Me MeMe Me Meme Me On Time - Take Three

Ten Years Ago - I am 41. I am my own greatest fear: a single mother -- with a one year old. I am also what I have always wanted to be -- an university professor. I'm still ecstatic over my job: I love my colleagues. I'm not teaching that year. I had received another NEA fellowship grant for poetry and spent most of my time in a place that becomes my second home, Isla Mujeres, Mexico -- after having left the alcoholic poet I was living with after he told me, the day I received my acceptance letter from the NEA: "Well, you know, the only reason you got it is that you're a Chicana." (Yes, he didn't get it.) I conceive my child in Mexico despite two sure fire methods of birth control. My third week of pregnancy, I greet Yemaya, La Caribe, as I do every morning I am there as my little house looks directly out at el Mar from my writing desk, and I hear a voice emitting from the wooden window frame: "You're pregnant, Lorna. And this boy will be. And it will be good." Extremely trippy, as I am not in the habit of hearing voices. But I am. And it is. I've been a Visiting Scholar at the University of Houston at the Center for Mexican American Studies. I am working with a small group of Chicana/Tejana writers I love, including Carolina Monsivais. My time in Houston influences me for the rest of my life. I LOVE TEXAS! I consider moving there permanently, and half-heartedly apply for a position but sabbotage my own efforts. Besides, I bring my newborn to the interview and I am stupid from breast-feeding. I don't believe my body really wants to live there, in the Temple of Petrol, that is. And, it's hot. That March Selena dies. I grieve with the world it seems. I go down to my favorite taqueria and eat tacos de lengua while my baby nurses publicly but discretely under a thin silk Indian scarf listening to my baby's "song": "Bidi Bidi Bom Bom" except that I sing it while I'm changing diapers: "Bitty, Bitty Bum Bum." Except for singing, I speak Spanish, exclusively, to my baby. I read Neruda's poems to him every day, he prefers them. I am under the wing of Roberta Fernandez. I'm "housed" in English, in the Creative Writing Program. My office there feels very lonely. When I am not hired for the position in Creative Writing, the students stage a protest and march. I'm on the flyers holding my baby at one week old, his long monkey feet dangling and curling on the side. I look like I don't know how to hold a baby. I write most of BIRD AVE and poems for "How Far's the War?" and Hard Drive. I live in the Montrose area, as I am a lifetime non-driver living in the Temple of Petrol and this is the closest I can get to the health food store. I drink double shots of wheat grass in carrot juice daily as I have discovered chaya on Isla Mujeres, which saves my baby from a miscarriage in process, and I crave the nutrients. I gave birth to my baby (dar la luz) like a cat in my apartment with a midwife and assistants. At 10 months old he says his first sentence. He's checking out a new red sportscar, or something, maybe a Jag, in the bank parking lot in Houston. I say, "Oh? You like that car? Red car. Red car." "Cool car!" He says, with expression. I return to Colorado that summer (August?) where I'm joined by my baby's father who takes an active role as co-parent. He sleeps on my couch in the living room. We've never gotten along. Nor ever loved each other. I believe I will never have passion in my life again. I am resigned to it. Home that summer, I am opening a mound of mail. In it is a letter from the Lila-Wallace/ Readers Digest Foundation. I've just been awarded a surprise grant out of the blue giving me $105,000 along with another $35,000 for a community interaction project of my choice over a 3-year period during which I am not to work -- but do whatever I want. I burst into tears thinking about how I was wondering how I was going to manage my child by myself while going back to work. "Quién murio?" My baby's father asks, "Who died?" I instantly know what I am going to do: Floricanto Colorado/ honor Lalo. I remember a time, long ago, when I dreamt an envelop stuffed with wads of unfamiliar presidents -- a time when I thought Carlos Castaneda was going to help me. That year I carry my baby around with me everywhere in a floral sling and later in a purple back-pack. I do my first reading, a fundraiser for the CW Program at Houston at the McNeil Art Museum; my baby is 10 days old, worn in the sling in front of me while I read, rocking side to side slightly. I go to a party after Sandra Cisnero's reading. I spend the time talking to Paul Rodriguez, the comedian, and he tells me" "This is what it's all about" as my baby sleeps in the sling about 3 am. I take my baby to Spain, to Tasco, to Laguna de Bacalar. I take my baby back to the place of conception and feed him avocados. I take him with me across the country, New York to California and 12 states inbetween. On Thanksgiving I go back home, to California, because I can, just me and my baby. We go to the sea, the Pacific ocean where I thank her, Yemaya. I go to show the sea lions under "Andy's" on the wharf. We get our picture taken with Santa on the wharf, in the California winter sun. I stop a passer-by and have her take a picture of us in the sunset. If I had cards they would read: Have baby. Will travel.