The Power of Reading

            In addition to pens and calligraphy, I have also been fascinated by books ever since I was a child.  Once again my father is the reason for this passion.  Dad was always reading something, whether a book, the newspaper, the Bible, or study guides.  If I went into my parents’ bedroom at any given time for sure there were always books on his night table and even on the floor next to the bed.   Neither he nor Mom ever read storybooks to us as children, but through his actions, I grew to love reading.

            My kindergarten teacher did read to us aloud.  I recall when the teacher announced story hour and we all sat on a bright blue rug she had in the corner of the room.  She read and sang the Mother Goose rhymes so many times that we memorized them effortlessly:  Mary Had a Little Lamb; Baa Baa, Black Sheep; Three Blind Mice; Peter Piper; Humpty Dumpty; Old King Cole; and countless others. Most of the elementary school classrooms had a reading section and some teachers even allowed us to borrow books, but I was so timid that I dared not take advantage of that generous offer; I limited myself to the readers we were assigned. It was not until fifth grade that I had the opportunity to discover books in a more intense and personal way.

            One of the best days of the week for me as a young child was Sunday because the New York Daily News had a colorful, multipage comics section featuring Dick Tracy, Li’l Abner, Dondi (my favorite) and Little Orphan Annie, among others.  It didn’t matter if I could read the words or not, I understood the story because of the pictures.  That was what we did as a family most Sundays after church; Lily, Joseph and I sat around the dining room table reading the paper with Dad while Mom cooked dinner.  We fought about who would get to comics first but Dad wisely gave each one of us a page and then told us to share.  Dad read aloud to us from the Bible every day before we left for school.  He read Psalms which proclaim the love and majesty of God, and from the book of Proverbs which provides advice for living a righteous life.  

            I remember the first time Mom gave me permission to go the public library; I was in fifth grade. It was a ten-block walk from our home.  I think she allowed me to go because my school friend, Josephine, came by to plead for me.  When I first walked into the majestic brownstone building on Fourth Avenue and 51^st street, I was awed by the tall wooden doors at the entrance that had etched glass in the center and the cool marble floor and wide steps that led to another set of doors. Once inside, there was a large dark wood counter that formed a rectangle and inside that space there were a few persons busy arranging books on carts or filing cards.  The librarian was very friendly.  She welcomed me, helped me obtain a library card, and informed me I could borrow up to ten books every week; she even gave me a tour of the library.  Ten books a week? Unbelievable! From that moment on, every two weeks I trekked to the library, with or without Josephine, and borrowed four or five books.  I started with fairy tales (read them all), and then moved on to other books like Heidi, The Secret Garden, Little Women, Robin Hood, Sherlock Holmes and so many, many others.  Since I was very limited in other leisure activities by my parents, books became my escape into a different, imaginary world of magic, love, adventure, mystery and drama; it was a world I created in my mind through the power of words.

            Reading continued to be an important part of my life at all stages.  When I moved to Puerto Rico as a young woman, one of the first things I did in Bayamón, where I first lived with my family, was to look for the public library.  I never found it.  Years later I learned through research that the establishment and upkeep of public libraries in Puerto Rico had not been a priority for the politicians, no matter their ideology.  Libraries were built but sooner or later, due to lack of funds, many suffered demise. Public transportation was also limited and I did not know how to drive at that time so I did the next best thing, I joined a mail order book club.  I kept up my membership throughout the early years of marriage and supplemented my reading selections whenever I went to New York to visit my family by visiting Barnes & Noble in New York City.  My sister Abi always scheduled a day in the city that began with Barnes & Noble; she knew it was an unwritten law in my itinerary.

            One aspect of my higher education experience in Puerto Rico that I will always be grateful for is reading the works of many, many wonderful Spanish language authors.  I read the writings of authors from different Spanish-speaking countries of origin like Unamuno (Spain), Neruda (Chile), Sábato (Argentina), Sor Juana Inés de La Cruz (Mexico), and Benedetti (Uruguay), just to name a few.  I was introduced to renown authors from Puerto Rico like José De Diego, Luis Palés Matos, Julia de Burgos, Eugenio María de Hostos, René Marqués, Pedro Juan Soto, Abelardo Díaz Alfaro, José Luis González, Luis Rafael Sánchez, Rosario Ferré, and so many more that the list would be interminable.  I read poetry, short stories, essays and novels that, had I not moved to Puerto Rico, I would have probably never had the privilege of experiencing.  It was like the first day I went to the public library in Brooklyn and discovered the amazing world and power of words contained in books, only this time the discovery was in my heritage language, Spanish.

            Books are my friends and my passion.  They take me wherever I want to go, whenever I want to go, without leaving the comfort of my recliner.  Books give me joy, cause me to cry, provoke deep thought, provide me with topics of conversation, and even contribute to change or modification of my beliefs and actions.  That is the power of reading. That is the power of words.

            My books were the first items I packed when we moved from Puerto Rico to Florida.  I had to give away many, but managed to bring thirty boxes that included my favorite fairy tales and children’s books; novels, poetry, history books, textbooks, and self-help books in both Spanish and English. When we moved into our home, the first thing my husband did was prepare my home library so I could take my treasures out of the boxes. This man truly knows me.

On any given day, if you walk into my bedroom, you will find books on my night table and on the floor by the bed.  It’s my silent homage to Dad, the man who planted in my soul the seed of reading.

“Books are the plane, and the train, and the road.  They are the

destination, and the journey. They are home.”

                        Anna Quindlen, “How Reading Changed My Life”

Doors Are Meant to be Slammed

Hello.  My name is Mildred Santiago. I am a door slammer.

Have you every slammed a door in anger? It’s a liberating action.  I particularly recommend it when one is very angry and cannot think of how to respond to that person who has caused the anger to grow to a point where one is about to erupt like hot lava. Yep.  Don’t tell me you have never gotten to that point at least once in your lifetime; I am not going to believe you.

            I started slamming doors by accident when I was an adolescent.  During my time (the time of Classic Rock & Roll), if we dared to retort with a smarty response or maybe even ignored whatever Mom or Dad  mandated, for sure it meant some sort of physical punishment.  No, they were not abusive but they did use the belt whenever necessary and back then there was no 911 to report them.  At times the anger I suffered was because of a denied permission to go out with friends or a threatening warning about having a boyfriend (totally unacceptable, even if he was from the same church we attended).  It was very frustrating, to say the least, especially since I had to keep my mouth shut in the face of this fascism.  One day, as I stomped back to my bedroom, I was so furious that I unintentionally slammed the door shut. Bang!!! I surprised myself with that action and then immediately thought, either Mom or Dad will be here any minute to question the slammed door action.  But no, they did not question my action.  That single act of unintentional anger outburst gave me some relief and from then on I sporadically slammed the door to my bedroom.  I understood I could not abuse this manifestation of disagreement with the tyrannical forces, so I used the door slamming outburst only when absolutely necessary for my mental health.

            As an adult one would think that it is not necessary to slam doors anymore, after all, we are mature persons who can communicate our differences in a logical, peaceful manner, especially with that person who is only related to me by a legal document, not by birth.  Right?  Wrong!

There have been moments, albeit infrequent, where again my only resource short of throwing dishes, cups, or vases, is to slam a door; not just any door, specifically the door to our bedroom.  It is still very satisfying to experience the power of a slammed door.  The release of frustration, anger, and helplessness accrued during a discussion that only served to highlight the fact that I am a woman and he is a man, is astonishing. My spouse clearly understands what the loud bang of a slamming door means.  He backs off and then we both give each other time and space to cool down and think about what happened.  The issue remains quietly on the table for a few days or even a week or two before we decide to address it again, this time in a more calm and understanding mode.  I call it creative anger management.  It is better to slam a door than to throw breakable objects that may hurt my spouse or me.  I just want him to realize that the discussion pushed me to the edge; that I suddenly found myself cornered and speechless and did not like it.  Emotionally, it is a situation that takes me back to when I was a powerless adolescent, something that I cannot allow.

            We all get angry at one time or another (hopefully, infrequently) and we need to release our anger or pent-up frustrations. For now, slamming doors works for me.  In the future, who knows, I might take up kickboxing!

             Slamming Doors

I was fourteen, I was in love,

at least I thought I was.

But my love was forbidden,

a la Romeo & Juliette.

“Too young, so naive,”

Dad would say.

“You don’t govern yourself,”

Mom would say.

But still my heart beat faster

each time I saw him,

my first love.

Frustrations, thoughts of a life unfair

cluttered my mind.

I felt my powerlessness,

but dared not talk back,

 that is, until one day,

frustrations running high,

I marched to my room and

slammed the door,

slammed hard,

slammed real hard,

almost off its hinges hard.

Such power!

Such show of force!

Such defiance!

I even scared myself, but felt oh, so good.

A mystery to me my parents let me live.

Today I don’t slam doors as much,

but have been known to slam a few.

Perhaps a need to show who I am,

make clear my stance,

demand respect.

And so, I vouch to you, my friend,

that powerlessness is momentarily mitigated

by simply slamming a door.

But remember,

make sure to slam hard,

slam real hard,

almost off its hinges hard!

Pens, Writing and Memories

A childhood snapshot I have in my memory is of Dad wearing a tee-shirt, dark pants and slippers, sitting at our dining room table signing Christmas cards and addressing envelopes.  He always used a Parker fountain pen to write and there was a bottle of blue-black Parker ink sitting close by on the table.  I recall standing by him, enthralled by his beautiful cursive handwriting and the way the fountain pen flowed across the envelope magically producing letters and numbers.  I was so attentive that he invited me to help him by putting stamps on the envelopes and then sealing them.  I must have been seven or eight years old because that scene took place at the first house he bought in Brooklyn.

The same scenario took place every Christmas, only the routine changed when I was nine years old and Dad asked me to actually sign the cards with his name, mom’s and the phrase “and family.”  I had been learning cursive writing at school for one year already and my handwriting was somewhat similar to his, a bit childish but similar.  I felt so proud; there I was, sitting next to Dad signing Christmas cards; from then on it was our project every season.

I believe that my love for fountain pens and handwriting was forged during those moments.  I now have a collection of seventeen fountain pens that include brand names like Parker, Waterman, Aurora, Namiki/Pilot, Cross, Montblanc and Delta.  Some are gifts from my husband, my sister Abi, and friends; others I purchased either in New York City or through a catalog from a company called Fahrney Pens.  Did you know that there is a pen that costs over $1,470,600?  It is called the Aurora Diamante and no, it is not part of my collection.  However, the last Parker pen my father had is part of my collection, a Sonnet Ciselé; it is priceless.

I love to handwrite.  I remember the penmanship classes in elementary school all the way through sixth grade.  At P.S. 82 on 36^th Street and Fourth Avenuein Brooklyn, three times a week the first class after lunch was penmanship.  We practiced writing pages and pages of the rounded a, the loop of the l and all the other letters of the alphabet plus the numbers.  We even learned how to sit with both feet on the floor and place our left hand on the paper while we used the right one to form the letters (I don’t remember what the teacher did with lefties). Some of the kids hated the class and complained while I practiced and practiced.  Later, during my high school years, I remember taking abundant notes in the history and English classes and then meticulously rewriting them at home because I wanted the notes to be neat and readable when I studied for tests. I was unaware that the act of writing and rewriting class notes was helping me to learn and remember what had been taught.  When living in Puerto Rico, one day I read in El Nuevo Día (the daily newspaper) that La Liga de Arte de San Juan was offering various fine arts courses, one of which was Introduction to Calligraphy.  I shared this information with my sister Lily and she too became interested in the course.  Together we went to Old San Juan for about twelve Saturdays during the mornings and learned about calligraphy, pens, nibs, and paper and the basic italic style lettering. Beautiful writing does not come easy, it requires practice and dedication; though we did not become calligraphers, we enjoyed the course and our handwriting improved.

I still begin all my writing with a pen in hand.  Sometimes I write five or six pages and then keyboard them onto the word processor of my computer.  I may write a sentence or two using the word processor and then print the writing to read and revise by hand.  I cross out, rearrange, add words, draw arrows, write in the margins, and finally go back to the word processor to update the original with all my changes.  Sometimes I print five or six copies of a piece and go through the same process over and over until I am satisfied with the content.

Even though schools across the country are eliminating penmanship classes in favor of keyboarding, emerging research is showing how important it is for children to learn cursive handwriting. In an article by Julie Deardorff of the Tribune Newspapers, she cites research by Karin Harman James, an assistant professor in the department of psychological brain sciences at Indiana University that states that handwriting engages our “thinking brains differently than pressing down on a key.” This is affirmed by Neurologist Frank Wilson, author of The Hand: How its Use Shapes the Brain, Language and Human Culture, who says, "Although the repetitive drills that accompany handwriting lessons seem outdated, such physical instruction will help students to succeed.  These activities stimulate brain activity, lead to increased language fluency, and aid in the development of important knowledge." I am convinced that there is a connection between handwriting and the brain, a connection that frees our flow of thoughts and creativity so we can develop letters, poems, stories, essays, or any other type of writing. 

Going back to my own love affair with handwriting and pens, I love them because my father showed me the beauty of handwriting and fine writing tools.  As a child I admired him in so many ways and did not realize it until I was an adult and thought profoundly about him, that is, how he influenced me and the pride he inspired.  Whatever conflicts I had with him as I grew up are insignificant when I think about his spirit of love, loyalty and determination. In so many ways Dad continues to be present in my life and the lives of my sister and brothers.  His legacy lives on.

                                LEGACY

                             You are gone!

                             Just like that!

                             Quietly, serenely, decisively;

                             knowing your destination.

                             So many times before

                             during your long,

                             drawn out illness,

                             we all thought about it,

                             spoke about it,

                             imagined it,

                             but now it is done.

                             You are gone.

                             The piercing pain of loss

                             breaks our spirit.

                             It is done.

                             You are gone.

                             But...then again,

                             not completely.

                             A part of you lives on

                             in each one of us.

                             You are present

                             in that discerning smile,

                             unfaltering walk,

                             and persuasive talk.

                             You are present

                             in how we view life,

                             in how we live life,

                             in how we share life.

                             Yes...for many,

                             you are gone,

                             but not for us.

                             The essence of who you were

                             remains.

                             That’s your legacy.

                             How comforting to know,

Dad,

You are still with us.

In loving memory of Rev. Joseph C. Santiago, 1921-1998