Nicki Salcedo's Open Salon Blog

The Sound of M

Fri, 20 Aug 2010 10:08:14 -0400

A reason for silences

I don’t sing in church. I lip sync. Growing up in the church, I watched my father as he sang in the choir and my mother as she sang from the pews. Her voice a whisper. His a booming sound. I didn’t think I had a pretty voice so I stayed silent even though I knew the words to those mysterious hymns. Knowing the words was never enough to make me sing, and I wondered if the quiet made me distant from God.

I still wish I could sing. I sing when I’m alone. Sometimes. The voice I lost as a child never fully returned to me. This is why I dip my quill in ink and touch it to my aged parchment. I’m a writer not a singer. The sounds are in my head. I thought I have no voice for those words except writing them.

A Meditation on Om

After many years of practicing yoga, I had my first teacher who focused on sound. Chanting Om Shanti and enunciating the A-U-M of the Om. I’m Southern, I’ve already mastered the art of making a one syllable word sound like three syllables, but this teacher didn’t want me to lip sync. She wanted to hear the sound. I wanted to tell her that I didn’t sing in church, and I wouldn’t chant in yoga. She was a singer like my dad with a booming fearless voice. She claimed there was no way to mess up the Om. It was a perfect sound, and I couldn’t ruin it the way I liked to sing Amazing Grace off key. I tried. I open my mouth. I made a sound. It didn’t sound like music at all, but rather an escaped breath. I wondered if God felt the wind shift.

Later, my husband and I were in pregnancy yoga class where instructor encouraged us to Om. Half of the students were men, and most of those men shifted uncomfortably when directed to chant. Some of the women voiced soft and beautiful Oms. But the men, like me, weren’t going to make a sound. My husband proceeded to follow the instructor. He made the Om and my spine tingled. Another booming fearless voice. I tried to give mine more volume and depth, but I was so proud to be near his sound. The other men followed suit, not wanting to be outdone. Even a bunch of fidgety uncomfortable men who’d rather be watching football can make a lovely chorus of Om. I was still trying. My voice was less air and more a word, but not quite a musical sound.

Om, Shalom, Namaste, Salaam, Amen

I’m sick. I don’t feel well most days, and there is little that I can do but wait. I crawl into my bed and moan. The sound is my medicine. The lost Om and forgotten Amens, now come out of me in a long aching mmmmmmmms. After days of doing this, I began to wonder. Why am I making this torturous sound? The cat comes to watch me moan. She might not have much concept of pain, but she recognizes something the sound that takes the pain away.

I moan and wonder why that sound more than any other helps me feel better. Not prescription drug better, but a little better. Use my breath and make the M last the way I was taught in yoga. I wonder. I hear other words that have the M sound.

When I was in college, I worked with a woman named Sandy. I lacked the ability to make friends with my own peers, so I dined and went to the movies with a Jewish woman much older than my mother. As a child, Sandy took dance lessons from Fred Astaire. She invited me over on Hanukkah. She took me into my first Palestinian grocery store in San Francisco. “We eat the same food,” she explained. It was then that I understood that Salaam and Shalom are cousins. On my wedding day, Sandy was the first person to greet us as we exited the church. “Mazel Tov,” she said. I don’t remember the congratulations that day, but I remember Sandy’s blessing.

I love yoga, but I like the sound of Namaste at the end of class. I love the sound more at a friend's wedding. We are all smiling. I can hear the M.

I love being in church and hearing someone in a quiet corner utter Amen. They aren’t talking to the pastor, but are sending a one word song to God. Maybe they are just sending the M sound.

When I am happy and healthy it is the song I sing to good food. When I am curious, it is the sound of my wordless question. I try sing in church. I’m learning the sound of my voice and pace of my breath. I don’t care how I sound anymore. I like the feeling of the words escaping me not just in the privacy of my car or in the shower, but in a place where my voice might be heard. I’m still learning to be fearless. I’ll even echo an Amen. There is something in the sound, in the reverberation, that is healing.

The Sound of M

Right now I don’t feel well. My moanings are bits of escaping pain. I know that when the sound reaches the wind someone, somewhere is listening.

I will feel better one day. I can’t be sick forever. The bathroom floor is cool relief when I should seek the warm comfort of my bed. The M echoes better against the tile. I try to moan and add the other words. Om, Shalom, Namaste, Salaam, Amen, Mmmmm. I hear a chorus of M. My children call to me and the plaintive “Mommy” sound gives them peace. To them the M is a humming. They repeat it with a cheerful melody throughout the day.

I’m not a linguist. Don’t want to be. I have no curiosity about words other than the way I misuse them. I’m not a religious scholar. I’ve got my religion, and it is something I also misuse. I lip sync in church, no better than a boy band reject. Finding my voice has nothing to do with my words. Being sick has help me release a trapped sound. I never moaned before I learned to Om. A-U-M is three syllables, but you hold the M as long as you have breath. It creates a wind that passes by God. It is a blessing, a thanksgiving, a release.

If you see me singing, don’t lean in close. I still sing off key. I won’t ever boom. But I might feel better at the sound of my own voice and the echoing back of yours.

Help With The Litter Box

Tue, 20 Jul 2010 22:07:25 -0400

The Genesis: Premarital counseling

“How does being an interracial couple impact your relationship?” the counselor asked in our premarital counseling session. We were meeting with a priest, and neither of us Catholic.

We look at each other confused. “We aren’t an interracial couple.”

“Well, you’re Mexican and you’re African-American, so. . .”

Here’s where the counselor had it wrong. Technically, he’s Mexican-American generations in. I’m Jamaican, African-American by default. I’m the immigrant.

“But neither of us are white.”

“You are from different cultures.”

After seven years of dating, we were confused. We never thought of our cultures as different from each other.

“How did your parents react when you started dating?”

It is hard to explain to a priest that a healthy dose of indifference is a good thing. Our parents didn’t look at us twice. My mom just wanted to know how soon we’d be on the Christmas tamale list. His mom just wanted to know how many children I was willing to have. What culture divide did we have to cross?

La Bodeguita Del Medio: On your third visit you're family

These are the rules when you come to our house. On first and second visit, we’ll treat you like a guest. You can have a nice glass of water or wine. More than likely we’ll serve you something to eat. You can keep your shoes on. You are not expected to do anything other than be charmed by our hospitality.

On third visit things change. There might be a child who needs a cup of apple juice. You should get it for them. A diaper may need changing. Then there’s the cat box. Help yourself. Chop an onion, pour your own glass of wine, and take off your shoes. On your third visit you are family.

This didn’t start with us. My spouse and I learned this from our families. Our traditions are there, and we’ve added new details to make our family real.

I make the babies, and I cut the grass. He does laundry with military precision and cooks with a religious passion that would make that priest proud. Our children’s sometimes dine on organic food and wash it down with a high fructose corn syrup popsicles or Krispy Kreme doughnuts. Opposite is our standard.

La fin du monde as we know it: And I feel fine

Some families define themselves by food or holidays. I love food. I love holidays. But we eat standing up and spend our holidays dozing at the kitchen table. Our family life is in a developing stage. Right now we are speeding. We rush to work and dinner and soccer and ballet and bedtime. We read books in the bathroom like guilty children. We cannot accept that we are husband and wife or adults. We are still kids. We sneak away from work and have day dates so we can see each other without the confusion and chaos of the night. We only have time for the moments in between. We’d probably believe in love if we were awake long enough to contemplate it.

Exhaustion, like indifference, is a good thing. We walk in cemeteries and dine with our neighbors. We are painful normal. At one point we, the Mexican man and Black woman, were the only straight couple on our street. The rest of our neighbors were single or gay. We, the diaspora, represented the middle of the road. When a white couple moved in across the street, we thought it odd that they didn’t have a dog or a baby from a third world country. Maybe we should tell them the need some kind of gimmick to fit in these days.

The world is full of racism, social elitism, and oil spills. There are plenty of things to polarize us. Political and religious issues to get our ire up. That is until we turn to our families. At home, we close the doors on the outside world and make something, not perfect, but perfect for us.

I love the way he cooks. He jokes about the way I smell after mowing the lawn. We still take off our shoes. Sometimes we pause. We are a family at rest and in motion. I’d love to have you over and let you sit for a spell, watch the chaos, and help us change the litter box. Even if you find us tiresome before the third visit.

We Rest Between the Graves

Mon, 19 Jul 2010 01:07:57 -0400

No More Breath

When I was young, I used to hold my breath every time we passed a cemetery. I kept the habit until I was 11 years old and first visited Arlington National Cemetery. As we approached I thought that I wouldn’t be able to hold my breath all day long. It was there that my superstitions about cemeteries died and were replaced with a short-lived curiosity about bones. I accept the symbolism of the Tomb of Unknown Solider as an adult, but as a child I wondered if bad bones could be buried in the tomb. I realized that we don’t celebrate the quality of life, but rather the fact of it. I was a shy child and wanted to avoid the pomp and circumstance, the accolades and melancholy of a funeral and burial. I was a strange child, too. Maybe I wanted to avoid my corpse turning to goo in a coffin. Either way I decided it would be best to be cremated.

_{My great-grandfather who is buried in a location unknown to me.}

I’ve Danced with Ghosts

In college we had an irreverent Halloween tradition, a Mausoleum Party. At 18, I danced on the steps of a tomb dressed as a sexy vampire. I didn’t put much thought into the location. Irreverence is required in college and sexy vampires should dance with ghosts. But I wasn’t raised irreverent. By morning, I was back to being mortal and boring. I never set foot in a cemetery again until I was 24 years old and my grandmother had passed away. I didn’t think about my ancestors or history. I didn’t think about omens or angels. I thought again about the goo in the coffin. My fear of goo has just as much to do with watching too many movies about aliens as it does with the afterlife.

Hello in There!

I’m not afraid of death. I’m not curious about death. I’m not overly concerned with my bones being buried or burned anymore. I think it is best to avoid cemeteries. But at some point in your life they call to you. This past January after a big breakfast, my family and I decided to take a stroll before heading home. The restaurant was near a large historic cemetery I’d never been to before. I can’t hold my breath that long and I’m not interested in thoughts of goo. But I am grown now. I can say that without any disappointment. It was time I did what adults do and walked into the graveyard.

My kids are small. I started out with some basic information for their sake, “Dead people are buried in the ground,” and ended with tips for Southern hospitality, “Don’t step on the graves, don’t run, and keep your voices down.”

I’m the first to admit that my children are ill-mannered. They stepped foot into the cemetery and took off full sprint. The four year old headed to the first mausoleum and shouted, “Hello!” She turned back to me smiling. Great. I’ve seen The Sixth Sense. She sees dead people. The two year old and five year old followed suit. Shouting into the locked memorials and pointing at the tombstones asking, “Are dead people really under there?” I have no clue. Probably bones and goo.

They accosted an elderly lady placing flowers and asked, “Did YOU put that body in the ground?”

“No,” she responded kindly. “Someone else put them in there. That’s my mother and father.” I looked at the dates and noted they died before I was born.

“Does dirt get into their noses?”

“No,” the lady answered again. She was infinite kindness when I was aflame with embarrassment. She looked like the type to admonish, but her admonishing eyes turned to me. “Let them ask,” her face said.

Did she mean me, too? I was 11 again. I wanted to ask her why we hold our breath. Is it because we are waiting?

Grave Writing

My husband is burying his grandfather this week. There is no solace in his sadness. A year ago he buried his father. I am writing about graves for those who don’t want to be in cemeteries this week.

I have a black cat, and I walk under ladders. I am not afraid of broken mirrors or umbrellas opened indoors. But I never walk on graves, I walk between them. It is not out of fear, but respect. I don’t want my children to be afraid or fascinated by graveyards. Cemeteries are good places to go for a walk. We are never alone on our grave walks. Runners, dog walkers, families on a stroll, those remembering love ones, and those forgetting.

We feed ducks and shout into the echoing mausoleums. I hope the spirits are happy to hear the laughter of my children. Maybe they hear my nervous steps trying to navigate the line between the graves. Maybe they want us to hold our breath so that we can understand the quiet of the other side.