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Why I haven't written

I don't know.  My laptop was stolen this summer.  Then I had to move, find homes for the cats and Perez my dog.  Can't take them where I live now.  The Willie Velasquez project is wearing me down. I know that it will help million of students but I can't seem to get my community, especially the activist women, to understand what I'm doing and how much help my team needs.  It's such a beautiful story of a boy's calling, and how he changes the world.  Yet I can't get my fellow activists to see what I've embarked on -- for all of us.  If we'd had some funding the interactive would be out by now and I could start working on the Lydia Mendoza book like I want.  Instead I'm so tired, want a vacation, haven't been to a doctor in 15 years and I guess I'm gonna go all crippled with a pauper's funeral.  Why doesn't my community value our work more?  We deserve so many stories, this is the freedom we are searching for.  So much I want to say.  About the power to tell our story.  I don't back down.  But it is so hard.
The boy made of lightningJust finished reading Nurrudin Farah novel, Secrets.  He uses Italian, his Somalian, French, Spanish.  Why is this ok and I couldn't and get respect for Willie Velasquez's Tex-mex language?  Last night I heard the beautiful poetry of a great poet who lives here -- she wrote about Costa Rica, Peru, the Dominican Republic.  But the Westside doesn't count.  So we don't count in her poems.

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Today is Tuesday, May 3rd, and so much has happened.  A brain tumor.  More yoga and walking.  A little less combat.  Weight dropping.  Spirit rising.  Back in the city, where I belong.  Looking for good photos to give you, organizing my crazy files. 

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More tomorrow.  One day a week from now on.

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Segovia wa…