love

If You Could Be Your Own Superhero, What or Who Would You Be?

/ Marlo / Leave a comment

Let’s catch up on my life, it was like all of a minute that I was on the journey to get certified, to teach art in public high school, here in CT. I busted my ass to finish 18 credits and pass the Art Praxis Test. Two of the classes that I completed don’t count towards certification, this was a real zinger. There was a misunderstanding and I have to take two more classes. We won’t express how angry I was! Fast forward to the present moment where teaching fell to the back burner because I have decided to open an Art Studio with two women. Put the brakes on, wait what!!?? Yes, I am part of a new business opening in Bristol. I am thrilled. http:/www.creativejamartco.com

Because of our new biz, we were vending this past Sunday, at a public place. We advertised our presence publicly. Because of social media and all that….this happened….

A woman and her family show up at our table and she asks for me, by my name. It takes me all of a second to know who is standing before me. I will call her H in respect of her privacy. She pulls out a polaroid from 1997. At first I am speechless and honestly, a few days later, as I write this, I still don’t have the right words to describe what happened. I cried, this I can say with no shame. We embraced and we both had a good cry. Honestly, how does one respond in this moment, with open arms and acceptance of what is.

H on the left, me on the right, in the Polaroid. I always took Polaroids of my students. I took her on a trip to NYC.

I was pursuing a teaching certification because I want to give back to my community. I want to give back the way I was given to by my 7th/8th grade art teacher. I mention him often, Mr. Johnson. He has the best spot in my heart. Our art club, at my middle school, was a safe place for me. I could just be, and be me.

Me and my Girl!

H showing up, seeking me out, to tell me that I was there for her, that I “saw” her and that I made a difference in her life, is no small task. It has been about 25 years since we last saw each other. She has a story, we all do. But hers, well, I crossed her path at a place called “Gray Lodge Shelter for Women, a residential treatment program for young women ages 12 – 18 located in Hartford, CT. The Shelter for Women was founded in 1889, and for over a century it has provided shelter and support services for young women in need.” This was my first real teaching experience and I loved that it was at a place for girls in need. That sounds silly to say now, but my 27 year old self thought I could learn how to teach art there and be useful. I was in grad school at Hartford Art School and my thesis work was centered in trauma. My work tested the hot spots of trauma, how it manifests in adult life.

Gray Lodge is now used by The Village of Families and Children in Hartford.

With bravado, I walked in the doorway of Gray Lodge to teach some very difficult but lovable kids, who were acting out their traumas. I, too, was a full on trauma kid – but my needs were being addressed. Thanks to my mom for seeing that both my brother and I needed help, so she found us a counselor. I was about 9 years old. I continued seeing this specific counselor until she passed away. I was in my mid 30’s. Me and the girls at Gray Lodge had a lot more in common than I realized.

H’s photo’s from our fashion show. I am in the bottom, left photo. H is in the top photo. She kept a photo album.
Group shot of all the girls wearing their Power Suits!

I had a grand idea and we spent months attempting to make this idea come to be. We made our own super hero outfits, outfits with POWER. My intention was a grand finale, a fashion show. I challenged the girls to make an outfit that would give them all the power in the world to do and to be the person who they wanted to be. Little did I know, or comprehend, that each girl would go through an incredible emotional feat while working on their Power Suit. Some only got as far as the drawing, some spent days in the biggest anxiety filled emotions, refusing to work on or finish their Power Suit. Some, absolutely, decided to NOT finish it. Others refused to walk out on stage, and others cried because no one came to see them and yes, there were girls who did have family/people come and that was too difficult, they too, refused to walk out on stage also. The amount of emotional rollercoaster strength that came from that experience has guided me over the years.

Making Art isn’t always about the piece, the product, or the thing. It is about the journey, the joys and pains, the walk abouts, the indecision, and the finally the decision to just stop.

I never went into teaching to “make a difference” I went into it to teach art and by doing so, by opening the door to the unlimited possibilities of what art can be and what that means, I made a difference anyway.

As for H, I stayed in touch with her for about a year after I left Gray Lodge. She is now a counselor here in CT, and this is truly remarkable. She has her own Power Suit now, one that fits her really well.

I have been given permission to use these photos and talk a bit about H. – Thank you.

I See You, Lessons in Listening

/ Marlo / Leave a comment

I feel sage yet I have only lived half my life, but I have lived…a lot. To be honest, I never thought I would make it to 35. That was my cut off age when I was a teen and here I am now, 53. My life as a child was intense and overwhelming. My mother brought my brother and me to see a counselor, maybe I was 10 years old. Thank you Mom. Although there were a few years of not seeing someone, I have essentially seen a counselor my whole life.

My brother Joe and me, at my grandmother’s house. I am around 10 years old.

How does one get to be called an old soul. My friend declared herself an old soul. People declared my younger son an old soul. I always felt like an old soul. Why?

Does carrying the burden of trauma make one an old soul, especially trauma in childhood? I don’t really have an answer but that might be the answer for me. I know there are spiritual thoughts about souls moving from one to another through birth and death and there are references to receiving an old soul.

This week has brought many emotions. I am in the lush mountains of Dominican Republic and this place can do that to me. My senses are awakened, my sage, my old soul is sensitive. The mountains, fresh air, the food, music and DR culture, yeah I am awake and I am listening. I am here at an incredible financial cost to our family, the guys will be joining me next week. Traveling during holiday time to DR is basically financially insane. However, this year is important as I have mentioned before, it is the 20th anniversary of my first trip here, incredible. Second, my son Rio is a junior in high school and after this year I can’t say when he will be here again. I want us here as a family one last time before a new chapter begins. There is no doubt Adoni will be back whenever possible, he loves the mountains.

As I am making my rounds visiting family here, with people who have cared for me since I crossed the threshold of their doorstep, before Luis and I even considered marriage, I am struck by the absolute love and loss that has passed since my last visit 2019/20. I want to add this community is small, I am walking here and there, or a short motorcycle ride to see people. Upon seeing me, she, a cousin of Luis, begins sobbing. I am surprised at first but then I am not. We both have shared many tears in the past about this or that, important words shared between two women who have lived life. So I sit and listen as she shares the loss of her father, the loss of herself over and over to her children, to her larger family and now to her mother as she is in the last leg of her life and bedridden. And somehow even through my broken Spanish from my very first trips we always seem understand each other. And I listen.

That same night during the middle of the night I received a message from a young person in their early 20’s. I guess I can call this person a former student even if that time was short. I always reached out when I could. That person felt they could share with me their fears and their current health situation. The information shared with me left me speechless and brought me to tears. I read their message and then said I would listen.

That same morning the overwhelmingly public showing of love and sadness over the of loss of a delightful, dancing and humble person, tWitch, who touched so many people via several sources including The Ellen Show and Tik Tok. Because of the manner in which he died by suicide, so many people are devastated and are also saying out loud “I am here to listen”.

But are we listening, are we? Coincidentally another friend, also former student, just wrote in social media today and said “I asked you to be here and check in and you all said you would but you didn’t.”

Thank you for saying it out loud.

Teaching has given me many students to listen to. Somehow the darkroom….always the darkroom …allowed students to say what needed to be said in their manner… the cave. Recently, a former student offered to write a recommendation for my application for teaching positions. She had no idea that writing the recommendation became a reflection on her life over the last 21 years. I could see it, hear it, feel it in her words, my heart was so full. She said “it was great to reflect on all that I gifted to her” and part of that gift was listening. And now she “listens too” in her profession as a social worker.

I have started so many blogs and have not finished them during this last year. I am just signing off on this one and not lingering over whether it sounds right, etc. Please, open your hearts and see the signs and listen. I will continue to do what I can, and you should too, my old soul is demanding it of you.

General Crisis. https://www.crisistextline.org/

Support to the LGBTQ young adult community. https://www.thetrevorproject.org/

Depression and Suicide. https://988lifeline.org/

Eating Disorder Hotline. https://www.nationaleatingdisorders.org/

Sexual Assault Hotline. https://www.rainn.org/

Dating Abuse and Domestic Violence. https://www.loveisrespect.org/

Mental Illness Hotline. https://www.nami.org/help

Veterans Crisis Line. https://www.mentalhealth.va.govsuicide_prevention/

Always Learning Something

/ Marlo / 2 Comments

What is the big deal? The big deal is that I have completed 6 classes towards my teacher certification. Both boys are in public school now and yes, I even started a teaching job three weeks ago. I have one more class and the Praxis test and then I will be finished. This past week I finished my final exams for my art classes at Tunxis Community College here in CT. Little did I know that when I signed up for these classes I would find the thing that makes me sing, the artistic impulse that has been tucked away for a very long time. I know I am a good student and I was in “student” mode. On our first day we had to write a note to our selves and the professor gave them back to us this week before our critiques. I had forgotten about the note. Reading my note addressed to myself, I was filled with awe. I wished myself “Lucky” success as if that “y” was an astrick of glitter or sparkle or fairy dust that would grant my wishes. I suppose it was a spelling error, no matter, to my surprise I did a what I set out to do!

While I was home schooling our kids, raising our kids all my creative energy went into that. I am a very good multitasker but my creative flow concerning my art, well it was not flowing.

While attending classes, of course I saw myself as a student. Not sure why I feel the need to compartmentalize but being artist and being student where not mutual, not one in the same. I went into my art classes as a student not as an artist. However, my artist self appeared and is here to stay.

Part of this certification process allowed me to take classes in my area of interest. Art classes – YEAH! I wanted in person, not on line, something practical like Electronic Drawing and Painting and something new to me, Illustration. The way I felt about my decision was my willingness to be super open and ready for a challenge, learn something new, just jump in. A prerequisite for these classes was drawing 2. In my undergraduate experience I had taken 6 drawing classes, I think that qualified me. But I had to have a discussion with the enrollment person to verify this… slightly annoying to me. I bring this up to say that after I started to produce work for my assignments and I shared with my peers, friends, family they also forgot that I DO have this experience or ability. Maybe I forgot too.

My life is busier than it has ever been and I somehow found the time to focus, be in art flow, leave my work area…aka dining room table and leave it a mess, spend 5 minutes working, go do life and then come back. I was switching hats, artist, mom, student, wife, friend and back again. I MISSED this so much. The assignments from both classes were every bit of a lot and a little of all of what I needed. My professor, Jackie Decker, was amazing, joyful and was the perfect cure to my missing artist.

I know time and perspective have a lot to do with perception but my youthful art making days were filled with dark, intense, questioning, and provocative artwork all of which I loved. I was even a snob about pretty things, I was anti sweet and beautiful things. We joked about it, I still have a prickly edge going on today but nothing like the past. I didn’t mean to and as you can see below, that edge is still there. But is different now.

Wasteland Warrior
Emperor Tamarin as Samurai
Aloe Vera-fruit, flower, veggie portrait

I bring all this up to say that not only did I tap into my flow and get into my creative groove but I also found a way into making art that is sweet, and yes, beautiful. I have experienced so much trauma in my life, I deserve to be able to make art that is free of that. In our first critique in the illustration class, I was expecting what I was familiar with- harsh, critical and even brutal. Please do not get me wrong. I thrived on that, like give it to me because I want my work to be the best. However, that is not how this professor works. She moved and spoke from a place of joy and sweetness and she uplifted her students, and more importantly -ME.

All excuses aside I showed up to my final for electronic drawing and painting with what I consider unfinished work. I have an idea that has been in my heart for a few years now and I have not been able to translate it to paper. I decided to attempt the ideas for my final. It took me a while to “just do it”. With starting a new job and the kids’ baseball and life there really wasn’t much time to “finish it”. And without getting caught up in all the art speak, my unfinished pieces were in fact perfectly finished. After hearing the responses from my classmates and my professor I was filled with such emotion I wanted to cry. Not unusual for me but it is a truth. Pure joy – wow.

The details of my ideas are not a surprise to my family and friends. I have been wanting to write and illustrate a children’s book but I was not happy with my ideas. They were not illustrating a feeling that I wanted to portray. However, I never imagined that by the end of my semester class I would be closer to my goal … and well, I am! I have set my summer plans in motion. 20-30 illustrations ? Agent finding me a publisher? Publisher saying yes?

Rio Bakes Cakes. I am a boy and I bake cakes. I made these images in Procreate.

My boys inspire me in so many ways. The baking experience brought joy to our whole family. We learned to love deserts and we even became aficionados, aka desert snobs. This story is about that joy of learning, living, loving and just being. I thank my boys everyday for what they have taught me. Through my art classes this semester I was able to find my way. I am forever grateful. A book is in the works.

A Little Miracle.

/ Marlo / 2 Comments

In December of 2002 I found myself in the emergency room as I thought I had malaria. Malaria? Yes Malaria. According to the CDC travel center, I had to take malaria prevention medication during my trip to the mountians of Dominican Republic in the spring of 2002. After meeting peace corp folks while I was there, I decided to ditch the medication at their recommendation. And I didn’t take anymore upon my subsequent trips in June nor November or ever again. I was 32 at the time. After doctor visits and bloodwork, the source of my feverish night sweats and malaise was clear. I was in menopause. And to add to the gut punch, my ovaries were measured, they were tiny the size that belonged to a woman of 45 years of age. Imagine my confusion. I was also told I would never have children. If you know me, I wasn’t going to let anyone tell me what I could and couldn’t do. Never mind the fact that I never wanted to have children, or get married for that matter. For the record, I want to share this as I have never written it down. This is my story.

Me and Luis, summer, 2003. Los Dajaos, Dominican Republic. *before filters.

In the summer of 2002 I met Luis, my husband. In October of 2003 he flew to JFK, NY from Dominican Republic and we began our life together. There are many beautiful details about how our life started but this story is not about that. I did not travel to DR with the intention of falling in love, yet I did and here we are.

I know my story about infertility is not unique. I also can’t say that anything of what happened is scientifically perfect or willed out of desire or mere luck. My heart goes out to all the women whose story is different, I see you. It became abundantly clear that I am my mother’s daughter. She too had early onset of menopause in her 30’s. I never thought it would happen to me too, she didn’t either. There was no one guiding us to say “hey maybe you want to think about this”. Although, I probably would not have listened if someone had.

Even if I had wanted to do the in vitro thing I couldn’t because there weren’t any eggs to use, so I was told. At the time I was into yoga and meditation and my teacher suggested acupuncture. I scoffed at such a thought, I am a wimp around needles. However, love changed my tune. I was married and we wanted children, I wanted children. A long time friend’s sister is an acupuncturist in West Hartford, CT. Soon after my first appointments with her I was addicted to the feelings of energy and calm that became my body. Number one, I was stressed, number two, my menastral cycle was short and number three, my blood was thin. My stress was internal and deep.

I made changes, I began a heavy root, dark greens and stewed meat diet to strengthen my blood. I had been a vegetarian for about 10 years. I will not get into those details nor belittle my life in my 20’s. If I wanted to give my body a chance to produce a baby I had to change. I drank medicinal teas, received acupuncture twice a week and worked on being less stressed. And of course in order to have a baby there is sex. I took my temperature daily, took notes and timed sex to help make a baby, fertilize an egg that was said to not be there. In 2005 I miscarried.

There are very few photographs of me pregnant or things that people do to remember or record a pregnancy, just my words. I am not superstitious but clearly I acted in superstitious ways. And the reality is when I look back on the situation my artistic self, my photographic self wanted nothing to do with the moment. I compartmentalized things, for my safety.

I remember a thoughtful conversation with my head of school, she was genuinely concerned for me and my health and of course for women. She was the head of the beloved all girls boarding school, Miss Porter’s School, her name, Burch Ford. I admired her and her dedication to girls and the school even when I disagreed with her and some of her actions. She truly wanted to know if stress was the root of my situation. She wanted a definitive answer. I didn’t have one to give her. But in 2021, I think we all know that stress is a factor for many ills, and my family has sure had is share of generational trauma, deep rooted stress.

The day that the doctor called me to tell me there was nothing else they/we could do, I had intended on calling them to share that I was pregnant again. Two years in the making, that little heart beating on the monitor was a sight to see. My pregnancy was amazing, I walked on clouds. Mostly, it was regular and uneventful. What helped it stay that way was the doula that we hired to help me. A favorite student of mine recalled that I was a total bitch during my pregnancy, that is not how I remember it.

At the time my mother was in Florida and my mother in law, in Dominican Republic. I wanted to be sure that I had someone in my corner. Luis’ English was ok and all of this baby stuff was so new. There were no close friends who were having babies. The doula was my life line, she helped me not be afraid of a wonderful and natural moment. The day that Rio was born we had dropped my mom off at the airport early in the morning, she missed his birth. She had been visiting for my baby shower.

That evening my water broke during dinner while we were in the dinning room at Porter’s, my job. It was a surprise to say the least. The moments leading up to this birth were unforgettable. My midwife said to hang tight and she would see me in the morning, ha! Back at our house, Luis was nervous and I was rooting in my bed trying to get comfortable. He offered to make me tea and proceeded to boil water in the serving tea pot not the boiling tea pot. It was at that point I decided we needed the doula. Luis was a nervous wreck. She arrived around 10:30pm. Rolling and rooting in my bed, I didn’t really have signs or contractions to say the baby was coming anytime soon, also no pain. But some time after 11pm I announced the need to go to the bathroom. That moment, me sitting on the toilet, I screamed… “the baby is coming!!”.

Rio, 4 months old. Sea Horse Ranch, Cabarete, Dominican Republic, 2006. Photographer, Solangel Patino.

The miracle of Rio is that he arrived, I became pregnant against stupid odds. He also came into the world with lighting speed. I couldn’t make it to the birthing center to give birth naturally with the doula and midwife. We rushed to the emergency room at UConn, a 5 minute ride, speeding of course. It was below freezing temperatures and I needed all windows down, I was panting like a dog. The doula pleaded that I don’t push. She was afraid, as she shared with me later, that I would have the baby in the car. It was too cold that night. I was wheeled into emergency and told again “do not push”. The doula was miraculously at my side, poor Luis was parking the car and when the doctor arrived they were ready for me to push. A few pushes later baby Rio arrived. Luis missed his birth while parking the car.

A birth happened and it was incredibly uneventful and yet beautiful. My doula asked the emergency doctors for me to birth in the way I wanted, naturally. As time was of the essence, there was no time to be hooked up, or medicated or anything for that matter. All I could do was deliver my baby, our baby, naturally and in minutes. His name is Rio Jose, named with an earth name and named after the Joe’s in both of our families. Rio arrived that night of January 15th at 11:58pm to be exact, he came two weeks early. As UConn is a teaching hospital, our birth story of speed became the whispered story, many came in to see me and Rio.

Adoni, 5 months old. Farmington, CT on the grounds of Miss Porter’s School, 2008. Photographer, Solangel Patino.

Was there emotional turmoil at this time in my life, sure. But I choose to remember the beauty, trust me this is not easy to write about. We were deeply in love, acupuncture kept me calm and focused, and our doula gave me freedom to know that I could birth naturally. Our second baby came 22 months later. This time we were prepared. When my water broke we drove immediately to the birthing center. This birth lasted 3 hours. My water broke at 6:30pm and Adoni Cedar was born on that night of November 2nd at 9:30pm. So call it what you will, a miracle or two, faith, acupuncture, eating meat, or LOVE.

Joe, I owe you this…

/ Marlo / 3 Comments

I feel like a dog rooting around in circles and I can’t find my spot. These last few weeks have been very hard for me. My mind is filled with sadness, loneliness, regret, anger, guilt and I guess all of this is called grief. By the way, regular life won’t let me be, I keep bursting into tears wherever, whenever. The night I came back from Florida Adoni got into bed with me and asked me “how long are you going to be like this?”

The week of my wedding, 2004.

Joe’s death slammed this internal discussion right up against my face. Thoughts about decisions we made or didn’t are going around and around. My brother and I grew up latch key kids living in a one parent household with an estranged father. Our lives were not easy but we were loved. We started on the same path of alcohol together, that was easy.

My friend’s son is searching for a job and she was sharing the details. In which I said (screamed inside) don’t let him get a job at a restaurant! That was fear speaking out loud. I can blame many things, mostly adults not adulting. But here is the reality, at 15 years of age I was already drinking and when I started working, I drank there too. Thanks to the adult bartender/ friend at the restaurant she said “Here ya go, wink wink…a coke with a little something special”. I could have said no, but I didn’t nor did my friends. There were three of us working there together, my best friends from highschool. We made really good money bussing tables, and learned a lot about the life of adults mixed in with alcohol. Was it good times, maybe. We played hard.

I am 15 here, do I look 15? My mom is cutting the tag off my uniform. I am starting my first job at a restaurant. Beautiful family moment.

I am sticking to the discussion of alcohol for awhile as I mourn the passing of my brother. His passing is because of his addiction and his disease- alcoholism. My childhood friend recently said I was living proof that God exists. What does one do with that statement? I cried. I am searching for all the reasons of why this statement is true. I love myself and it took me a long time to get here. But I have never thought of myself as extra special, or even regular special, just Marlo. But I know this to be true, I am a survivor in more ways than most people know.

We met in middle school, 18 years old here. My best girl friends who bussed tables with me.

Fast forward three years and I am 18, it is summer time and I am partying like no other. I am also blacking out, like a lot. After I had moved on to bussing tables at a fancy restaurant called Apricots in Farmington, CT. It was the late 80’s, and my eyes got peeled wide open. I have finished my freshman year of college, unremarkable. My history professor marked my essay with a D on “All Quiet on the Western Front”. I wrote about a force the main characters had developed together to which he commented,”this is not Star Wars”. I failed my communications class in my major and failed my Art history class. That year there was a program that followed freshman, I was one of them. Meaning I had the dean on my side all year. At a school with thousands of students I received extra attention. Yet my first year was terrible. I partied the entire time, worked 2 jobs and failed classes all while living on campus. Meanwhile my brother is becoming his best athletic self in his Junior and senior year. When I think about it he was a 3 season athlete and in great shape.

My graduation from high school, 1987.

So back to my summer, and I am drinking, and having a grand time. And as luck would have it, I fall asleep at the wheel. Driving while intoxicated, I totaled my car and my face. I broke my jaw on the steering wheel. I did not hurt anyone, just myself. Literally my life changed or I decided to change my life. I was one of the first in my family to attend a four year college. My sophomore year was different, I spent that year cleaning up the mess I had made the year before. I spent 6 weeks of my sophomore fall semester with my jaw wired shut. I also stopped working at the restaurant. One of my greatest accomplishments is that I eventually earned my BFA and my MFA.

Back to the present, when I returned home from Florida, after watching my brother exit this world, I had hard a time sleeping as one can imagine. I already grind my teeth, thanks to genes and a broken jaw. I woke having had a terrible dream and my ears hurt as my mouth spent the night grinding the shit out of my head. My jaw is my life long punishment for my car accident, my life changed that day. But see, that is the point, I changed my habits and the rest of my life is history. My life is still happening-I am Still HERE! My brother however had multiple “opportunities” to lay claim to a life changing moment and he never did, as far as I know. I can’t tell you how many accidents and injuries my brother sustained in his life time, not to mention the things he did to his body on purpose, nipple rings, tongue ring, tattoos and even branding on the back of each calf.

He made a trip to Florida in 1991. He sent me a postcard that I had tucked away in an album. Makes sense that this picture is from that trip. He was a great wrestler, but he wouldn’t hurt a fly.

His energy was amazing and infectious, always the life of the party. Right up until his death he was trying to go somewhere. We have been told stories of Joe as a baby, he rocked his crib all over the room, pulling down curtains, locking himself in the room and causing much havoc. My parents nailed his crib to the floor, he rocked the crib loose. So they ditched the crib and let him sleep on a mattress. All my brother’s life he has rocked to soothe himself, wherever there was a rocking chair he claimed it. He even rocked while standing or jiggled his leg while sitting. In his last hours, he really wanted to bolt from the bed. In an effort to calm him (on top of calming medicine and morphine) I rubbed in between his eyebrows and I rocked and jiggled his bed. After he seemed calm, I sat down, looked at my mother then him and that was it, he took his last breaths. I will never forget this.

Joey was 2 years old in the pictures of him in the crib. Maybe he is 3 in the one of him in front of the Christmas tree.

Joe, I am so sorry if you ever felt ashamed living the life that you lived, one because I didn’t accept it and two you knew it. I begged you to move to AZ with me, hoping you would see the light, make a change. And then it appeared like I left you there when I moved on. I realize I never looked back to bring you along with me. I realize that we had been doing so much of our lives together that the year I left AZ for grad school, was also the year that I started the next chapter of my life without you. This was totally a normal part of life, right? But when I look back and think about our entangled web I feel an immense amount of guilt. The sadness is overwhelming as I think about the years that have passed by. As I could only spend short amounts of time with you. Good times yes, but they were so hard for me as I wasn’t living in the way that you were, you were living a non stop party and eventually addiction. I know you tried to change, tried rehab and just couldn’t make it work. Always, I couldn’t wait to see you and then I couldn’t wait to leave. I wanted you around my family on my terms and you arrived on yours. But you must know we loved you all the same.

Adoni, my son, with Uncle Joe, 2011.
“jump a froggy, JUMP!”
Adoni was 4.

Losing My Religion

/ Marlo / 4 Comments

First I will preface this by saying I was baptized but it ends there, my faith is not based in an institution or tradition.

“R.E.M. ‘s hit song came out in 1991. “Losing my religion” is actually an old southern expression for being at the end of one’s rope, and the moment when politeness gives way to anger. But if you were missing that key detail, you’d think that lead singer Stipe’s vague imagery was clearly a comment on the Judeo-Christian tradition.” If I wanted to project…. the words to this song make it easy, and my brother and his life, and my life. Watch the video, listen to the words of the song and have a good cry. That is what happened to me this morning, I turned on the radio in the car and this song was on, I lost it. The coincidences of life are stunning. The video is linked below.

https://youtu.be/xwtdhWltSIg

Earlier this week trying to be present with my brother, I asked him if he wanted to listen to some music and he says sure and lists these groups, The B’52’s, R.E.M. and Jane’s Addiction. We, together loved these groups and their songs. I haven’t heard R.E.M. in years, until this morning. I play Dance this Mess Around from B’52’s, he actually bobbed his head for a few and we don’t even get to finish the song as his needs, the reason of why he is in the hospital, take over. I am in Florida and my brother is in ICU and has been since last Friday. Yesterday, unexpectedly as these things are never expected, the doctor tells me to my face, there is nothing else, medically, they can do for Joe. He is dying- my words. I won’t list all of what is wrong but all of it is because of alcoholism, which has caused liver failure. The sweetness is all I can see in my brother’s face and eyes even though he is in the most terrible of physical condition.

So how does one process being told “this is it”? I am numb. He knows, that yes, it is true, this is his last life. Time to go home Mr. Kitty with multiple nine lives. Your last life has been lived. My heart is broken. Joe signed his DNR papers today and he began the process of Hospice. As I write this he is being moved to “in hospital” Hospice care. Our mother also signed the papers. Do you hear me…his mother, our mother signed Hospice papers for her son.

My husband, Luis, my boys, my cousin’s boys and of course my brother in the back being goofy. Adoni’s face is for the fact that his face was literally in my husband’s armpit. 2019.

I stayed at my cousin’s last night, my mother needed some privacy. Our conversation went like this. We talk about many things, mostly our boys and how we are raising them. All our boys are in the picture above. We talk about my brother becoming the poster boy for alcoholism. I cry. We talk about the fact …this hurts too- she and my best friend both lost their brothers when we were young. My childhood best friend’s brother died in 1991, same year the R.E.M. song came out. My cousin died when we were senior’s in higschool, 1987. Why they each died is tragic and I can write about later. RIP, cousin Alan and family friend, Jared. We talk about the finality of her brother’s death and my friend’s brother’s death. It isn’t new information about how difficult these years have been for me concerning my brother. Their brothers are dead and mine is alive and stuck in addiction. It has been hard raising a family without my brother, without their uncle, without his brother in law, only for Joe to be present for little fleeting moments and always under the influence of alcohol. I didn’t loose my brother physically but I lost him emotionally to alcoholism years ago.

My brother and Adoni in Dominican Republic. My brother is a kid at heart. 2009

The nurse in the ICU today wanted to give me a hug so I let her (um Covid-19) and I sobbed. We talked about generational alcoholism. She stressed and emphasized self care and showing my children, my boys, what self care is. Which brings me back to my conversation with my cousin last night. Our boys are 12 and 14, they are coming of age. They need to know better what self-care is and how to do it correctly. Learn to recognize when there is something wrong and deal with it as negative self soothing is not the answer. I want my boys to know it is ok to be vulnerable in manhood.

The R.E.M. video shows the lead singer as vulnerable, in fact all the men and boys in the video are vulnerable. This week we have seen my brother’s vulnerability, us 3 women he cares for the most, his girlfriend, me and his mother. Allowing us to see him in the condition that he is in, seeing his acceptance of his fate, he said to me, “I did this to myself”, and him signing the Hospice papers has to be the bravest and most painful task he has ever had to do in his life.

Maybe 1989. Joe with our maternal grandmother, Rena. He loved her dearly. I shot this photograph at the beginning of my photographic education/career.

Joe, Rio, I mean Joe…

/ Marlo / 9 Comments

I called my dear childhood friend this morning to tell her that my brother is in the ICU and per usual, especially when I am angry, I say my son’s name and not my brother’s. As soon as Rio’s personality developed or maybe my age had something to do with it, my brother Joe’s name and Rio’s name became interchangeable. I would be talking to my brother and call him Rio right to his face. And when I was angry or frustrated with Rio I would call him Joe.

The hard part for me was Rio’s disdain at being called Joe. Rio is more mature now, 14, so it does not land for him the way it once did. But a few years back when the inter change of names flew out of my mouth regularly, Rio was adamant, “Mom stop calling me his name!” Incredulously, “How could you, I am nothing like Uncle Joe!” That hurt me, I know as my adult self what he really meant to say, but his kid self would hurl that at me just as regularly as I called him Joe and Joe, Rio.

Rio, my husband-Luis, my brother-Joe,
2019, he was in CT for our paternal grandmother’s funeral.

My brother is an alcoholic and he is losing his last battle with alcoholism. It is the last stand at the ok corral. As I write this I am on a plane headed to Florida, mask on, plane packed, even with alternating seats. I am shocked. I definitely have kept to my small bubble of quarantine. My brother is in ICU, and it doesn’t look good, so of course I am on a plane. Here is the heavy part, he may not even survive through his withdrawal. They said “if “ he survives withdrawal. This is the first time I have heard that. So if I can hold his hand during his withdrawal, let him know how much I love him, I will. My brother Joe, with more than nine lives, is this your last life ?

Alcoholism is a disease and there is no cure for my brother. When I was convalescing after my surgery of a colon resection because of a cancerous tumor, Joe, through tears, said I had it easy, because everyone recognized my disease. He said the world does not recognize his disease. In a certain way I felt he passed the buck and wasn’t taking any ownership of his own life. But what I really heard loud and clear was this, I am in pain, I am sad, I have no control and I can’t help myself, I need help but I really don’t want it. I don’t have the will power even though I say I do, when will this all end?

Me and my brother in California around 1994. He came with me to see my work in an exhibition. This photograph was taken in a live art piece, inside of a camper, dress up and get your picture taken. We were living together in Arizona.

Addiction is trauma soothing, I can’t pick from Joe’s traumas, our traumas and tell you which one did him in? No, but as we go through this moment and feel pain about this battle the people closest to him are pointing fingers and blaming this trauma and that trauma. Joe will be 50 years old December 31, 2020. When is he old enough to own his own shit? I know I can’t fix or cure my brother’s disease as much as we all have tried. My brother has been in charge ….since a long time ago.

Joey and my mom. Mid/late 70’s.

Since my brother left Arizona in the early 2000’s and moved closer to our mother, he has been in and out of hospitals, rehabilitation facilities, on his death bed, super healthy, come clean only to say “they said I could drink once in a while” and then we wouldn’t hear from him and he was gone again. In his late teens he was flown home in an emergency situation and diagnosed with pancreatitis. I feel like that moment directed his life journey, it was set before him and out of anyone’s control, most importantly his.

My brother asked that I not announce his private matters publicly. I am going against his wishes as he deserves better, he deserves a world wide recognition of the beautiful person he is, and also his pain and suffering. Joe, the young boy I knew the best, who reminds me so much of my innocent son Rio, deserves a full lived and loving life. And since you won’t listen to any of us, I am telling you here, I love you Joe, the little boy in you and the man in you.