self care

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.

Nothing Like Dancing in the Mountains

/ Marlo / Leave a comment

One would think that going dancing should be easy. After my twenties it became harder and harder and complicated. There weren’t Ubers and I didn’t live in the city. That night in 2002 that I danced on a tiny little dance floor, muy pegado con la gente, squished in tight with the folks, in the mountains, dancing merengue and bachata, I was in love with dancing all over again.

I was a club girl, totally. The night club, the Mission in Hartford was a favorite. One of my best friends also danced there too. We probably brushed arms, legs, boobs and butts, we didn’t know each other then, but we reminisce about that time. We were both in love with the music, the people and of course the dancing. I didn’t grow up dancing merengue or bachata or salsa. I grew up with disco and r&b in the background. I won’t get into my musical tastes.

Trying to recreate that feeling of dancing in the mountains of Dominican in Connecticut, well it just didn’t work. I think there are several missing parts, family, open air and just being able to walk across the street to the Colmado, where the dance floor exists is HUGE. During Luis’ first years in Connecticut we tried to find a place to dance and yeah, no success. Let me tell you why… Entrance fee, nope. High priced drinks, nope. Competition dancers (at least in the Latino dancing world), such a turn off for Luis, nope. If we drank, we had to drive home so one of us needed to be careful, nope. People don’t want to dance til 12 midnight, nope. Not the right music, nope. Switching partners, I guess that is an island thing, nope. And on and on!

Sometimes when we come here to DR we don’t get to dance because someone passed away and therefore there is no music, nor dancing. It is the way here and I don’t question it. It is just sad for us as it is our only little coveted time to dance how we like to.

Last night, here in the mountains, I danced, we danced and it was great. And today I am sore! That is funny, as I am working hard on strengthening my bones. I want to dance more but I just haven’t done it. Zumba is not my thing lol. Either way no judgment here, but my source of inspiration showed up last night in great form! Here she is!

Duvina, as she is called, raised her family and has grandchildren who live close by but she mostly lives alone. She has a hike to get to her house but she walks everywhere. She always leaves her little sandals at the door when entering someone’s home. She is then barefoot and is maybe 85. No one really knows, nor does she.

Always a mixed crowd- all ages.
Luis dancing with his mom. She loves this!

Berimon, in the red shirt, is a cousin. They both are dancing hard and mostly that is how people dance minus the hard grinding at the end of the video lol. That is the youth, occasionally you will see older folks grinding.

There is a band that plays everything. They were great at keeping the crowd going. They held a competition, best dancer wins 100.00 dollars, not pesos! And Duvina becomes one of the contestants, wow. My hero, everyone’s hero. The contest is something new around here. The guy who hired the band asked them to do it. As it is holiday time many folks who live in USA are here to be with family. Some folks who work all year, hard as hell doing the hard ass jobs that most Americans won’t do, save their money to come back to DR and enjoy it, be generous with it. In some cases it isn’t as sweet as I make it out to be. But in this case, this guy is always generous with the community. He raised the award to 300.00 and basically gave each couple dancing 100.00. I won’t get into how little people make here. As I said, generous.

Duvina and cousin Marino doing their thing!

As Christmas Eve is upon us I wish everyone health, safety, family in good health and some form of happiness even if it is just a good time dancing in your kitchen.

I See You, Lessons in Listening

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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/

20 Years Ago

/ Marlo / Leave a comment

This month marks the 20th anniversary of my first trip to the Dominican Republic. I would like to reflect on this in my blog so my boys will know the details. My life changed forever in a few short weeks.

A view from Los Marranitos looking down into valley near my husband’s town. 2015

In March of 2002, I innocently took a trip to the Dominican Republic. It was a big deal. I say innocently because I somehow arrived at my destination by sheer will power and good intentioned people or pure luck. I experienced the most profound emotional connection to the earth and a group of people that would eventually become my family. I literally became grounded.

My desire to go to DR came about because of Julia Alvarez, a Dominican writer. She spoke at Miss Porter’s School where I was a teacher at the time. She spoke about a coffee farm in the mountains and the little El Centro she and her husband created. My eyes teared while she spoke, ok yeah, I cried several times during her conversation. Ms Alvarez has a way with words, after all she is an award winning writer. She moved me deeply and the DR called to me. A few years later I wrote to Ms. Alvarez and asked her if I could stay at her little community center, El Centro and she said yes. I had initially set out to investigate this place because I was planning for a future trip to bring a group of Porter’s girls to make art. It took me years but I did finally bring a group of Porter’s girls to the mountains of DR.

Kids who worked with their families at La Finca Alta Gracia. Julia Alvarez created El Centro to help bring in more educational opportunities for the children of the families working on the coffee farm. 2002

During spring break of my school year I flew to DR. I had invited my cousin to go with me. She and I are the same age and have similar interests. I had never really been anywhere outside of the country on this kind of journey. Our first stop was Sosua, a beach town that has the most precious inlet with shade from mangrove trees. I am not going to lie we had a great time. We met a couple of Dominican and Haitian guys who were in party mode. At the time the dollar was worth 54 pesos, it has gone up and down and 20 years later is still the same 54 pesos- not shocking. We stayed in the beach town for a couple of days and then headed to the mountains to Los Marranitos where El Centro at La Finca Alta Gracia was located. My cousin’s trip would be shorter than mine and soon I would be by myself at El Centro. She only had a week off from work. I didn’t desire to be by myself it just worked out like that.

In reality because of that time by myself, I experienced an intense self awakening. It sounds hippy but it is the truth. Although I didn’t know it at the time but in the months afterward the flood of emotions clued me into the fact that I was changing.

The view on the way up from Jarabacoa to area Los Marranitos. 2015

How can I describe what I experienced? At the time it was hard for me to verbalize it. I can now. It was the smell of pine wood walls, the dry air, the very cold nights, the hot- noon time sun, the breeze, the smoke from food being cooked over an open wood flame, the woman singing Bachata in a tone that I would understand as time went on, my serious lack of understanding the Spanish language, late night walks in total darkness- there was no electricity- at all, drinking very cold Presidente- a beer, dancing the most passionate Merengue, smelling night time blooming flowers(myth?), working with clay-earth straight from the ground, meeting the most generous people, forming friendships with children of which I had been known to do- but this trait travelled with me….How can I be that magical person that children want to follow, here, there and everywhere? Developing such a deep sense of belonging that I would return again in June and then November. I felt a connection to my Puerto Rican roots. Things I understood by food made by my Nana and stories told by her translated to there. Yes, I know I am talking about two different islands and cultures but the similarities were/are undeniable.

Image from my contact sheet. El Centro is in the middle of this photo, Los Marranitos, Dominican Republic. 2002

I fell in love with a people, a culture and a land- 100%. And when asked about my trip I had no words to express or describe it. I cried, like literally for two months straight, a pure fountain of agua.

As a young person I always wanted to be a world traveler and I did so through National Geographic, through art, books and movies. I was 32 when I travelled to DR. I was well travelled within the USA but not outside of it. There are several names to call what I was feeling but no need to name anything. I chose to print my photographs, and return as soon as possible.

Pre Google maps and cell phones and translators I had made my arrangements with a young woman via email. She was a volunteer from Julia’s school where Julia taught in Vermont. I got the directions from her, printed it and brought it with me. Simple, right? No not simple at all, but so much fun. Because we didn’t know better, we took a taxi from the beach town to the mountain town of Jarabacoa. Who does that? I will try to not make fun of myself but the fact that we arrived safely is remarkable. Then from Jarabacoa we got on the back of a truck, una guagua, looking like hikers with our huge back packs, yeah we hiked. But it seemed silly to be in hiking gear when we were surrounded by people living- not hiking- in their daily lives.

Images from my contact sheets, La Finca Alta Gracia, Los Marranitos, Dominican Republic, 2002.

After reaching another stop, which was the correct stop, however we didn’t know it, we got on the back of mopeds and travelled another 20 minutes further north near Manaboa. The reality is that there were multiple places called Alta Gracia. Eventually we made it back to Los Marranitos. I now know this place like the back of my hand, so it seems odd to recall those first days with such confusion. We had finally arrived to El Centro and the reality was that this place was super isolated, even more isolated than the little surrounding communities. If you didn’t have a dirt bike or motorcycle it took 20 minutes to walk to El Centro. I was in pretty good shape at the time but it was a serious hike in and down and hike up and out. It was a coffee farm in the mountains.

Image from my contact sheet, La Finca Alta Gracia, Los Marranitos, Dominican Republic. 2002

This day of travel from the ocean side into the mountainside was unforgettable. Traveling in ways I have never experienced before leading us to experience the most grand vista with breath taking views. And it was the first day of the rest of my life.

A few things have happened since that first trip.

One of my favorite pictures of my family, Río, Angelo and Adoni, Los Dajaos, Dominican Republic. 2014
  • I married a Dominican man, Luis Manuel, muy sincero, cariñoso y hermoso también
  • We have two children together, born 2006 and 2007
  • We both learned a new language and became bilingual
  • An airport was built in Santiago making travel easier for us
  • The Porter’s community, we lived on campus, accepted Luis and because of this he grew
  • We built a functioning bathroom at his parents house-no more outhouse, we also bought property and built houses in the DR
  • I shared my photographs taken in DR in multiple places like Woodstock Center for Photography and Lightwork and others
  • Luis, opened a successful Painting business in 2006, he came here like many immigrants con nada
  • Cell phones arrived and eventually cell towers and because of this the mountain communities are changed forever
  • With my help Porter’s invited the Spanish ceramist Angels Tello Pardo, whose little school in the mountains of DR helped women make a living making Taino Pottery, to the school to share her passion and craft with the students
  • We had children who have grown up in the mountains of DR, they are bicultural and bilingual
  • My husband became a citizen of USA
  • Because of his Visa status he was able to bring family members to the USA
  • I finally brought Porter’s students on the most amazing trip to the mountains
  • Electricity was installed on the roads by the government
  • The road to Los Dajaos, my husband’s town was paved
  • I have seen the babies I photographed in those first years have their own babies
  • I have also witnessed death- regular and devastating , sickness and disease like HIV
  • I have the most beautiful photographic images etched into my memory unlike no other experience
  • We have worked so hard to make sure our children know what it means to be from the mountains of DR

I have so many photographs but they existed secondary to my feelings. I spent years going to sleep every night, breathing deeply and thinking about and visualizing the mountains. I did this with a smile on my face, it was my meditation. Earlier I had said I became grounded. After a year of multiple trips to the DR, for the first time in my life I felt like “Everything is going to be all right”.

Me and Luis Manuel in Los Dajaos, Dominican Repunlic. 2002

Knowing the Value of Something…

/ Marlo / 1 Comment

December 31 is my brother’s birthday, and in honor of him I decided to write. Back in February, I started the process to become certified to teach in the state of CT. Although I have taught in private schools and college, I still have quite a bit of work that is expected of me, 18 credits, a US History course and passing the Praxis test. My first class was in June and I took three this fall. Be grateful that you didn’t have to experience my whiny self, figuring out the details of how to become certified. Let me tell you, I whined a lot, even cried.

What I want to talk about is the transcripts. I had to purchase and send my transcripts to the state and to every college that I planned to take a class at. I had a paper copy of my graduate school transcript sent to my house. When I opened it, I gloated, felt proud of myself and gave my own self a pat on the back. I graduated with a 3.82 GPA. However, I did not have a transcript from my undergraduate school sent to my house. I am not sure of my reasoning but it will become clear, and maybe, in the end, it really doesn’t matter. When I opened the email to see my transcript, my jaw dropped. Um yeah, I am not even sure where to start.

I created a story about myself. This story I thought was a truth, until this past summer, when I realized it is not. It is easy to forget things that are hard. I am not sure how many of you know how difficult my undergraduate experience was, especially in the beginning.

The story that I remembered about myself is that I only failed a couple of classes and got a couple of D’s at UCONN. But the truth is I got like ten or more D’s AND failed classes in my five years at UCONN. After seeing my transcript, this past Spring, I was left kind of speechless. If I could paint my cheeks red I would. I was so embarrassed and I had to share this information, again! My grades were terrible!

I would like to back track a bit. Because in reality why am I embarrassed? A lot happened but my worth is more than a grade. As I was looking for a photograph to share in this post I found this from my brother. It appeared like a kiss from above.

Considering that I wanted to honor my brother today, he in turn is honoring me and asking me to honor myself. I love you Joe.

In my freshman year, I failed two classes and got at least one D. I can come up with so many reasons as to why, but is it worth writing it down? I wasn’t prepared, I didn’t care, I partied too hard, I was working multiple jobs and on and on. I was the only Latina in my dorm. It was the first year they stopped allowing kegs in the dorms and I lived in an area that was called the Jungle at UCONN. That name speaks for itself.

My required classes were a series of unfortunate events. My Astronomy professor liked to stand with his foot on the chair in his cheesy track suit, basically putting his crotch in my face, eventually I moved to the back of the huge lecture hall. I barely passed the class. My History professor gave me a D- minus on my first paper of the class. I wrote about the men, in All Quiet on the Western Front, as creating a force together. He wrote on my paper, “This is not Star Wars” and didn’t offer to help me correct my paper. My Philosophy teacher refused to work with me, he told me that some people just don’t get that part of his class and pushed me out the door. My drawing teacher made fun, commented and pushed and poked at me. He was relentless, eventually I stopped going. To be fair, I had a handful of amazing art professors that helped make me the person I am today. The only thing I truly remember for any of the required classes was an anthology of British writers from the 19th Century for an English class.

It only took me five years, but I did graduate. A lot worked against me but I was bigger than all of it. I started my sophomore year of college with my mouth wired shut. I was in a terrible car accident that I caused, in which I survived with only a broken jaw and thankfully no one else was hurt. Although, there was much pain for me and my mom and my family, something huge happened because of that accident. I squeaked out of the claws of alcoholism and never looked back. My jaw reminds me every day of that accident.

I was 18, just a baby. It took me a couple of years to be accepted into the art school at UCONN. Eventually, I found my way and graduated with a Bachelor’s in Fine Arts with a focus in photography. I finished my education with a Master’s in Fine Arts also with a focus in photography at University of Hartford, Hartford Art School.

I have created this blog for my kids. I want them to know that some things in life don’t come easy. Sometimes they are so hard we forget the hard part for a reason. A grade or GPA does not define a person, or me or my worth.

With my grandmother Rena, and my mother, Pam, who looks like a baby herself here in this picture, at my high school graduation. The photograph itself is a bit mistreated, I did not alter it. There is no picture of my graduation from UCONN.

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.

Traveling in My Mind

/ Marlo / Leave a comment

Oddly enough quarantine allowed me to discover that I need some time off. I gave myself freedom to create a space to travel in, and be creative and be in the “zone”.

One of the pieces I worked on inspired by the class in the link below.

A month ago Adoni and I started an art class called Spread Your Artistic Wings through Intuitive Art with Maria Fondler-Grossbaum. I had purchased this class in the fall of 2019. I did it in an effort to “create” during my time in Dominican Republic… before Rio and Baseball in DR took over. And of course it didn’t happen, I couldn’t make the time and when I did try I didn’t have internet to actually watch the tutorials. So many excuses per my usual life. Or I shouldn’t be so hard on myself. We live a very busy life, a full life.

Checking out my materials, Dominican Republic, January, 2020.

https://abyssimo.teachable.com/p/spread-your-artistic-wings-through-intuitive-art

In my current mindset all I want to do is travel inward not outward. For the first time in years I just want to be in that creative zone and create. While Adoni and I worked that second day we created for hours. He emerged from the “zone” because his tummy was calling for food. When he looked at the time he was surprised. We had been traveling inward for 3 hours. Since, I have secretly cried multiple times as I miss THIS. In one of Maria’s classes she makes a joke about being philosophical talking about traveling inward. Granted this video was made long before Covid-19, long before quarantine. In it she challenges everyone to travel inward and even suggests that we don’t need to pay for travel to far away places to feel freedom and relaxation. That if we allow ourselves to open our minds and draw freely without judgment we can travel very far.

One of the pieces I worked on inspired by the class in the link above.

And I did, I went to the “zone”. Truthfully I am not sure I will be coming back to the life I was living anytime soon. So please excuse me if I don’t want to meet up, join the gathering or fly some where because I am already there in my mind, in my creative place.

One of Adoni’s pieces inspired by the class in the link above.