on to the unknown.

A map to play by ear, nothing to fear now.

Our compass points North, wherever that may be,

To set us free. Hold on tight now, to we.

And we’re still holding hands…

~Char

One Little Turtle

One Little Turtle

(on its back)

by Char

Ellipses of sand beneath my feet

Replace my childhood memories.

As I dance between the "ought" and "is"...

The "buts" and "ifs"... A kiss, no kiss.

One little turtle, all feet in the air, all despair.

With my eyes open to the world, I am blind.

The eye of the storm,

and goodnight...

It's an epic, inconceivable, fail;

And, unlike you, it's all mine.

New Murder Mystery Chapter (or lack thereof)

Dear all,

School's about to start pretty soon, which means a couple of things. I won't have much time on my hands to brainstorm about my murder mystery, let alone produce drafts. This disappoints me, because B♭ is the first story I've come up with in a very long time. Nonetheless, this gives me hope, because I proved to myself that I can think outside of my poetry box and reach out to other types of literature. I'm positive that the best is yet to come. Thanks to all of you who have read my drafts, especially to those who have given me feedback.

On the other hand, I'm sure I'll be posting some interesting papers as the year progresses. The topics will range from Jane Austen to Latin American visual culture, or whatever they ask me to write! So, be excited! I know I am!

We'll see how this new year goes, since it will be a brand new adventure. I decided to change my major to English, while still following my pre-med track. Hopefully, I'll be able to master the English language and advance in my pre-med studies simultaneously.

Once again, thank you to all of my visitors. I'm sure you'll hear from me very soon!

Cheers,

A very excited and optimistic Char

Chapel Hill, NC

This poem is basically a summary of my nights on campus and the grandeur I discovered in the smallest things, like the famous uneven bricks and ancient roads. I'll translate it the day I figure out how to make it justice. Enjoy!

***

Extraño esas noches

Extraño esas noches, vagando por callecitas oscuras

Fundadas en el 1789...

Estas calles han visto miles de pasos.

Primero, fueron de aquél, de aquella.

Ahora, estas calles son nuestras.

Ya los ladrillos reconocen nuestros zapatos,

Pues anticipan la misma ruta de siempre.

Nos guía hacia nuestros lugares favoritos,

A Franklin y varios lugares secretos, no tan secretos,

Caminamos mano en mano.

En Polk, me quito el bulto, los zapatos, los mahones...

Bailo entre los sprinklers una danza reprimida y

Una felicidad que he descubierto a los 18 años.

Mi risa, la de una niña, mis pasos de infante...

Mi traje de flores mojadas y aromas confundidos,

Nadando entre sueños de agua sucia y un mar de árboles.

Dirijo la mirada hacia South, el rey de nuestro campus,

Veo a mi cubano sentado en los escalones,

Acariciando su guitarra, llorando dulces melodías

Y el humo de su cigarro tan disfrutado...

Sólo puedo pensar en las siguientes horas,

Cuando respire el dulce tabaco de sus manos,

Cuando me trate de seducir con su español incongruente...

Mientras tanto, tocaba una canción para mí,

Aunque estuviera muy lejos para escuchar cada nota con certeza.

Dos horas más tarde, nuestros pasos se dirigían a nuestro hogar.

Observo a mi genio musical bajo la manta de

Luz anaranjada, blanca, azul, de los postes...

Ocho meses y todavía no sé el color de sus ojos, de su pelo...

Llegamos, nos bañamos, entramos a nuestro cuarto.

Vemos televisión, la apagamos, nos miramos, hablamos...

Lo mismo de siempre, aunque nada sea igual.

Respiro el recuerdo del tabaco, mi cabeza en su pecho,

Nos hundimos en un sueño ligero, olas pequeñas de

Te amo mi osito charmonita y miles de enredos en broken spanglish.

Extraño esas noches, cuando la Hill era de nosotros y de nadie más.

***

Cheers,

Char

B♭ - Chapter 2

Hello!!!

I made several changes to the first chapter, but I won't post the revised version until I finish writing the whole story. Here's part 1 of the second chapter, which provides some background information on Sam. I'm still working on part 2, which should move the plot forward. Once again, please disregard the weird indentations. There's something about this blog that messes up my formats. Anyways, I hope you enjoy reading my drafts! :)

Cheers,

Char

***

Chapter 2:

The fact we share the same last name… doesn’t mean we’re sisters.

~

When we’re together, it’s like a double case of androgynous ambiguity. Those who don’t know us, usually poke around in curiosity in attempts to figure out exactly what we are. Strangers’ insinuating remarks such as “You two certainly don’t look much alike to be sisters,” nag at me. To this, I reply in a very polite manner, “That’s because we’re not, ma’am,” “That’s because we’re not, sir.” Now, if they ask Gab, the reply is most likely to be something along the lines of, “I never said we were sisters,” or “You’re right. She’s actually my partner. Girlfriend. Spouse. Whatever you wanna call it.”

My parents were charming folks. They thought it would be endearing to give their firstborn a nickname as a first name. However, I’m positive they regret the one they chose. My elementary school teachers would always look at me in confusion whenever I raised my hand to “Sam Porthos” the first day of class.

“Excuse me, honey. I think your brother is supposed to be in this class. Did you swap groups by mistake?”

“Um, no, Miss. Um, my name… tha-- that’s my name. I’m Sam Porthos.”

“Oh, Sam!” a smile. “Like Samantha, right?”

“No, Miss. I’m Sam, like Sam. That’s… that’s just my name,” I always said, embarrassed, twirling a finger around my ponytail.

This just seems like an issue I’ll never be able to get rid of. I snort-laughed at the image of the disoriented officer who knocked on my door earlier. I could almost see his innards working hard trying to figure out why Sam Porthos looked like a woman.

“So, Sam. I see you find it amusing to be locked up in a cage, huh?”

“That’s Ms. Porthos to you, sir.” After all, that bald-headed, bucktoothed detective wasn’t my friend.

~~~

Chapter 2, Part 2 *coming soon*

The Wonderful World of Customization!

I've been struggling with templates for a while now... I was pretty happy with the last one I had (green/ floral design, jungle-like feel), but it was full of glitches. I'm on a quest to find the perfect template, and I just hope the one I end up choosing is virtually glitch-free. So, please excuse the crazy avalanche of styles, colors, and formats you're about to experience.

Not very happy,

Char

Drift! A melodramatic poem about le floating.

A poem about imagination, daydreams, and memories.

~

Drift!

Charlene Joy Ruiz

I don’t want to open my window this morning,

For I fear that everything I’ve been working on

Will escape and flow out of my soul, across the room,

Out the window, then back again into the world…

After hours searching for the right words

For my mental show and tell, a thought hit my mind.

It spent hours searching for me, and here it is,

Trapped somewhere between my ribs and my throat.

There’s me drifting under a cumulus sky,

Disturbing the thoughts of onlookers…

I step on freight trucks, with catlike surreptitiousness,

Claiming my nighttime alley roof in broad daylight.

Interstate flooded with my stepping-stone trucks.

Jumping on them, one by one, I feel

The heat of the day adhered to my skin,

The healing wind on my naked feet.

Star-studded asphalt,

Furiously dashing below an asphyxiating sun.

Silvery memory-threads in the back of my head.

How I live for this cat-and-mouse game!

~

Cheers,

Char

UNC Hospitals Volunteer Services, Verano 2009

Bueno, ¿por dónde comenzar?

Este verano tuve la dicha de trabajar en el Hospital de niños de Carolina del Norte como voluntaria. Inicialmente, decidí ser voluntaria por el mero hecho de que las escuelas de medicina le prestan atención al renglón de servicio comunitario en la solicitud del aplicante. Mi meta #1 es ir a la escuela de medicina, así que, por supuesto, tengo que poner de mi parte y trabajar al 110%. Comencé por el área del voluntariado porque lucía como un "no-brainer".

He escuchado los mil y un mitos sobre el voluntariado... Que si ¡las escuelas de medicina piensan que es una pérdida de tiempo, porque leer cuentos y jugar con niños no te da experiencia médica! Que ¡si tu empiezas a ser voluntaria desde ahora, las escuelas de medicina te van a amar, porque eso demuestra que de verdad te importa la medicina y el trato al paciente! Que si ¡esto! Que si ¡lo otro! ¡Ay, dios, qué ostia! Bueno, al fin y al cabo decidí hacer algo con mi verano. Cualquier cosa resultaría ser más fructífera que estar en mi cuarto encerrada como un búho.

Escogí ser intérprete para los padres de los pacientes (los martes) y supervisora del salón de juegos (los jueves). Aparentemente, todos mis compañeros de trabajo estaban impresionados porque era bilingüe. Para mí, nunca fue un "big deal"... Total, lo único que tenía que saber hacer era hablar.

Cuando entré al mundo del voluntariado, jamás imaginé que mi niche en el hospital iba a ser tan relevante. Al principo, enterraba mi barbilla en mi pecho cuando le pasaba por al lado a algún(a) doctor(a), porque me sentía inferior. Dos meses más tarde, mi actitud cambió radicalmente, pues aprendí que los voluntarios producían un gran impacto positivo en el hospital.

Cada martes, iba cuarto por cuarto, ofreciéndole refrigerios a los padres cansados y asustados de los pequeños pacientes. Siempre pensé que los padres y/ o familiares montaban un "show", dándome las gracias por ser tan buena. Mi trabajo no era nada del otro mundo... Simplemente, no entendía por qué trataban mi hospitalidad como si fuera el tesoro más preciado del mundo.

Al cabo de varias semanas, me empapé de las situaciones que los padres de los pacientes tenían que enfrentar... los malos ratos, las sorpresas no tan agradables, simplemente ver a sus hijos tirados, inmóbiles en una camilla... ¡"No wonder" que me daban las gracias, cómo si fuera el Mesías! Una taza de café gratis podía hacer la diferencia entre un día malo y un día menos malo. Una sonrisa y diez minutos de conversación alegre hacían toda la diferencia del mundo.

Entonces, fue que entendí que mi meta primordial era tratar a todos los presentes como seres humanos. Mi experiencia pasó a ser "algo que necesitaba hacer para entrar a la escuela de medicina" a "algo que necesitaba hacer para aliviarle un poco las penas a esta gente tan triste y desafortunada, brindar sonrisas, apoyo y palabras de aliento". De veras ni me importaba lo que pensara o dejara de pensar la escuela de medicina.

Durante mi útlima semana como voluntaria, un empleado del 5to piso (oncología), expresó su alegría al ver que me preocupaba por cada detalle del bienestar de los pacientes, sus padres y familiares. Yo simplemente le contesté que alguien tenía que hacerlo, y que prefería que ese alguien fuera yo.

Es verdad que no adquirí información de tremendo valor médico, pero sí aprendí por qué quiero ser doctora. Me di cuenta que, legítimamente, me interesa el bienestar de todos los que requieren atención médica y sus familiares. Esta experiencia me brindó seguridad, al hacerme sentir "a gusto" en un hospital, aunque estuve rodeada de escenas muy fuertes y desgarradoras al alma. Me probé a mi misma que sí podía trabajar en condiciones tan tristes. Y esa es la mejor enseñanza de todas; algo que no se aprende en los salones de clase. Solidaridad. Apoyo. Esfuerzo. Buenas intenciones. Sentido de hermandad. La satisfacción de saber que le brindaste tranquilidad, aunque sea instantánea, a una familia emocionalmente quebrantada. Esta ha sido la mejor decisión que he tomado en buen tiempo. Espero regresar el próximo semestre; se los recomiendo a todos los que quieran hacer una diferencia en la vida de otros.

Cheers,

Char

B♭ - Murder Mystery Draft

Summer is too long and uneventful. That's why I decided to write a murder mystery. I usually focus on vers libre, so story writing is well out of my comfort zone. I do have a general plot, but still don't know how the smaller events are going to unfold. I'd like to dedicate this story to Michael James, my #1 cheerleader, who "busts my ass" whenever I feel like giving up. Thank you. Also, to Ariel de la Torre, my friend for 13 years, another weirdo scientist-writer like myself. Thank you. I decided to write this in English so Michael could understand, so I'll do my best.

Note: This is an "R" rated story, intended for a 18+ or mature audience. Read at your own risk.

Please disregard the crazy indentations. They're a bit off...

***

(Draft)

B♭

Charlene Joy Ruiz

Disclaimer: I do not own Skittles or Mars, Inc. in any way, shape, or form. Any resemblance to real events and/or persons living or dead, is purely coincidental. No Skittles were harmed in the making of this story.

Chapter 1:

Wishing a pompous bitch dead is one thing, but seeing her corpse spread-eagle in front of you, is another.

~

Just as I thought, my Gab was sitting on our red sofa waiting for me. I knew I was in deep shit when her face resembled the color of our furniture… “Why, hello there! Look who the wind just blew in!” I tried to explain what had happened earlier at the office, but she wouldn’t shut it. My baby Gabrielle—hotheaded as fuck. Let the ranting begin! “I spend the whole damn day in this house! Always in the darkroom, feel like a freaking owl! Work my skinny ass off waiting for you to come home! I don’t even see you no more! And the food’s cold! But you don’t care! You just don’t give a flying fu--…”

“Hey, babe, it’s my time of the month. Not yours.” Three knocks on the door came to my rescue. “Police!”

Gab looked at me with a surprised but tentative curiosity when she saw two policemen standing outside our door. She relaxed her stance as she looked the policemen up and down. "Can I help you?" She asked softly.

"Good evening, ma’am. Ms. Porthos?" one of the policemen asked.

"Oh, I'm Sam's girlfriend."

"We need to speak to him, is he in the house?"

She looked confused for a moment, but upon realizing they really were policemen and not strippers, her temper flared right back up as she looked at me and asked, "What did you do now?!"

“Um, I’m Sam Porthos. Is this about Joie Fern?”

“Excuse me, this is serious. We’ve got a warrant.”

“I—I don’t understand?”

The rest of his words seemed to jumble up in my head. “What the hell’s going on, Sam?” “We’ve got a warrant!” “Please, step aside ma’am.”

Shit. They knew.

***

It had not been long since Joie Fern had inherited her uncle’s opulent fortune, that she decided to invest her first millions in buying the Skittles confectionary in Waco, TX. Hm, what can I say?! The glossy bits of colorful sugar had always been one of Joie’s biggest guilty pleasures. Two decades ago, we would sit on her front porch and pop them in our mouths one by one, until they turned white. Fast-forward into the future, and here I am— her dead body before me, a mouthful of Skittles spewing out of her full, lifeless lips.

Knowing Joie, I knew it had been an accident. Her life had been an eternal pas de deux with gluttony; always putting away more than what she could carry. I looked into her glazed, fake emerald eyes and told her that she had it coming. I leaned down and lowered her eyelids, and walked away examining the remnants of her smoky eyeshadow on my fingertips. “Why did you pig out like that?” My fingers trembled as I dialed 9-1-1-.

Joie’s secretary rushed into the penthouse office and had a screaming fit when she saw her boss on the Skittle-strewn Persian carpet. Her panic-stricken face confronted me in confusion, as if searching for a “How?” or a “Why?”

“9-1-1, what is your emergency?” The thought of foul play never crossed my mind.

***

Six hours later, I was at the police station getting my fingers inked. The cops said they had to rule me out as a suspect. Poor Gab. Her tired eyes begged for sleep, but she never left my side. I really do love her. “You better wash those hands good, babe… Don’t want you inking my--…”

“Sam Porthos?” I could not have gotten up faster. “This way, please.”

The detective offered me some coffee, which I gladly accepted. “How long have you known the deceased?”

“We went to elementary school together, so I’d say, about twenty years.”

“How would you describe your relationship with the victim?”

“Tumultuous. We were very close friends all throughout school, and then when we got to college, things changed. She changed. She just… became another person, someone I didn’t want to be associated with. As you already probably know, she had quite a few discrepancies with the law. She just hung out with the wrong people. Funny how we both ended up working for Skittles… We stopped talking for years, and boy, did I get the surprise of my life when I learned she was going to be my boss!”

“Ms. Fern’s secretary informed us that you wished her dead. Will you please elaborate on that?”

“Well, I—you see… Ms. Fern wasn’t an easy person to deal with. She mistreated her employees. She even--.”

“Please, answer this. Did you, or did you not wish Ms. Fern dead?”

“Yes. I did. But, let me tell you something, sir. I wasn’t the only one.”

“So, you do know of anybody who might have wanted to harm Ms. Fern?”

“Oh, plenty. She wasn’t exactly a sweetheart. Many of my coworkers joked around with the idea of poisoning her coffee, and such. But, this is on a whole other level. I’m positive none of them would’ve gone so far as to actually killing her. If you ask me, I think she went on one of those eating sprees.”

“Eating sprees?”

“Yes, she usually gulped stuff down whenever she was feeling uneasy. She just ate the nights away, always thinking of how to make ridiculous fortunes without spending her money. Always cutting down on salaries and benefits and…”

“Porthos. Did you know that we found multiple severe abrasions in Ms. Fern’s esophagus?”

“Come again?”

“She didn’t just choke to death, Porthos. We believe an object was forcibly and repeatedly shoved down her throat, causing major lesions and internal bleeding. The killer apparently thought it amusing to stage a colorful accident. We didn’t find an object on-scene that could have caused this type of damage. We searched your property and found nothing. The murder weapon is missing and the killer is at large. Now, Porthos, would you please stop the jibber-jabber and get down to business? Tell me, who killed Joie Fern?”

I lost my nerve. “Well, at least the bitch went how she liked it. I bet she enjoyed every minute of it. Never spit, always swallow! Serves her right for being such a who--”

“You better get yourself a lawyer, Porthos. You’re under arrest.”

***

This is just to give you a general idea of what I'm writing. I'd enjoy some feedback. I'll post Chapter 2 soon. Toodles!

Cheers,

Char