A Scare, Chocolate…and a Glimmer of Hope

We were in the kitchen and I was figuratively standing high up on my soapbox, espousing my views on same-sex marriage and why it’s absolute bullshit that we don’t have marriage equality in 2011. I was preaching to the choir, of course, but I didn’t care. An evening of listening to cable news shows on MSNBC had me unhinged, as usual.

Then, all of a sudden, it hit me like it often does out of nowhere. It was too quiet.

WHERE WAS JUDE?

Ed and I both ran to his bedroom. Not there. I ran out to the backyard. Our front and back gates were closed.

We weren’t quite in full panic mode yet but we were getting close. I avoided Ed’s eyes. I knew it would be like looking into my own.

I went back to Jude’s room and checked his closet, a favorite hiding place. Nope. Not there.

I ran through the house with Ed on my heels. I opened the front door and ran outside.

“Was the door locked?” Ed yelled behind me with fear in his voice.

“No!” I shouted back. We try to always remember to lock the deadbolt. Jude hasn’t figured out how to open it yet.

“No as in it wasn’t locked?” he repeated.

“The door was not locked.”

We looked right and left for a tiny figure in the darkness. Our street was empty except for the constant activity that emanates from the girl’s clubhouse next door. I tried to contain the fear that gripped me. Stay calm. We’ll find him. After all, how fast can he run? Actually, he can run pretty fast for a little boy. And he knows the beach is just a short distance away. But in the dark?

I stopped conversing with myself and headed left, toward the clubhouse. The girls and moms must have seen a crazy lady headed toward them. I turned to the sane moms and asked with a voice tinged with more than a hint of desperation if they had seen a little boy running around. How little, one asked.

Three, I answered. And I kept running somewhat aimlessly, not knowing which way to turn. Which way was the right way. Several of the moms quickly sprung into action. What’s his name, one mom yelled into the darkness.

"Jude! His name is Jude!" I screamed.

“He has autism!” Ed yelled.

“Did you look under the beds?” one of them asked. Good question. No, we hadn’t but under our beds was not his hiding place of choice. He liked closets. And then I remembered this morning he had managed to climb into a large kitchen drawer. Closets and drawers.

Ed rushed back inside. I followed.

“Ana, I found him!”

Ed was holding our son tight, head buried in the little boy's neck. He wore the anguished look of a father who had gone into battle and had emerged victorious – but barely. Meanwhile, Jude seemed mighty pleased with himself.

Hmm, was that a smudge of chocolate around his mouth?

“He was hiding in the closet. He left behind some clues,” Ed said wearily, nodding to the area in front of our bedroom closet. A few metallic chocolate wrappers were strewn about. Jude had found the bag of chocolates I had just placed on my desk a few hours earlier.

The kid didn’t miss much.

After our hearts went back to beating at a somewhat normal rate, I wondered if this episode was a peek into our future. Eloping is common with autistic kids. We had already experienced it with Jude a little bit. Every time he ran out the door, however, one of us were just a few steps behind. I could jump over three of the four porch steps now without falling over myself.

And, of course, there were the stories. Just a few weeks ago, a mom was telling me how her non-verbal, autistic daughter had walked out of the house and had gone missing for a very long 10 minutes. A nice stranger found her.

“Thank God Seal Beach is a fairly safe area, but still,” she had said. “It was scary.”

I thought of our doors and how eventually Jude will learn how to open all of them easily. We’ve talked about installing higher latches, but would it ever be enough?

Then, there’s Richard. Not matter how much we nag him my teenage son he’s not the best when it comes to closing our four gates in the backyard. We try to impress upon him what’s a stake, but like most teenagers, he thinks it’s not that big a deal.

It’s been nine months since Jude has been diagnosed. There are good days and bad days. Lately, it seems like his behavior’s been getting worse. He’s more violent, more aggressive and more maladaptive. He spits out his milk, squishes his food until it’s barely recognizable and does things that, forgive me for saying this, are just weird.

I thought I was done with the denial stage but it recently flared up again. I find myself wishing he was just normal.

I can’t count the times Ed’s gotten his face bloodied. I get bit, pinched, punched and kicked on a regular basis, too.

But at the same time, I’ve never known a more charming, adorable little boy. Jude’s charisma is already legendary among those who’ve met him. His smile is so infectious that at times it’s easy to pretend there is nothing wrong with him. That it’s not so bad. That we’re really just exaggerating about his neurological disorder. That he's high-functioning and therefore, OK.

But as much as I’d like to believe he’s just a regular kid, he’s not. He has special, unique, and hopefully, not insurmountable challenges.

As his mom, I often wonder if I have the patience to deal with what lies ahead. I honestly don’t know. I want to be that patient and saintly Mother Teresa character, but instead I find myself getting angry, frustrated and impatient with his lack of progress. I feel less than motherly. And yes, sometimes I even feel sorry for myself.

Then something happens and he gives me a big flash of hope. Like tonight.

I was reading him a bedtime story about Winnie the Pooh while he sat on my lap. At one point in the story he randomly mentions how one of the characters needs his mommy. It takes me by surprise because this seems to be a well-formulated, independent thought. Nowhere in the story was a mommy mentioned. That’s odd, but I go with it.

I ask him, “Do you need your mommy?” He looks me straight in the eyes and leans his head against my chest.

“Yup.”

Our Mysterious Journey Begins

Two weeks ago, we learned our two-and-a-half-year-old son Jude is on the Autism Spectrum. We had little idea of what autism even was but it sounded scary.

The image that came to my mind, at least, was of a non-verbal child rocking back and forth with a glazed look in their eyes. I think I had seen that in a movie long ago and it stuck with me, for some reason.

But that's not Jude.

Our little red-headed boy is affectionate and loves giving people hugs. Nothing is more fun for him than getting into a pillow fight, playing peek-a-boo, or getting tickled by me. His laugh is as infectious as his big smile. He is obsessed with trains, especially Thomas the Tank Engine. Several times a day we'll play the “I’m going to eat you up” game in which I pretend to eat his ears, fingers, tummy, toes. He’ll giggle like crazy and tell me unconvincingly “stop!”

It's one of his few words.

I remember our pediatrician saying he was an unusually sociable baby – at three months old. But I already knew that. I remember thinking that for a tiny little thing he had a pretty good sense of humor. We made each other laugh and I said to myself: this kid is smart.

My favorite part of the day is our morning snuggle session. I can sense the second he wakes up and I immediately break out into a smile as he toddles over from his room and climbs into our bed. I want him to always know that I am absolutely thrilled to see him in the morning – even if I’m exhausted because he had already woken up just a few hours before in the middle of the night, wide awake and ready to play. He'll be bouncing around at 3 a.m. while in my sleep-induced stupor I try to figure out what is going on and why is this child trying to hug and kiss me. Why can't he just settle down?

So it's not all fun and games.

Looking back, lots of things that we’ve experienced are just now starting to make sense. Jude can only say a handful of words but he understands everything that we say and in two languages, English and Portuguese. My mother speaks to him in Portuguese only.

What we thought was cute and quirky is a characteristic of autism. He likes to line up and stack his toys and trucks. He gets frustrated when they don't line up or stack just right. And speaking of, when he doesn't get his way, watch out! His temper tantrums are beyond what a “normal” two-year old exhibits. I know this. I have two teenagers and they were not even close to being this, er, exuberant.

Early on, daycare teachers would report behavioral issues. He once shoved a pregnant mother in the stomach – hard. He’s injured other children his age. I would worry the daycare he attends would kick him out. Can you imagine your kid getting kicked out of DAYCARE?

He also seems to have a penchant for taking his anger out on daddy if his demands aren’t met right away. It seems like Ed, my boyfriend, gets “attacked” on a daily basis. Jude will fling off his eyeglasses and start slapping and pummeling his face. It's tough to witness but we try to calm him down with patience and lots of love. Yesterday, from the back seat of my car, he threw a small toy train and it struck my arm. Thankfully, I wasn't moving but if I had it might've caused me to suddenly react.

Since he likes to throw ALL things, including food, we have to clear off half the dining room table for him to eat. I have two teenagers, one who lives with us, and it’s tough having any kind of quality conversation with Jude in our midst.

Jude also has had trouble falling asleep since day one. I nursed him for more than two years so we co-slept. When we tried to wean him and help him make the transition into his own bed, it was impossible and we couldn’t bear the hours of crying.

I took some advice I found in a Dr. Sears book. It will sound crazy but it has helped. And we've been doing it for months. Each night, Ed and I take turns lying next to Jude’s bed as the little boy restlessly tosses and turns himself to sleep. By the time he falls asleep, we're usually out too. I’ve been known to actually crash in the middle of tweeting on my iPhone. You've probably guessed. This is my night off.

And because we’re not spring chickens, we wake up with sore backs. You also might've guessed that Ed and I end up spending very little time with one another. On some days, I think it's a small miracle that we are still together after all that we've been through - with Jude and otherwise.

Many times, leaving the house in the mornings is a challenge because of Jude’s tantrums. Heck, most everything, i.e. cooking dinner, cleaning up around the house, taking a walk, going to the mall, giving him a bath, having a conversation with others, is challenging.

We've learned to adapt to many of his behaviors. There is no question that the wonderful and good and sweet in Jude FAR outweighs the challenging. This boy is the light of our lives and at this point we are hoping with all of our heart and soul that he is high on the spectrum and high-functioning.

We are grateful he’s already started therapy and is getting the help he needs. We are simultaneously sad and happy. I've despaired already that Jude may never have relationships, get married or live independently. Concerned that he may never really talk. Already pissed that he might experience bullying in school. Many autistic kids do, from what I’ve read. I’ve been down the bullying path before with my daughter, now 18. Let’s just say I’m not the kind of mother you’d want to tangle with.

In regards to his diagnosis, we’re happy we “caught” this fairly early but it could’ve happened earlier. Why are there no signs about what to look for in pediatrician’s offices? It seems like it's a public awareness campaign waiting to happen.

Either way, we were not prepared to hear the words: Jude shows red flags for autism. Then, two weeks later, Jude is on the autism spectrum.

When I told my older son Richard that his little brother has autism, he instantly made a judgment about the kind of kid that Jude would grow up to be. He was going to be one of those special ed kids. He challenged the notion that his little baby brother would ever be normal and do the things that he likes to do. Without knowing anything, I countered with, “Not true. You’ll see.” I then ran to the computer and began researching "autism and skateboarding, snowboarding and surfing." I learned that, indeed, autistic kids can surf, snowboard and skate.

That gives me lots of hope.

On November 13, 2010, we are going to walk for Jude and all kids who have autism during the Walk Now for Autism Speaks event at Anaheim Stadium. Please consider supporting us by walking with us or donating.

By participating in this event, you are helping to change the future for all who struggle with autism. By walking, you are getting us one step closer to finding what causes autism, how to prevent and treat it, and ultimately a cure so no family ever hears those words again.

Until then, we walk to find answers and raise awareness about the devastating toll that autism has had on families like ours.

I need you to help make tomorrow be about snowboarding lessons, school lunches and first words rather than therapy, doctor appointments and despair. Together, we will find the missing pieces for children like Jude.

My goal for Jude is that he gets off the autism spectrum completely. Maybe I'm still in denial. Who knows? Regardless, I know I will keep telling him that he can still be whatever he wants to be in life.

Go Jude!

Guess Who's Back in the Saddle?

It’s been over a year since I posted anything on my blog. It’s a cliché to say that a lot has happened this past year but I guess it’s true. Much has happened and as usual, I’ve been busy. I will not get into a summary of this past year’s events right now. Some of it is tres heavy so I will save that dark and dirty stuff for later. I’ve decided to quit being a chicken shit and actually write about some of the family crap that’s been weighing me down the past few years.

But not at the moment...

As for why I am resurrecting my writing career now, late at night, when I have a very long day tomorrow? I suppose the spirit moved me. What spirit, you may ask? Good question. Something is pushing me to write but I am not sure what. I’ve just gotta do it, you know? And I don’t give a rat’s ass if anyone reads this. I’m taking ownership of my blog and I ain’t gonna worry about what other people think anymore. I’m not going to care if my boss reads this, my sister, my 6th grade teacher, a former (crazy) boyfriend, a right-wing nut job or even my boyfriend now. I don’t care about commas, grammar or sentence structure. This blog is MINE.

So, this week marks my one year anniversary working at my alma mater as a communications manager. My days are long but I am grateful to be employed. So many people would love to be in my shoes, as tired as those shoes seem to get on a daily basis.

I commute from Seal Beach to downtown LA, dinner is never on time and we’re lucky if it includes a vegetable. I’ve started taking a master’s level strategic communications course and I’m thinking that undoubtedly makes me insane.

The kids help keep me insane, but happy, for the most part.

Jude is 2 ½ and although he’s a smart and very cute kid, he doesn’t talk much. At all. He says some words here and there but he’s just not talking. And that’s a concern for us and for his daycare teachers.

Hey, remind me to call the pediatrician tomorrow, will ya?

Another concern is his hyperactivity. Because I did not experience that level of, er, energy from my two older kids when they were little, it’s been giving me pause. He’s also a bit aggressive. He pushes people (like a pregnant mother at daycare today), throws toys, chairs, books and he gets into these moods where nothing can calm him down except, perhaps, my iPhone. He loves this game called Traffic Rush. I rue the day I gave him said phone in an attempt to calm him down from a tantrum. It worked but in the process, I created an addict.

A lot more to say about my angel baby but, alas, I’ll come back to this topic again soon.

Richard is a junior in high school now and his grades are poor, along with his attitude. Overall, he’s a great kid. He’s on his high school surf team and he usually comes home before his curfew. He’s probably not doing any hard drugs and he at least makes feeble attempts to clean his room but we just can’t seem to be able to communicate without getting into a yelling match.

He has his learner’s permit but I keep telling him he won’t see a driver’s license until he has a 3.0 GPA and a more respectful demeanor. I’m crossing my fingers for him but it’s really up to him. I desperately want him to go to college, specifically USC, where he could attend tuition-free as long as I'm working there. OK, can we say ch-ching in unison over that one? Anyway, I love that kid but these teen years are making me grayer.

Sigh…

Julia graduated from high school a few months back and she’s now in the process of doing, well, nothing much. She says she wants to take a two-year break before attending community college. Must be nice. She also wants to find a job waitressing but thus far, she hasn’t undertaken any major actions to actually land a job. Maybe she thinks prospective employers will come looking for her? Why not? I hear the job market is looking up. Not.

After taking a short vacation visiting her dad’s family in Tennessee, she came back wearing cowboy boots and a John Deere ball cap. She also bought her friend a mug with a Confederate flag on it. We talked about that and I expressed my disappointment. I explained to her the flag is racist. She said something about Southern Heritage and Southern Pride and mentioned going back to Tennessee next year to hang out with her grandma and do some work around the farm. Over my dead body will I let her go back so her dad’s family can finish brainwashing her!

Six months ago, she wanted to join a Buddhist monastery and shave her head. A year from now, who knows? Ah, she’s a kid and probably not much different from when I was her age. Scary thought. When I was her age, I signed up and joined the military. Maybe the farm isn't so bad. Gosh, has it been that long since I signed my life away for four years?

Another sigh…

And then there’s the significant other, Ed.

Oh gee, look at how late it is! I just noticed. Guess I should go to bed now. Like I said, I’ve got a long day ahead of me tomorrow. Seriously, I don't do well on little sleep.

Dumbass.

PHOTO: Ana Beatriz Cholo (left) and Colleen Kelly aboard the USS Simon Lake in 1989 head to France from Scotland. Cholo family photo.

In harm's way: Ana joins the Navy, c. 1987
By Ana Beatriz Cholo, Tribune staff reporter

*My story was published on Oct. 14, 2001 in the Chicago Tribune shortly after I came to work there. I was motivated by a sexist remark I noticed in a column written by a female colleague. She wrote: "We have prepared ourselves for sending our husbands and sons and brothers off to battle." Anyway, I came across an excellent New York Times story about how women in the military have been fighting in combat - heroically and quietly - in Iraq and Afghanistan since 2001.

Fourteen years ago, I enlisted in the Navy. Patriotism is not why I joined. That came slowly and later.

I was a 17-year-old high school graduate working as a phone operator at a hotel near Disneyland. I loved going to rock concerts and hanging out in L.A. on the weekends. Sheltered but still a little wild, I was neither particularly motivated nor armed with the kind of academic resume that would even get me into a state college.

I halfheartedly enrolled in community college and told everyone I was a film major (actually I was enrolled in History of Film 101). But the hassle from my parents was becoming unbearable and at the time, I was not disciplined enough for higher education. Freedom was being anywhere but home.

For that, I turned to the Navy.

It was on Monday, Sept. 28, 1987, that this self-professed pacifist walked into a recruiting office.

My first choice was the Air Force, but when I showed up, the air boys were out to lunch, according to the sailors dutifully manning their desks.

Two days later, I was sworn in. Three months later, I was showering with dozens of strange women in Orlando, learning the finer points of spit-shining boots and properly tucking in "hospital corners" during boot camp.

A newspaper columnist practically invited me to write this story on behalf of women in the military when she recently wrote, "We have prepared ourselves for sending our husbands and sons and brothers off to battle."

That struck me as odd.

More than 203,000 women serve on active duty and about 147,000 in the reserves. That is about 15 percent of the armed forces.

Since the Revolutionary War, women, as nurses, spies, pilots, cooks or disguised soldiers, have participated in every war this country has been involved in. But regardless of whether women worked on the front lines or behind them, there is little distinction between getting killed when someone pulls a
trigger and getting killed while carrying ammunition.

This circle of sisters has grown and proved to be a formidable force. These sisters have joined their brothers, and their differences have shaped the military. As a sailor recently said, "The infusion of outlooks gives us the balance we need to make the very best decisions about actions that can save or
end lives, countries, cultures and ideals."

In a letter to a newspaper in Virginia, the executive officer of the USS Cole responded to criticism that women aboard his ship did little to save their ship or shipmates in the wake of the terrorist bombing that killed 17 sailors and wounded 39 last year in Yemen.

Lt. Cmdr. Chris Peterschmidt mentioned Petty Officer 1st Class Margaret Lopez, who was hurt in the attack but thought to help another sailor escape through a crack in the hull. Ignoring her injuries and the fuel-slicked waters, she struggled back into the ship to search for more survivors. Then there's Lt.
Cmdr. Deborah Courtney, the ship's chief engineer, who worked non-stop for almost four days to stave off further disaster amid the tinderbox of water, fuel and live electric cables. And when they needed to man a .50-caliber machine gun on the flight deck, the XO did not hesitate to turn to the ship's best shot,
Gunner's Mate 2nd Class Jennifer Long.

Peterschmidt said: "It didn't cross my mind that the first person I ordered to such an exposed position was a woman. And by the speed with which she raced to man that dangerous post, it obviously didn't cross her mind either."

"The country could not go to war without women," said retired Air Force Capt. Barbara Wilson, who enlisted in 1949, a year after the service was opened to women volunteers in peacetime. A feminist even before the word was invented, Wilson now keeps busy on the Internet as perhaps the most vocal proponent of women serving in the armed forces.

Wilson said she is not talking only about female or male pilots who seem to get a good chunk of the glory.

"We're talking about all the jobs that people are doing," she said in an interview. "The top gun cannot go out there without his ground crew."

On a visit to Bosnia-Herzegovina last year, retired Brig. Gen. Wilma Vaught, president of the board of directors for the Women's Memorial and one of the most highly decorated women in the military, noticed female military police guarding the perimeter of the joint forces compound. When she commented to the Air Force unit commander that the women must be scared, he replied, "They aren't any more scared than the 19-year-old males assigned to do the job."

Vaught, pleased with his answer, said she has always that, to be considered full citizens, women must "share in the cost of citizenship, and a part of that cost is service to your country."

- - -

Enlisting for me was an unusual act partly because my parents emigrated from Latin America before I was born and nobody in my family, much less a woman, had served in the military anywhere.

I still laugh at the memory of our company commander arranging us in a circle to listen to Lee Greenwood's twangy country anthem, "God Bless the USA," as we held hands. Country music wasn't my thing then.

Today, although the line "And I won't forget the men who died, who gave that right to me" still gives me pause, I listen to the rest of the song with tears in my eyes.

After boot camp, I was ordained a storekeeper and I learned my "rate," or job, at a technical school in Meridian, Miss. After a couple of weeks of leave in California (which, by the way, didn't seem so bad now), I was shipped off to the USS Simon Lake (since decommissioned) in Scotland.

My work consisted mostly of physical labor. We pushed, pulled and dragged heavy crates, every assortment of boxes and 50-gallon drums of flammable, mysterious substances up ladders. We delivered them to storerooms deep in the bowels of the ship. The work was usually done with a minimum of complaining from men or women.

To complain meant you were weak, and women had to prove they had a right to be in this New Navy that allowed women the pleasure of serving on ships. Regardless of the physiological differences between a man and a woman, we had to literally pull more than our weight.

With grudging reluctance, I would awaken at 3 a.m. and bundle up in an orange marshmallow of a suit for my watch. Peering into the darkness of the cold, wet, windy Scottish night, I could not fathom that enemies unseen would venture forth from the loch nestled in the quiet solitude of the lower Highlands.

The four years of military experience were overwhelming and significant. We worked hard and we played hard.

It is difficult to explain to civilians what it's really like to live on a ship. As I walked around the passageways, I knew that the life I was living was strange, yet exciting. It didn't get any less so when I wore a hardhat and greens and drove a forklift in Puerto Rico as a part of the Public Works Department ran by the Seabees, a construction unit in the Navy.

By all means, I was not the perfect sailor.

Not even close.

I was the one who opened her mouth one too many times and ended up washing pots and pans (enormous ones) in the galley during the first few months of duty.

The good ones wake before reveille to iron their dungarees. They stay up late at night to shine their shoes before an early-morning inspection, and they study earnestly for their advancement exams.

They are perhaps like "Tracy," the electronics, communications and information systems officer aboard the USS Milius, a destroyer now sailing in perilous waters. She was also wild at 18, and family and friends wondered how this "free spirit" could conform to a military lifestyle. She went in as an enlisted sailor in 1983 and now is a respected officer.

"Twenty years ago, our culture wasn't ready to have Mommy on a warship," she wrote in an e-mail sent from her ship. "Today, Mommy is an integral part of one of the most powerful warships to sail."

She goes on to say that, even though she serves with intense pride, she fervently wishes for peace.

"I'm not a warmonger. I'm not a pacifist. I'm a Wife, a Mother, a Sailor and an American. I love my family, my life, and the ideals and freedoms I have vowed to protect. I'm just like a whole bunch of other women and men out there getting ready to fight."

Some are just in the beginning stages of an experience that will change them in ways unimaginable--like mine did.

- - -

On Sept. 11, 2001, Aviation Recruits "Donna May," 23, and "Amy Lynn," 18, were in their fifth week of Navy boot camp at Great Lakes Naval Training Center. It was service week, when recruits get a taste of what it's like to work on a Navy base.

The women were looking forward to the end of boot camp. They were anxious to learn their trade and join the fleet of sailors stationed in all parts of the world.

But when a radio news bulletin about the attacks interrupted their work on that fateful Tuesday, their feelings began to change.

They, like many others, had joined mostly for the travel, training and college money, maybe a tinge of patriotism. Now, they were dealing with the normal feelings soldiers and sailors have when faced with war--a resolve to do what they have signed up to do, with an undercurrent of fear and excitement.

With the threat of military action, some of these women's shipmates balked at the thought of actually becoming involved in battle. For many, their only experience with conflict had been violent video games and a shady memory of CNN footage of missiles being fired over Iraq a decade ago, when they were barely in grade school.

Amy Lynn, who will attend three weeks of aviation school after boot camp, likely will eat her Thanksgiving chow on a ship. The sailor from Texas also joked about how she may be scrubbing decks, an unglamorous but necessary housekeeping duty for sailors. Her tone, however, becomes serious when she speaks of the responsibility she feels.

"We know our job, we've been trained just as well as the men," said Amy Lynn, speaking for all women in the military at the beginning of her eighth week of training.

She added. "I don't want you to feel no worse if a female dies."

- - -

After 20 years of women serving on ships, and most recently on combat ships, the passageways have been cleared by the older generations that suffered through harassment and ignorance. The younger women will not confront the same level of discrimination, thanks to the fallout from Tailhook and subsequent sex-related scandals.

Nowadays, equality and tolerance must be preached in boot camp, and gender classifications, at least in the Navy, have been replaced with simply "shipmate."

They do not abide by the outdated adage of "just as mother is what a woman is, soldier is what a man is." Some men never fight, and some women never have babies.

Donna May, the other "boot camp," was born in the Philippines and raised in California. She is intensely patriotic and comes from a family that holds high expectations for her. Although cautious and soft-spoken by nature, she says she is ready for whatever comes.

"I could say that I'm scared because of the future," the serious young woman said. "You don't know. . . . It's unknown as far as what I am going to do. If it comes to that, like I have to fight, it's a belief that I have to serve my country in order to preserve freedom because who else is going to do it? Not everybody is willing."

My own limited contact with war helped spawn my patriotic feelings.

During the gulf war, I joined the crowd and put in my request chit to ship out to the gulf. But apparently they did not need the sailors who were desperate to leave the beautiful island paradise of Puerto Rico in order to see some action. So we stayed and worked on our tans and took scuba-diving lessons.

I did not want war, but once we got involved in it, I figuratively spat at those who did not support the troops. No more Vietnam, I thought. The soldiers, sailors and airmen who served with me did not personally declare war, but once our government did, we were left with no choice but to defend and support our country's decision.

I studied American history, so I am not blind to the mistakes the United States has made and perhaps continues to make regarding foreign and domestic policies. But to an extent, I am willing to look past some of the collective errors the leaders of this country have made because of our high ideals.

We are not a perfect country but we're a damn good one. It's also not a perfect military but it has gotten better.

- - -

Even though gulf war veteran Pamela Waterson was medically discharged after post-traumatic stress disorder hindered her work performance, she would have stayed in if she had been given the option. The 32-year-old Army sergeant's father was in the Army, her mother was in the Marines and her brothers and
sisters also followed into the service. During Desert Storm she was in Jubail, Saudi Arabia, loading and unloading tanks, vehicles and ammunition from ships and operating cranes and forklifts.

"During the war, you didn't have to be on the front lines to experience something deadly," Waterson said. One night, during guard duty, a Scud missile blew up over the pier and fell into the water close by.

In October 1990, "Gianna" left her 6-year-old son in the care of his father and left for the gulf. Her unit, made up mostly of female soldiers, drove large, unwieldy fuel trucks in the desert, staying close behind the tanks. They were always on the move. Their unit was shot at several times.

"I remember watching bullets hit the sand on either side of me," she said from the small mountain town of Overgaard, Ariz. "You're in a whole other world when it's that close to you. I'm just so terrified to go back. At the time I was there, I wasn't scared."

But now, at 41, she is a little older and wiser and much more conscious of her own mortality.

She worries about her 16-year-old son. She worries that, as a reservist, she might be seeing the desert again. If the call comes, however, she will go, she said. Without hesitation.

It is this inner resolve that many have gained from their experiences. It is what the Navy tapped inside of me. It gave me the strength to go on to college and graduate from a major university with two degrees. It is what the military, difficulties and all, is capable of giving women now as they face a greater
challenge than I faced.

The stories are begging to be told.

If you have a female vet in your community, ask her about her story.

More likely than not, it is worth telling.

GRAPHIC: PHOTOS (color): Ana Beatriz Cholo (right) with her mother, Nancy B. Cholo, after boot camp in Orlando in March 1988.

Copyright 2001 The Chicago Tribune
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A (Baby) Prodigy is Born

On Saturday, we had our hands full with Jude. We were hosting a multi-family yard sale with four other families at our house and temptations were everywhere.

There were tons of toys, children’s books, clothing and pots and pans. For a 16-month-old baby, it was heaven. For my boyfriend Ed and I, it was a full-time job.

During a brief lull in sales while I was in charge of watching him, we went into the garage and I sat him down on the stool in front of his older brother’s drum kit. It was his first time, I think, even seeing the drum set, much less sitting in front of it. I then handed him two drumsticks.

I thought if he was able to sit still on the stool and not fall off, I could get a few quick shots of him. Little did I know this baby boy would start banging away – like a pro.

What he lacked in technique, he more than made up with passion and enthusiasm. On the sidelines, with my camera in hand, I was the psycho cheerleader on speed clicking away from every angle and shrieking out every few minutes, “Go,go,go!” And “Hit it, hit it, hit it!”

Yes, I can be just as obnoxious as the next parent (maybe even more).

My boyfriend, Ed, heard the ruckus and came over to check it out. In just a few seconds our son convinced his dad he is a prodigy. He excitedly went to find his camera to capture the session on video.

I’ll never forget the look of utter confidence Jude had as he banged on the cymbals, snare and high-hat drums. At times, he even held both drumsticks in one hand as if to say, “this is how real drummers do it.”

To our friends, it probably sounded like noise but to us, it was harmonic convergence. Sure, we’re his parents. He makes funny faces taking a dump and we think it’s adorable. But despite our bias, we know what we know. Jude’s a natural.

Part 2 - The Sister I've Never Met...and Facebook

Part 1 of The Sister I've Never Met...and Facebook is here.

Today, I decided to give in and “friend” the sister I’ve never met and may never meet.

I couldn’t resist. Yeah, I know. Curiosity killed the cat but seriously, I was looking for the inside scoop, some insight to her life.

After clicking on the “confirm” tab, I waited in anticipation for Dora Patricia Ayala Alcarez’s profile to appear. I wanted to see pictures of my nieces (it’s weird saying that) and updated photos of my sister. What does her husband look like? Is he good-looking, homely, old, young? And their home in Spain – is it a nice crib I’d like to visit or a tiny apartment in the ‘hood with no room for guests except the couch?

This part is important because I was already imagining a future vacation in Europe, despite the fact I’m currently unemployed, we don’t even have money to repair my car and my boyfriend is taking public transportation to work.

Who wouldn’t mind spending some time basking in the Spanish sun? I was only 20 years old when I lugged a backpack through the Costa del Sol. Maybe this time I could head north and see Madrid and then skip over to Lisbon in Portugal.

But alas, my sister is not a long-winded, verbose individual like me. In fact, she demonstrated she could be quite economical with words and details. There was hardly anything on her Facebook page!

Not fair!

She now has access to my personal information and photos of my kids and family but she only has one stale, dated photograph. Granted, I’m not the best at keeping up with Facebook on a daily basis but in comparison, my life is an open book.

There were no photos, no job description, interests, silly groups she belonged to or quizzes she took. At least she has 25 friends and I discovered her birth date. I think she’s a Cancer, good news for a Scorpio like me.

I also learned she is quite fond of invoking Jehovah.

I will not lie. That scares the crap out of me. Jehovah this, Jehovah that, she responded in posts to some of her friends.

Oh Lordy!

Notwithstanding our astrological signs, that could mean we are completely incompatible. After all, when Jehovah’s Witnesses show up on our doorstep, we don’t hesitate to quickly shoo them away.

And what if she tried to, heaven forbid, save me from everlasting hell like some kids in high school would try to do? That would be futile! And what is the word for secular humanist in Spanish? How would I break it to her that we just don’t do church?

Despite my disappointment, I decided to sound upbeat when I wrote on her wall and asked her to post some photos of herself and her family. I figure I’ll give her some time to get more personal with her Facebook profile. And if she doesn’t…

Does anyone know if that deal with getting a free Whopper at Burger King is still on if you “unfriend” someone on Facebook? Just wondering…

Jude at Seal Beach Pier

This is the photo I've been trying to use as a background for my Twitter page. You can find me @anaperiodista. Anyway, I pasted it onto a Word doc & duplicated it nine times. It looks really cool but the file is too large. If I had more time (and if I were smarter), I would have figured out how to use Microsoft Photo Editor by now. Oh well. For now, use your imagination...