I Was Racially Profiled at Banana Republic

I naively thought I would never (personally) experience much racism despite being Hispanic. Yes, I know what the state of the country is. Yes, I know that immigration is a hot topic amongst the Hispanic community but it hasn't been a source of stress for me as it has for other people since I was born here, both of my parents became naturalized citizens decades ago, one of my big brothers became a naturalized citizen about a decade ago, and the rest of my siblings (brothers and sister) are all legal residents. I had experienced some racism online -- only on Twitter, really -- but I chalked it up as trolls being trolls and moved on.

As some of you longtime readers (and personal friends) may remember, I nearly signed a contract with an agency when I was 20 (that I walked away from); I think the term "racially ambiguous" describes why they were so keen on me. Most of the time, people who meet me for the first time don't know what race I am. Sometimes they'll stand there in shock when they hear me speaking fluent Spanish, usually because they (apparently) assume that I'm white, Asian, or mixed but not 100% Hispanic. I'm fair skinned (with a hint of an olive complexion) most of the year since the sun and I aren't friends (I have a sun sensitivity). I tan (and burn... and freckle) easily when I'm out in the sun for a long time without sunscreen or any covering. Basically, I've had some superficial things work out in my favor that has kept some comments at bay.

Yesterday, Mom and I went on an uncharacteristic shopping adventure. It's uncharacteristic because I honestly hate clothes shopping. I "window shop" online before I go to the stores because I'm an introvert and an HSP who doesn't like crowds. Since I've been able to maintain my normal weight range after being underweight for a long time (party time! lol), I can start purchasing clothing that fits. That means I need to update my wardrobe.

We went to about 8 stores or so. We spent hours trying on dresses, skirts, and blouses... and I spent a lot of time driving from place to place. Since I'm nearly 5'8" and the trend is short dresses, it was so hard for me to find anything that was knee length (or, at least, not more than 2 or so inches above my knee), that fit, and that didn't look depressingly drab. You ladies who tend to dress modestly know what I'm talking about. Mom has the opposite problem at 5' even; everything is too long on her and the petite section doesn't offer much she can work with.

The second-to-last store we went to was Banana Republic since I'd seen a blouse online that I liked and I wanted to try in the store. Yes, I know it's more expensive than your average mall store but I tend to go for stores and brands that cost a bit more but will last for longer. Ann Taylor and, its sister store, Loft, have been my go-to stores since I graduated from high school. Since I'm a bit older and I heard that BR's clothing was a bit expensive but that it lasts a long time, I thought I'd check it out.

After finding a great blouse at Loft (an addition to the 10-item wardrobe idea I got from The Daily Connoisseur's Madame Chic series), we walked over to BR. A really nice guy greeted us. "Welcome to Banana Republic!" he said. We thanked him. I immediately started looking at the clothing at the front of the store. A woman (who I'm assuming was the manager) came over, greeted us, and let us know that everything was 30% off and that it was the last day of the sale. We thanked her as I went to look at some blouses. She hung around a bit and said that we should let her know if we needed anything. I thanked her as I kept browsing.

As we started moving towards the front-middle portion of the store, Mom pointed out a blouse that would've been a great addition to my closet while I was checking out the cardigans (cardigans are a staple in my personal style). I tried to find one my size. "Let me know if you want me to start a dressing room for you," I heard the saleswoman telling me as soon as I picked up my size from off the rack. "I'm good for now, thank you," I told her.

I walked further into the middle of the store, seeing a dress that I really liked. It was floor length but perfect for the summer -- light and breezy. I looked at the price. A bit more than I would've normally paid for a dress but it was on sale and I could see myself wearing it for years to come.

"I can take that into a room for you if you'd like," the woman again said.

I turned around, surprised. "Oh. No, thank you. I'm still browsing," I answered with a smile.

"Can I, at least, take that shirt you're holding to the back and get a room started for you?" she persisted in a tone that was making me uncomfortable.

"No, thank you," I reiterated. "I like to hold on to things while I try to make up my mind if I want to try them on."

It's true. It's a habit I picked up. As someone who worked in retail (at Wet Seal) while in high school (and for months after HS graduation), I know what a hassle it is to have someone take a ton of clothing into the fitting room and then have them walk away with none of it, leaving a mess in the room. If I like the item I'm carrying after 5 minutes, I'll try it on. If not, I'll return it to where I found it, making it easier for salespeople to keep their store in order.

I walked across the area I was, looking at the bright colored blouses. I noticed some girls were taking pictures of the clothing and I was surprised that no one was saying anything to them. Many stores frown upon that (again, saying it from experience). I noticed the saleswoman seemed to be following us, folding and putting away clothing wherever we were, keeping an eye on us. "Huh," I said but tried not to think about it. I had been feeling uncomfortable since the last time she'd spoken to us but I tried to shrug it off, thinking that maybe I was being paranoid.

As we got to the back of the store, it was obvious that she was following us. "Look at this. It's a pretty dress but the material is too heavy for the summer weather," I said to my mother in Spanish. This time, the woman was only a foot away from me. It seemed she didn't like that I was speaking in Spanish. Again, she mentioned taking the blouse from me and getting a room started for me. I glanced her way and the look on her face was unnerving. I, again, said, "no, thank you." I tried to browse some more but I just couldn't continue.

"Let's go," I said to Mom.

"Aren't you going to try on that blouse?" she asked.

I shook my head. "I don't think I want it anymore."

We walked out and went to two more stores before calling it a day. Although the day had been pleasant, that experience had been really uncomfortable. As Mom and I got talking, it became clear that we had been racially profiled. Though there were several other customers in the store, the woman seemed to be fixated on just us, following us where we went. I mentioned to Mom that I felt like she was constantly on top of us, like a helicopter hovering over the scene of a crime. She felt the same way. She's more perceptive than I am so she started on her own impressions, which echoed mine. She didn't bother any of the other customers, all of whom were (that we could see) white.

It took me a while to accept that it had been racial profiling. I looked back at my retail training... at seeing racial profiling for myself... at what we had experienced that afternoon. I tend to look for the best in people and tend to not jump to conclusions but I couldn't come up with convincing enough excuses. The facts were there, even if I was trying to deny them.

I broke my Lenten Twitter fast/promise to put up a (somewhat) snarky comment and tagged Banana Republic in the tweet when I finally accepted what had happened. It was done partly out of anger and partly to help others who've experienced racial profiling to speak up. It is NOT okay to do these things. If they had wanted to simply make sure I wasn't going to put anything in the one bag from Loft that I was carrying, I would've gladly left it at the front for them to look after while I shopped.

Mom is one of the hardest working people I know... and one of the most honest ones as well. She's found hundreds of dollars at work but she's never kept it to herself; always giving it to the administrator at the hospital where she works at. In fact, at another store we went to before BR, Mom was carrying a couple of bags (she had a more successful trip than I did) but stayed at the front of the store so they wouldn't think she was stealing. We left those bags in the car before going into BR and I was carrying only ONE small bag.

I would never even contemplate stealing anything. I can't even take free pamphlets without double checking that it's okay to take them and making sure I don't have to make a donation. I kept the blouse at shoulder length, another habit I picked up post retail work. I know what I can afford and what I can't and I would never venture into a store if I knew I couldn't purchase anything. I'm not even a big shopper, preferring to shop only one one item has been worn so much that I need to replace it.

The color of my skin (I'm a little tan right now; we've been having warm, sunny SoCal weather), my race, nor what language I speak should make a person think the worst of me. I've forgiven the woman and I pray that she sees the error in her ways. Being Hispanic doesn't mean I'm going to steal. It doesn't mean that I can't afford the overpriced (yes, I said it) clothing that I know will last a long time. It doesn't mean anything except that my parents and my ancestors came from both Europe (Spain and possibly Ireland) and the Americas (Mexico).

I'm not bitter. I'm not angry (that lasted a full 5 minutes yesterday). I don't want anything from Banana Republic nor am I expecting even an apology from them. In fact, in their reply to my tweet, they simply told me to contact customer service without an apology; the first time I've ever received a tweet without an added apology from a big brand. Look at their twitter feed; they've apologized to nearly everyone else but not my tweet. I'm disappointed and sadden that this happened but I'm very grateful that I've managed to go 31 years without anything of the sort happening before. I'm lucky which, unfortunately, is something others can't say. Be kind to one another. Don't assume the worst in others. There's enough hatred in this world; don't contribute to it.

Anyway, I should really go try to study for the third anatomy and audiology exam that I have coming up on Saturday. Prayers appreciated since it's a big one. :)

I hope y'all are having a lovely week thus far!

As always, thanks for reading and God bless! :D

My Music Nerdiness and My Spiritual Life Aren't Friends

Music was my first "real" love. I'm pretty sure I danced before I learned to properly walk. As a little gal (maybe 3-4 years old), I used to strum a chord on Mom's guitar (hidden in one of our closest) and then run away, laughing at the mischief I was causing while simultaneously giddy about the "music" I was making.

As I grew up, music became my thing. I sang in school choir through middle school. I participated in a talent show my first (and only) year at a public high school where I sang. I grew up learning how to dance a number of different styles. I learned how to play a bit of the piano but the guitar was always my preferred instrument so I learned as a teenager and still play to this day. I was even majoring in Jazz Studies before I switched to Religious Studies for my first Bachelor's degree. When my father died, music was the thing that helped me through the first couple of weeks. I admittedly stopped playing the guitar for about 5 years following his death -- part of that comes from remembering how he promised to buy me a new guitar right before he passed away -- I eventually returned to it because music and playing (and singing and dancing) is a very big part of who I am and how I express myself.

Although I didn't choose my confirmation saint like most people do -- I was confirmed when I was 13, in Mexico where you don't choose confirmation saints -- it's no surprise that I ended up adopting St. Cecilia as my confirmation saint (I was confirmed on her feast day, at a church named after her). Patroness of music for a music-obsessed gal? It makes total sense.

I can tell you which songs and artists I liked growing up. My first purchased tape was a compilation of classical music. My first purchased CD (with my own money) was Jimi Hendrix's greatest hits. I still remember how I fell in love with jazz after listening to the version of "Summertime" sung by Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong when I was a teenager and how it remains one of my favorite songs.

Listening to "You and I vs. the Sun" by Phantom Planet and "California" by Rufus Wainwright reminds me of my freshman year of college, especially the drive to Santa Monica College on the 10 freeway. I used to take my guitar and play Jack Johnson's "Sitting Waiting Wishing" and Ben Kweller's "Walk On Me" in between classes. During my favorite (and last) year at Santa Monica College -- before my reversion -- "So Says I" by The Shins and "My Favourite Game" by The Cardigans were on heavy rotation. I think I might still have the CDs on which I burned the playlists to listen on my Discman (I was late to join the iPod/mp3 party).

Most of my friends have songs associated with them; songs that remind me of them in one way or another and vice versa. The four songs my closest friends associate with me (that I've been told of) are "Rhapsody in Blue" by George Gershwin, "Sing Sing Sing" by Benny Goodman, "Georgia on My Mind' by Ray Charles, and "Dream a Little Dream (of Me)" by Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong -- especially that last one because it suits my old fashioned romantic personality.

"My Sweet Lord" by George Harrison reminds me of the last time Dad and I drove out to Santa Monica (for a farmer's market); "The Universal" by Blur reminds me of the time I accompanied him to the hospital to get a device surgically placed on his arm for his chemotherapy prior to his passing. I was listening to Adele's version of "Make You Feel My Love" a few days before he died so I can't listen to it or Charlie Chaplin's "Smile" (link is to Nat King Cole's version) without crying because they remind me of his last week alive.

I can tell you that MuteMath's self-titled album was on heavy rotation when I reverted and how "Chaos" was my jam during that time... how I played Hunter Hayes' self-titled debut album when I wrote my senior thesis as an undergrad... how "All The Pennies" and "Mi Ancla," both by Mindy Gledhill, have been my most played songs in the past week. (side note: here's also the English version of "Mi Ancla" -- named "Anchor." The lyrics are sweeter in Spanish.) This doesn't even scratch the surface when it comes to my taste in music; not even close. Sure, I'm mainly a jazz and classical gal but, oh, I like most of it. Oh, and if you want to get vinyl at Hollywood's Amoeba Music, you take me and I'll find what you're looking for in record speed. A friend from college and I once went to get her fella blues music and we were out of there in no times because I know what you need and where to get it. I mean, you get the point -- music nerd: party of one.

It's amazing how so many memories -- good and bad -- are attached to music. As I was reflecting on this, I realized that there's only one area of my life that doesn't have music attached to it -- and it's my spiritual life. Like I said, I remember becoming a big MuteMath fan around the time of my reversion and the first Chronicles of Narnia soundtrack reminds me of Dad driving me to confession (I love that soundtrack) but that's about it. I love Franz Schubert's "Ave Maria" when I hear it played at weddings and I cry every time I hear it. I've also often dreamt that myself singing it. That's about it.

I love Gregorian chant and have played it when I study or pray. I love hymns. I adore the choir at the parish Mom and I go to when we attend Latin Mass. Such beautiful music... but, for some reason, I can't associate it with any particular time of my life. It's like my spiritual life and my music nerdiness can't find a happy medium; they can't coexist for some reason. I think it might because my spiritual life and, really, my faith is more sacred to me. Yes, I love music (and probably more than the average person) but it's something else. I know God is not constricted to our timeline -- that He stands outside of time -- but is it possible that our spiritual life is also like that? Does anyone else have this issue? I'd love to hear if you have because I can't make sense of this.

Anyway, this was just a random blog post with a random thought that popped into my head and had to be let out into the world so it's not bugging me when I'm trying to study. I have an exam on Saturday so I really need to concentrate on that. :)

Alright, I'm going to see what mischief I can get into... errr... I mean... what productive and totally not procrastinating things I can do. ;)

I hope you all had a lovely weekend! As always, thanks for reading and God bless! :D

Obsessed with Youth and Beauty?

Although my birthday is still (exactly) 2 months away, I've been thinking about what I want to do to celebrate... and, apparently, it's weird to see because I shouldn't be excited. Because I'm turning 32. Because that means I'm, like, super old. The horror! lol.

I've always enjoyed celebrating my birthday even though I have a track record of absolutely terrible birthday celebrations. The only good ones (that I can remember) have been 18, 20, 24, and 25. Seriously, that's it.

I went on a spontaneous lunch date with a guy I liked when I was 18. (side note: he's been the only Mormon I've ever dated. That itself is a whole 'nother story.) He didn't even know it was my birthday because I hadn't mentioned it but, boy, he was a gentleman. Oh, and we also went to Disneyland around that time.

I celebrated 20 at Disneyland with my (then) two best friends, one of whom is still one of my best friends to this day. It was the first time I'd ever stayed at Disneyland late enough to enjoy the fireworks (save for grad night). It was magical. A few days later we (the gals and a couple of my best guy friends) met up at my favorite diner where we took over the back room and had a blast.

 A day before my 24th birthday, my father gave me the best birthday present when he returned to the Church after being away for over 40 years. Nothing has topped it as the best birthday present ever, except, you know, my mom giving me life.

25 was my first birthday without my father (who died nearly a month and a half after I'd turned 24) and I had so many friends and neighbors who came over for a potluck birthday. Our apartment was bursting at the seams with so many lovely people. I'm sure I had some pretty awesome birthday parties as a kid but I don't remember that far back. Other than that, I have the worsting time.

It doesn't help that my birthday usually lands around Memorial Day (if not on Memorial Day) and right around the time everyone goes away for the summer. Trying to organize something is always a nightmare for this social introvert. I kind of want to do another potluck-type thing, like I did for my 25th birthday. A very casual, chill thing with some friends, maybe some of my brothers (if they're in the area; I never know with them), and neighbors. Quality time is my love language so, you know, that would be the best gift; having my friends here for my birthday. I've yet to solidify -- or even commit to -- the plans but, at the moment, I'm thinking I may just do that.

Anyway, the point of this not to talk about my birthday but about how a lot of people think it's weird that I actually enjoy getting older. I don't know if it's because I was blessed with good genes or because I don't quite understand the obsession with staying young.

I will admit that I have my moments where I go "I actually feel old right now" but those are very rare. Most of the time I'm a sort of bouncy (yes, I did just use that adjective to describe myself) nerd, trying to get through this great adventure that we call life. The only times I look at my age in comparison to how old someone else is is when a (much) young(er) man decides he's interested and I have to say "you, do know I'm *insert number of years* older than you, right?" No, I haven't robbed cradle; I'm simply stating that younger guys dig me. lol. Other than that, age is not an issue with me.

Perhaps it's because my mother taught me to be proud of my age; proud of who I am. She's turning 63 this year (and doesn't care who knows; she'll tell you) and has more energy than I do! lol. She looks like she's about a decade younger as well. She embraces her age and who she is. It's been a wonderfully empowering thing to witness growing up (and continuing to 'grow up'). She doesn't see age as an unfair life sentence like many people do. She isn't rushing out to buy the latest beauty product to make her look younger. She does like to look nice and likes to take care of herself but not to the point of vanity; more like respecting the body God has given you and taking care of it to the best of your ability.

Ever since I've hit my 30s (so, since May 30, 2015, lol), I've noticed the growing trend of "I'm in my 30s now! Noooo! I'm old! I'm haggard! No man will want me!" That and the ads have become increasingly annoying, featuring younger and younger looking women touting the miracle of whatever facial cream will make them 10 years younger. There's so much emphasis on youth and beauty. I honestly don't get it. Is it one of those "the grass is always greener on the other side" deals?

Well, no. I take that back. It's quite clear that it's society's fault for pushing youth and beauty as the ultimate things that we women should strive for. Going back to the ads, how many can you count during a commercial break? In magazines (oy, women's magazines are the worst!)? And how often do we fall for that lie that our self-worth and happiness are contingent upon how young and pretty we look? Lies, my friends. Of course, they're going to push these products (many of which don't work or will only work for a limited time)! They're companies who want to make money off of your insecurities! They have marketing teams who do research and go for the things that make us so insecure, which, (unfortunately) for women has become getting older and not looking like you're just out of high school or college.

There's beauty in growing older. I firmly believe that every wrinkle and line that appears is a story about growing in wisdom and that itself is beautiful. My mother works in a convalescent hospital so I'm used to seeing older women who light up when you visit them; always ready to tell you a story. Have you ever sat with an older stranger and been completely absorbed in their stories of things they've lived that you'll never experience yourself? That is a thing of beauty. Women who are "old and wrinkled" who've cared for others -- whether biological or adopted children or simply other people -- are beautiful. Women who've renounced the world and have devoted their lives to praying for others and doing God's will in cloistered convents are beautiful. Women who've become mothers... consecrated virgins... religious sisters... all beautiful. You men who are dedicated fathers, brothers, priests, monks also get a shout out for bringing beauty to this world in your own ways.

I know some people will say "well, yeah, you look like you're in your early 20s. Of course, it's not a big deal to you." Yes, I do look younger than I am but, in the past year or two, I've noticed that I'm finally losing some of that "baby face" and I'm starting to look closer to my age... and that's totally fine. In fact, it's been great to see as I look back on pictures I've taken over the past couple of years. I can tell you that I've embraced the crow's feet that are popping around my eyes because they tell others that I've had many good laughs, some that have ended in tears from laughing so hard. That means I've had a lot of joy in my life, even in the middle of all the crummy things I've dealt with. Same goes for the laugh lines around my mouth. I actually think they complement my dimples. ;) Yes, that was said half-jokingly, half-seriously. lol.

We, women, need to remind ourselves that our beauty comes from within. No, it's not a bad thing to want to look nice and to take care of ourselves. That's, as I said earlier, simply respecting and wanting to honor the bodies God has given us. It's not bad to want to look nice for our significant others. I like dressing up and looking nice as well. I'm pretty laid back (read: low maintenance) most of the time but I do like putting an effort for special occasions (and Mass). That doesn't mean that I'm doing it to fluff my ego or vanity.

Ladies, when you see a friend (or even a stranger) doing something that emphasizes their inner beauty, say so. Gentlemen, do the same. Don't allow society to tell you that your self-worth depends on how pretty you look. Don't like age dictate what you can and can't do (within reason... that was for you in the peanut gallery. You know who you are. lol). I've seen/heard older gentlemen in their 70s-90s talking about beautiful their wives are... women who, by society's standards, are way past their prime and whose wrinkles are an indication that they are "worthless." I've even heard one particular gentleman talk about how his wife (both in their 80s) was more beautiful now than when she was in her 20s! We need to build each other up, not to the point of vanity but to the point where we can ignore the ridiculous societal norms of what youth and beauty are.

Ultimately, none of this is going to matter. Looks aren't everything. Some people look incredible and have hearts as black as night. Some people look (as our society would put it) homely and have amazing hearts full of love and joy. Have you ever met someone who wasn't conventionally beautiful but their personalities made them even more beautiful? Case in point, y'all. Yes, yes... it's cliché to say that what matters is on the inside but, um, hi, it's a cliché for a reason. When we're done with our journey on this earth, I'm pretty sure God is not going to care about what we looked like but will care how we lived my life and how we served others. Celebrate your birthdays, no matter what the number is! Enjoy life and don't worry about others think of you.

I'm going to leave y'all with this:

"Your adornment should not be an external one: braiding the hair, wearing gold jewelry, or dressing in fine clothes, but rather the hidden character of the heart, expressed in the imperishable beauty of a gentle and calm disposition, which is precious in the sight of God." (1 Peter 3:3-4)

And now that I've written that, I'm going to try to finish my research paper. It's due tomorrow but I think I can turn it in tonight. After this, I have a big exam coming up next week so I may not blog again until next week. We shall see. :D

I hope y'all are having a lovely week thus far. Friday of freedom is almost here! We can do it! lol.

As always, thanks for reading and God bless! :D

My Heart is Bursting with Joy!

"Oh no," I sighed as I looked at my mom. "I'm starting to feel sick... and the physical pains are worsening. My back and my legs are starting to hurt and cramp up."
"Do you want us to stay home?" she asked.
"No. I'll just take generic Tylenol and an extra water bottle in case I need them. We have to go..."

That's how our trip to a local parish for Mass and confession began. Two months was enough... I needed to go to Mass and confession. I've been feeling physically off for most of this past week -- falling asleep often and having weird physical pains -- but I was determined to go. After reading The Benedict Option by Rod Dreher and starting Introduction to the Devout Life by St. Francis de Sales this week, I felt even more courage than usual to, at least, attempt the drive.

"Let's try for confession and we'll stay for Mass if I feel okay," I told Mom.

We got in line half an hour later than usual and there a couple of people in front of us. The priest was running late and we would only have half an hour before confession time ended. I thought there wouldn't be enough time for all of us to get into the confessional, especially since we were last in line. "It's okay," I reminded myself. "At least I'm here and I'm trying."

As we waited for the priest to show up, the youngest daughter of the woman in front of us (in line) came to my pew (we all sat in pews while we waited) and gave me the biggest smile. She was maybe 2 years old. She would go back to her Mom and would wander around the church with a sibling trailing after her but she came back to my pew with the biggest smile a couple more times before her family left. There was something reflecting from her little face that struck me. It was a sense of overwhelming joy. I even thought to myself "it's almost as I'm seeing God's happiness through her little face; as if He were showing me that He's happy that I'm here."

Since I had a long list of things to confess -- things I had somehow remembered from my years away from the Church; big things that I don't think I ever confessed but needed to from when I was 18-20 years old -- I had everyone in line go before me. Though I knew there was a chance I wouldn't go in but I didn't want them to miss out because of the time I might be in the confessional.

I obviously won't say what I confessed nor what the priest said but let's just say that I wept. I cried because I felt the weight and the shame of my sins and then I cried thinking about God's love and mercy and how I had been forgiven, unworthy as I may be. The priest said something things that I could've easily imagined God saying to me through Him. Fear would be defeated and replaced by courage and trust, both gifts from God.

Though it wasn't our preferred Latin Mass, we still stayed for the Saturday Vigil Mass in case we can't make it to Latin Mass tomorrow. Yes, I'm going to try to go to that Mass as well. Oh, what a gift of tears I was given; I couldn't stop myself from tearing up during Mass. In the middle of the tears, I had an interesting observation and thought pop into my mind. As I looked up at the crucifix at the altar, I noticed how pale crucified Christ looked in comparison to all the other saint statues around the parish. The thought "He looks just like me; pale and weak. Yet it is through our weakness that we find strength" came into my mind, completely unprompted, and it surprised me. It's something I will ponder the rest of this weekend.

Though I wasn't able to receive the Eucharist (the last time I tried a regular gluten host, I was in physical pain for about a week or two; I have to wait to go to Latin Mass where they give low-gluten hosts for Celiacs), I made an act of spiritual communion in the pew while Mom went to receive the Eucharist. Cue more tears. lol.

My heart is bursting with joy! I'm grateful for the chance to go to confession and Mass. I'm grateful for the friends who prayed that I would go to Mass... and prayed that I would make it through both this evening. I'm grateful for the gift of courage that I was given, despite being in actual physical pain as we were leaving the house. I'm grateful that I felt well enough to make it through both confession and Mass, though I felt a bit off in line and then broke out in a sweat that made me feel like I was weak and being slightly suffocated prior to receiving absolution for my sins.

I don't think I'll ever be able to attend Mass or confession the same again. In a weird way, I'm grateful that I didn't go to Mass or confession for those two months because it made me appreciate the beauty of the sacrament and Mass in a way that I had forgotten. I'll never take either of them for granted again.

Anyway, that's it for now. I have a couple more lecture videos and some reviewing to do before I attempt this week's exam. The exam is due on Tuesday but I hope to do it either tonight or tomorrow night so I can finish my research paper (which due on Friday) on time as well. :)

I hope you all have a blessed Laetare Sunday tomorrow (or today if you're in Europe or read this on Sunday). :)

As always, thanks for reading and God bless! :D

Remembering an Inspiring Professor

Before I get into this post, I wanted to say that, yes, I know the blog post from earlier this week wasn't posted to either Facebook or Twitter. The applets were down. If you want to read it please click here: Belated Revelations.

I am currently cleaning out the inbox of an email account I've had since I was in high school (we're talking circa 2001-2002; yes, I'm that old, lol). I've gone through emails from 2003 through 2009, the last only two weeks after my father's death. The email I opened was of one of my favorite professors I ever had. The email was a response to my letting him know that I was going to take him for an online course (which was still customary at West Los Angeles College in 2009).

He replied: "Wow, I knew that I knew your name!!!!!!!!!!!! This is an entirely online class so we won't see each other, or you won't have to put up with my jokes!!!!!! Looking forward to hearing what you have to say about this course as we take it online!!!! See you online soon.
Mr. Habel."

He was my professor for two English courses during my freshman year of college at Santa Monica College (in 2004-2005) and, years later (Fall 2009), I took him for an Interpersonal Communications course at West Los Angeles College. I took easy "filler"/elective courses at community college during the 2009-2010 school year because my father had died only a month prior to the start of the Fall semester and I didn't want to start my (now) alma mater and possibly waste $40k (that was the tuition and fees cost per year when I was an undergrad) not knowing if I would have the mental and emotional capacity to get through the entire school year since my father's death had just happened. Thankfully, I was able to make it through the entire school year (arguably my favorite of my entire academic career because of the courses I took) in one piece and with my highest GPA ever.

When I was signing up for courses, I saw that Mr. Habel was teaching a speech course at WLAC. I'd loved his English classes so it was a no-brainer to take it. Even though the English classes started at 6:30 a.m. (yes, you read that correctly), Mr. Habel was always so kind to us (there were maybe 10 of us total) and he was one of the most encouraging and optimistic professors I've been blessed to have. His class wasn't hard nor was the material tedious; he chose the right material to challenge us without making it seem like it was a challenge. He truly cared that we all succeeded and never in a condescending way.

Opening up that email brought back all those lovely memories of his courses and what a great professor he was. I decided to look him up -- to see if he was still teaching -- when I encountered news I wasn't expecting: Mr. Lowell Habel had passed away on May 27, 2015, only 3 days before my 30th birthday. I teared up. In fact, I'm still tearing up as I type this out. It's been almost 2 years since his passing but the news is fresh to me.

I'm going to take this opportunity to not only say what a great human being he was but also to remind everyone how little acts can change and inspire us for the best. Mr. Habel cared deeply for his students. I saw it in the three semesters I was his student. He was kind, funny (oh, those jokes...), and he tried to help us with things that were even outside of the material/course he was teaching. 12+ years after I took my first course with him, his optimism and encouragement still resonate with me. I wonder if he knew how many students he helped. Most of us begin college worried about doing well and he was the professor who helped make that transition easier for me. In fact, he made me feel like I was competent enough to not only do well and succeed in college but beyond, whatever career path I would choose.

I'm about to pray the Rosary and the chaplet of Divine Mercy (it's the 3 o'clock hour, as I type this, in L.A.). I will remember him in my prayers and will also make sure that I try to honor his memory by being encouraging to others like he had been to all of us.

Rest in peace, Mr. Habel... and thank you for everything.