Today my men are on my mind.  How much I love them and how grateful I am for them.  The Daddy who worked 18-hour days to fill my lunchbox, who laboured side by side with my powerful and gracious mother to mold and correct and scold and protect me.  My two brothers – one by blood and two in love.  The men who have come alongside me, offered humour, power, hugs, and friendship as pure as the driven snow.   The mentors who have given me chances and helped me grow in my career and in my life.

My Godfather let me out in traffic this morning.  He didn’t see that it was me but the loving power of his presence hung in the air of the morning.  Another friend squeezed my hand and winked at me with a shared understanding as I walked to the breakfast table.  Text messages, hugs, words of encouragement, scoldings, and advice from the men that are in my life have been little building blocks of a supporting fortress of testosterone and muscle that only a man can create.  And I am grateful.

I am convinced that every little girl should have the love of good men.  Every little girl needs a good father to worship and to set her standards by and her expectations high for her life.  Every little girl needs a brother to fight with, to tell on, to fight to the death for, and to be protected and loved by.  Every little girl needs to be taught the dangers of relationships with men but to be balanced with the knowledge of how to dig through the negatives and get to the core of the amazing people walking around in male form.  She should be encouraged to remember that there are pillars of masculinity that reflect a part of God’s own image even as there are those who are evil.

This weekend we buried one such pillar.  An uncle I visited awhile back in this blog.  This morning I pause in his honour and in honour of the others like him who have been the hand of God in the lives of the little girls and big girls around them.



In advance I must apologize for my posts over the next few days. They will be short and entered by blackberry as if my spelling isn’t naturally atrocious as it is! Not to mention that for the next few days I will be totally immersed in my native tongue – Spanglish. So please forgive me if I talk about la musica en the radio or the ojos de my doctor at the universidad. It cannot be helped. I am what I am and when in Rome… I mean Miami.

Joining the clouds on our island airlines and flying over other islands and the keys has never been more liberating. This time I was flying with my parents – our first trip to Miami all together without other siblings since I was a little girl. As we rented the car and complained to the car company about the smell of cigarette smoke in it (bloody South American tourists) memories come back to me like photographs. I see my young parents themselves in their twenties singing in the front seat from my booster seat in the back. I remember being excited about the baby in Mummy’s belly as she would walk me to the jewish pre-school from married student halls. I expected that baby boy to pop out ready to play hide and seek I really did! It is bringing back memories of missing Daddy as he left to go home to work, of parrot jungle and the metro and napping in the window spaces at the synagogue. Even then I was learning with interest other people’s stories, cultures, hearts.

It all comes back, memories in Spanglish.