Wiser With Age

Tag: wisdom

  • Author Francisco Stork: Advice to Young Writers

    Author Francisco Stork: Advice to Young Writers


    A woman with short hair wearing red necklace.

    “What advice would you give a writer starting out?†is the question I am always asked at the end of one of my talks to high school students. I have thought about this question long and hard trying to come up with an answer that will be truly helpful. There are so many possibilities. Do I talk about developing skills or do I talk about attitude, about the mind-frame needed to write something that matters, something capable of touching hearts? In the end, I tell the young person about the one thing that helped me the most: writing every day in my journal.

    I started writing in my journal when I was a sophomore in high school and have been doing it almost every day since then. I am now 65 years old. I’m too scared to do the math and count how many entries this makes. In a closet in the basement of my house there is a stack of notebooks that goes almost to the ceiling. If I were to search for the first entry, I would probably find something very melodramatic about the unbearable sadness of unrequited love . . .and a few pages later, something with a lot of restless adjectives about a new possible love. These days the entries are more like silent prayer.

    I became a writer in those journals. At some point in my mid-forties there came a facility, an ease of vocabulary and imagination that allowed me to create characters that were part of me, yet were not me, and stories that were connected to yet separate from my own life story. Looking back, I see the journal as the equivalent of the scales that the pianist plays or the free-throws that the athlete repeats, alone in his back yard, one after another. My journal is where the habit needed for every skill was formed. The journal is where thought turned into instinct. The words that drip out slowly at first eventually start to flow as if they needed time and attention to feel fully welcomed.

    My journal gave me the gift of unconsciousness and of consciousness. Unconsciousness, because what I really want to say to that young person asking for advice is to forget about all those things she thinks writing will bring: fame, security, lots of people admiring you and loving you. Forget about the results, which more than anything else will paralyze you, or push you to write words that will not last, and instead focus on the effort. Love the trying, if you can. Offer your work to God, or life, and let them take care of whatever happens to your work after you finish. This is what I would like to say, but instead, I talk about writing in a journal every day because the practice of writing with the knowledge that no one will read what you write will, if you keep at it, eventually give you the freedom of knowing that what you write matters even if you are never famous, even if no one ever reads your words. This is the gift of unconsciousness that journal writing gives.  The journal’s gift of consciousness is the awareness that develops inside of you. The awareness of feelings and thoughts and of the universal humanity that is reflected in you and of which you are a part. You explore sadness and joy and ugly things too, like envy and anger, and when it comes time to invent the characters in your novels, you can create their souls from the first-hand experience of your own soul.

    This is what I want to say to the young person that wants to be a writer. But I can tell that she won’t like an answer that involves day after day of dedicated purpose. Start now, and maybe in 10 years, or 20, or 40, you will have something that the world finally recognizes as valuable. My dear young person doesn’t want an answer that requires years of working without anyone knowing he is working. She wants something that will happen before the junior-senior prom. Still, I go ahead and tell him about writing in a journal, about writing day after day to save my soul, sometimes my life. I tell him. Write in a journal every day. Write as if your soul and your life depended on it. The rest will take care of itself.

    Francisco X. Stork is a former attorney and an award-winning author of seven teen fiction novels. He often uses themes of his own life as inspiration for his writing. “The Memory of Light” is inspired by Stork’s own experience with depression, and “Marcelo in the Real World” is about a teen boy labeled as having a developmental disorder. Read more about his personal journey here. 

  • Bronx poet uses storytelling to educate others about their history

    Bronx poet uses storytelling to educate others about their history


    A woman with short hair wearing red necklace.
    Bobby Gonzalez (Photo/George Malave)

    Bobby Gonzalez has had practically every job you could think of — from a medical records clerk in a hospital to customer service at a utility company. However, he says it was at age 40 that he discovered his life’s calling and passion – storytelling. His favorite topic is his Puerto Rican and Taino heritage, which in turn, challenges his listeners to get curious about their own roots.

    Ever since that moment of enlightenment, storytelling is what Gonzalez devotes his life to. At 65, he still resides in his native Bronx, NY, with his wife Maria, but sometimes he doesn’t even know where he’ll end up the next day giving a workshop or lecture. So far, he’s spoken in 42 states — in the past two weeks alone, he’s been at Wellesley College in Massachusetts and Davidson College in North Carolina speaking about the racial and cultural diversity of Latinos. Next week, he’ll host his monthly spoken word event in Queens, NY.

    “When people ask me, ‘What do you do?’ I say, I’m an educator through lectures and poetry,†says Gonzalez, who has also authored two books, “The Last Puerto Rican,†and “Taino Zen.”  “I don’t know what’s going to happen the next minute. Occasionally, I get a phone call asking me, ‘Can you do this?’ and I do it. I’m not afraid to fail.â€

    His second favorite job in life, he says, was working at his family’s bodega, which they owned for more than 30 years.

    “That’s where I really polished my speaking skills, and I heard a lot of great stories,†says Gonzalez, about the place which birthed his purpose. “It was quite an experience.â€

    He says his parents also played an important role.

    “We were very fortunate, my brothers and I, to have had two Puerto Rican parents who always made the point to tell us where we came from and instilled in us a great pride of who we were,†says Gonzalez. “That inspired me to embark on a lifetime of personal research. I got my information from books and oral traditions – here and in Puerto Rico. When I was a little boy, my parents would take me to Puerto Rico, and I would sit at the feet of my great grandfather. He would tell me the stories of the old days, and I would roll my eyes, but I wish I listened more carefully.â€

    Gonzalez can see clearly now that his ancestors grew up in a different world, and that gives him the incentive to tell their stories. One story in particular which has marked him is one of his mother’s arrival to New York from Puerto Rico via a train from Miami in the 1940’s.

    “She was very light-skinned, and when she got to Miami, the conductor told my dark-skinned grandmother to sit in another car,†recalls Gonzalez. “I have to remind young people they take a lot for granted – even the right to vote.â€

    Gonzalez remembers the exact date he began documenting his family roots by writing poetry.

    “It was February 9, 1964,†he says without hesitation. “The Beatles appeared on The Ed Sullivan Show, and the day after, millions of kids around the world bought their own guitars and started to write their own music.â€

    Storytelling came very naturally to him, he further explains.

    “Every day, I would go to the library, get some books, and then go down my block and tell stories,†says Gonzalez, who still has the same almost involuntary instinct years later. “I spend a lot of time in the Manhattan and the Bronx libraries,†where he sometimes also hosts spoken word nights for teens.

    He says one of his biggest career challenges also took place in a library while he was telling stories of his ancestors, the Taino people, who are an indigenous people of the Caribbean.

    “Once I was speaking in a library in Queens, and a man told me, ‘There are no Tainos left. I don’t know why you’re doing this.’ At the end, he came up to me and said, ‘I’m proud to be a Taino.’ I was taught by my parents never to say ‘You are wrong.’ We were all raised differently, so it’s important to dialogue in a civilized manner. We are all one.â€

    Gonzalez says he used this parental wisdom when speaking at the University of Mississippi last year, as well.

    “We can’t have the same perspectives, and that’s okay, as long we listen to each other with respect,†he adds. “I meet students from Latin countries, and they don’t know about their indigenous heritage, and people who lived here their whole life don’t know American history. My favorite moment is always when people say, ‘I didn’t know that.’â€

    Education is primordial for Gonzalez, even though his father only finished 2nd grade and his mom, 6th grade. He admits he never finished his bachelor’s degree in marketing, but he believes through his natural curiosity, he has learned so much more by devouring books on his own. And now he loves to share that knowledge with kids as young as pre-k, all the way to seniors.

    “I don’t have the sense of fear,†says Gonzalez about what has helped him the most in life. “The times now are nothing compared to what my parents went through. Police brutality was a lot more common back then, there were no bilingual services, and immigrant groups lived in one neighborhood. My brothers, and I went to college. We didn’t finish, but we did it, because my parents sacrificed for us.â€

    What is the one piece of life advice he wishes he could tell his younger self today?

    “It gets better every day if you make the conscious effort to improve yourself passionately and persistently.â€Â 

  • Civil rights era poet shares how he aims to create civility in today’s society

    Civil rights era poet shares how he aims to create civility in today’s society


    A woman with short hair wearing red necklace.
    Poet E. Ethelbert Miller (Photo\Annie Kim)

    Eugene Ethelbert Miller, who goes by his middle name, “Ethelbert,†is a writer and literary activist who says he’s never been busier than at 66.

    Originally from the Bronx, NY, Miller made his way to Washington, D.C. to attend Howard University at 18. He’s been residing in the U.S. capitol ever since, where he’s written several collections of poetry, two memoirs and where he has served as editor of America’s oldest poetry journal, “Poet Lore.â€Â His most recent book, “The Collected Poems of E. Ethelbert Miller,†hit shelves last year.

    The award-winning poet also loves to discuss history and politics, and thus currently hosts and produces half-hour segments with experts in different fields, called, “The Scholars†on UDC-TV, and is the host of the weekly morning radio show, “On the Margin,†which airs on WPFW-FM 89.3. 

    “I made the decision to be a writer my sophomore year [of college],†recalls Miller. “I arrived to Howard University in 1968 – the year Martin Luther King, Jr. was assassinated, and then following that, Robert Kennedy was assassinated in June. The Vietnam War was going on – 1968 was one of the most important years in world history.â€

    He says it was during this time that he was “sort of baptized in black history.â€

    “I wanted to be involved in every aspect of writing about it,†says Miller about the politically-charged time, as sharply and energetically as if it were just yesterday. “It was just like now – with the Woman’s March and Black Lives Matter…â€

    He remembers writing his first poems on the back of envelopes on his letters to family back in NY – his favorite topic being love.

    “I wrote many love poems,†says Miller. “I wanted to leave behind poems that were similar to Pablo Neruda’s work.â€

    Eventually, his poems made it to the school newspaper, and then a DJ started to read his poems on Howard’s school radio.

    “Last year, my collective works came out,†continues Miller. “Now I can hold in my hand a body of work that represents 40 years.â€

    As the first member of his family to go to college, he considers this quite the accomplishment.

    “My family is from the West Indies,†says Miller. “My father worked in the post office, my mother was a seamstress. College was a strain financially, and when I said I wanted to be a writer, it took them a while to understand.† 

    However, he has no regrets on his career choice.

    “When I look back on my writing, it took me to places that I couldn’t have gone otherwise,†says the poet, mentioning the U.S. State Department sponsored some of his trips. “I went to Iraq, Saudi Arabia, people would send me to all sorts of places.â€

    Miller also spent 40 years as director of the African American Resource Center at Howard University, where he was able to give back to an institution that has given him so much.

    “I was one of the first graduates of African American Studies at Howard University,†says Miller, explaining it was one of the first schools to offer this program in history. “Howard students pushed for the African American Studies Department, and the Ford Foundation gave a large grant to set up the department, and part of it was the Resource Center.â€

    Miller started out as a student at the Resource Center, and then became a director in 1974. He describes it as a place with a lot of books, and a base to document African American history.

    “I made a lot of contacts working there – there’s probably no African American writer I don’t know,†says Miller, remembering the memorable time Alex Haley, the author of “Roots†and “The Autobiography of Malcolm X†came to meet him there. “A lot of people came through that program. When you stay at a place 40 years, you are going to touch a lot of lives, and a lot of lives are going to touch you.â€

    However, about two years ago, Miller says budget cuts shut down the program, and he was let go.

    “You might have three, four, or five professions in your life. I worked in a place for 40 years. That way of life is not coming back,†says Miller about the changing times. “Now, you’re most probably not going to marry your high school sweetheart. [And that] redefines what family really is.â€

    Miller says one of his most challenging roles was being a father and raising two kids. And even in fatherhood, the way he used language was intentional – even in naming them.

    “I’m a baseball person, and I look at my life in terms of innings – now, I’m going through the 7th inning stretch,†explains Miller. “When you reach your 70’s, you still have your life ahead of you. Jazz musicians are still performing in their 80’s, and that should be a guide for all of us. As an artist, you are not dependent on an employer. [Your art] never stops until you die.â€

    Right now, he says he’s doing better than ever, and it’s the busiest “inning†of his life.

    “Before, I was not making a living as a writer. I was never applying for grants and fellowships, but now I am free to travel and write more,†says Miller. “My career has really taken off. I finally have an assistant. She edited my collected works, which would never have happened if I was with the University. It made me very, very productive. Some people think I don’t sleep.â€

    He’s also been the board chair of the Institute of Policy Studies for the past 10 years (currently the interim chair) – a progressive think tank working to build social, cultural and economic equality.

    “I chose the board – I moved our organization to a new facility. I put Danny Glover on our board, and Harry Belafonte,†says Miller, adding they discuss things from domestic workers to healthcare issues. This is the first year that I know personally well two members of Congress. Some of those people I’ve met through the Institute. People associate me with literature, but I’m also involved in politics. My day has a lot of projects – I’m doing a tour of the south right now – going to all the black schools with my friend, a filmmaker. Just came back from New Orleans, and next we are heading to Tuskegee in Alabama. There’s a lot to do – a lot of collaborations. Being a writer, you’re not just concerned about what’s going on in the U.S. but all around the world. That’s how you should live your senior years. If you stay healthy, you can make a contribution…What we need today is heroes.â€

    What is the most important piece of advice about life that you would tell your younger self knowing what you know now?

    “I think what I’ve learned now are two things: We have to practice deep listening. We have to understand what [people] are afraid of, what they’re suffering from. Then the next level is compassion. Once you get past that point of compassion, then you can talk about the beloved community. There are levels. You have to prepare yourself spiritually for the steps…Every day when you wake up, fix something that’s broken. That way you know there’s going to be something different between today and yesterday. That’s how you know…You gotta make some changes, and it might be very small. Sometimes the first thing you gotta fix is your heart…When I look at my love poems, they’re always about desire and seeking. If you can in your life have one good friend, then you have done something that is very, very difficult, because you have to love that person with all their flaws. It takes a strong spiritual point of arriving, too – that level of love is what we’re really lacking in society. We are losing that with our young people – we’ve gotta bring caring and civility back. I see people yelling at each other and no deep listening.â€

  • In My Mother’s Words: Being multicultural

    In My Mother’s Words: Being multicultural


    A woman with short hair wearing red necklace.

    Growing up in Miami is enough of a cultural experience. Spanish is the main language, and any kid who went to school with you and didn’t speak the language got confusing looks. There’s not an overabundance of Starbucks or Dunkin’ Donuts, because there are ventanitas for you to get your cafecito at. You turn on the radio, and it’s a toss up of whether or not you’ll hear the Spanish version of the latest Shakira song or the English one. Of course, the Spanish version of EVERYTHING is usually better.

    Despite being half-Cuban, I was, and will always be, viewed as different in Miami, because it is a predominantly Cuban city. Different was sometimes good and sometimes bad, but for the most part I can’t complain. The biggest difference has been, and still is, living outside of Miami. The problem is, I also can’t handle living in Miami anymore. I’m basically stuck between two worlds.

    It makes me think of my mom who feels the same way about living in the U.S. vs. living in Honduras. She always tells me:

    “Es qué yo no soy de aquí, pero ya tampoco soy de allá.â€

              I’m not from here, but I’m also not from over there anymore.

    When she goes home, she no longer relates to the majority of her family on many things, particularly social issues. She’s considered the “liberal†one. Which is funny, because anyone who knows her HERE knows she’s not liberal…at all. She’s actually just a religious woman who really tries not to judge.

    She doesn’t really speak English, but the few words she does use daily slip out when she’s talking to my Honduran grandmother, like “appointment†or “I know.†She doesn’t enjoy the taste of American coffee, she says it’s watered down. She, too, is constantly juggling two worlds.

    I grew up in a Spanish-only home watching “Carusel†on Univision and listening to rancheras and boleros. I grew up watching Primer Impacto and Cristina, not the English network evening news or Oprah. When you leave that Miami bubble, and enter the true U.S., you’re kinda left lost in this limbo that no one else, for the most part, really gets. We each have our own culture at home, of course, but besides language, add the mix of growing up in what I call “Democratic Cuba” and it’s a whole other world.

    That’s why on days it gets to me more than others, I just call my mom or Miami friends. They ALWAYS get it. Besides, there’s a wonderful reassurance in your mom understanding you, even though you may sometimes have to Google translate some words to better express to her how you feel.

    A woman with short hair wearing red necklace.Victoria Moll-Ramirez is a broadcast journalist based in New York City. She is originally from Miami, FL and had the great fortune of being raised by the sassiest, spunkiest, wisest, most hysterical Honduran woman in the world. Victoria’s mother, Bélgica, is 60-years-old, resides in Little Havana (Miami) and enjoys a good margarita accompanied by a heartrending ranchera. Victoria blogs about her mom’s funny and wise sayings on, “In My Mother’s Words.â€

  • In My Mother’s Words: Loving someone who isn’t yours

    In My Mother’s Words: Loving someone who isn’t yours


     

    A woman with short hair wearing red necklace.

    I was 16-years-old and chatting with my aunt, and my mom, one day after school. My aunt was going to be a grandmother for the FIFTH time. All of a sudden, she looks at me and says, “I’ve been talking to Karen (daughter-in-law), and we think you should be the baby’s godmother.â€

    I was FLOORED. First off, Hondurans do not take this godparent thing lightly. Being asked to become a godmother is being asked to go up to bat if, God FORBID, something happens to the mother. I looked at my mom in shock and excitedly said yes. It was an honor. Besides, I ADORE his mother – many times more than my cousin, ha!

    My cousin had all daughters at this point, and we didn’t know the sex of the baby. They always waited. But, I remember thinking to myself, “I hope it’s a boy.†I have an older brother, I have always gotten along really well with boys, and I wanted to be the godmother of this boy the family longed for.

    On November 28, 2003, Ronald Diego Benavides Nuñez was born. I had started buying gifts for him long before he arrived. I’d buy neutral colored outfits, but in my heart felt it would be a baby boy, my baby boy.

    I went crazy. Frankly, I still go crazy. I actually refer to him as “my son.” Whenever I go to Honduras, the kid knows he has me wrapped. I tell everyone he’s the one person I can’t stay mad at and just turns me into mush. I cried when he called me “madrina†(godmother) for the first time. Anything Rondi needs/wants/desires from me, Rondi gets. But, as my mother always reminds me:

    “No te enamores de lo ajeno.â€

    (Don’t fall in love with what doesn’t belong to you.)

    It’s such a tough reminder, but she’s so right. He’s not mine. I’m not there day in and day out helping him with his homework. The emotional highs and lows that come with rearing him don’t apply to madrina. I show up every so often, shower him with love but am not there every day.

    There’s a certain amount of guilt that comes with being one of the family members who is blessed enough to live in the United States. Honduras isn’t the safest place, and it’s very poor, but it is beautiful. If he did belong to me, he’d be here. But he doesn’t, so he’s not.

    Anytime I get myself riled up about not being informed that he’s sick, or that he needs something, I remind myself of my mom’s words. He may not be mine completely in theory, but I’m possessive and territorial, so I will say he is until HE tells me otherwise.

    And I think he’s ok with that.

    A woman with short hair wearing red necklace.Victoria Moll-Ramirez is a broadcast journalist based in New York City. She is originally from Miami, FL and had the great fortune of being raised by the sassiest, spunkiest, wisest, most hysterical Honduran woman in the world. Victoria’s mother, Bélgica, is 60-years-old, resides in Little Havana (Miami) and enjoys a good margarita accompanied by a heartrending ranchera. Victoria blogs about her mom’s funny and wise sayings on, “In My Mother’s Words.â€