I am officially an alumna from The College of New Jersey (TCNJ). The last three weeks of school was a rush, the fastest weeks I have ever lived. Looking back, I feel like I was watching a movie and someone pushed the fast forward button and now, Kabam! Here I am.

As usual, my last weeks in college were spent wearing different hats. My emotions were on a rollercoaster ride and I was all over the place.

Running meetings, planning the last detalles of our closing event, organizing fundraisers for my Kenya trip in the summer, mentoring the freshmen, counseling the young girls, trying to figure out what to do with my life after college, winning awards for leadership, sitting on panels and representing the Latino community, and so on…

It seemed endless!

When people came up to me with comments like: “You’re graduating, oh my Gosh!” or “Are you sad that you’re leaving all this behind?” my heart would smile. I felt such peace and joy. When graduating grade school, I left with a feeling of “I should have and would have.” When graduating high school I left with the same feeling, hoping someone would have told me about this and that, so that I can be prepared for the next step. I decided that college was going to be different. I was going to seize every moment and take the campus by storm.

For the first time I feel something new. I feel ready. It is as if everything I wanted to do I did. Everyone I needed to meet, I met. Any dream or goal I wanted to realize, happened. Yo estoy lista!

Ready for what? I ask myself that question everyday.

Life. Adventure. Challenges. Learning experiences. Ready to be used like never before, and ready to expose my talents. I feel ready to give, uproot communities and uplift souls. I am secure about myself. I am focused. I am so alive and aware of who I am that I am ready to attack, and claim what’s mine out there. I feel like I have learned so much and acquired great wisdom, and at the same time I feel like a dry sponge seeking moisture. I need to sit, and reflect what I have done and learned. After submerging myself in the new knowledge, I need to strategize and then take the first step. Once I do, I don’t know what’s bound to happen, but I am excited. I am resting before I attack. That is my “plan” for anyone who asks the million dollar question, “What are you doing after college?”

As I sit here and look at the beautiful sunset out my window my spirit jumps. It’s such a crazy world. So predictable and yet so uncertain. So big and yet so small. The sun is always ready to set, at its appointed time. As it collects all the light from the sky, it radiates beautiful hues of pinks and oranges, in a way saying “I am going away for a while, but I will be back to shine brighter than today.”

I feel like a sunset, on fire and ready to burst. But before I arise, I must rest. Only then will I be ready to wake up to the reality and attack. I am ready. Aqui vengo …

Something feels different. I can’t quite put my fingers on it, but something just doesn’t feel the same.

I arrived in New York City (JFK Airport ) on Tuesday, April 29^th. It was unexpected. The prior week in the Peace Corps – Ukraine office, I was trying to purchase a trip to Barcelona, Spain. But I couldn’t enter the 16-digit account number on my credit card. I couldn’t purchase it because I felt my fingers swollen to a degree that I couldn’t move them.

Then, an idea occurred to me. Let me try to purchase a ticket home. Suddenly, with the mere attempt of purchasing the tickets everything seemed so easy. My fingers looked and felt normal again and buying my ticket back home was as easy as boiling an egg: just 1-2-3. That’s when I realized that it was time to go home.

Two years and three months. That was the length of my Peace Corps service and the time that I had been away from home. So when I was in the airplane* and the pilot said, “Forty minutes till our arrival in America.” I couldn’t hold back my tears. In fact, I couldn’t believe that it had been so long and that finally, finally I was going to see my mother again.

When the plane landed and the passengers got off the plane, I made sure that I was the last person off the plane because I wanted to savor the moment by getting down on my knees to touch American soil. I am extremely proud of the United States of America. Despite the fact that it is not a perfect country, it is still the beacon of hope and opportunity in the world and for that I am eternally grateful. All of its meanings and promises seems to have magnified in Ukraine.

In the airport, I watched as Passport Control interrogated passengers on the motives of their trip. As I approached my Passport Control officer I could only smile. Then he asked, “What was the purpose of your trip.”

“I just finished my Peace Corps service,” I said.

“Congratulations! Welcome back!” He stamped my passport and said, “Have a good time readjusting.”

I gave him my thanks and left to pick up my luggage. It took a few minutes to find it. Once I grabbed my luggage I headed for the exit. It took me a whole ten minutes from the time I left the airplane to the time I saw my mom.

I saw my mother … she had two “Welcome Back” balloons. I gave her and my brother a hug. I couldn’t hold back my emotions. I was back home. I was back with my family and it just felt so right.

Now the tough part begins. Readjusting in the United States and feeling in place again.

*The flight was 10 hours and 20 minutes from Kyiv, Ukraine to New York City.

The first thing I thought of when I blew out the 25 candles on my birthday cake Monday was, “Oh, no! I got through only 19 of my ‘Twenty-five before 25 goals.’”

Last fall I made a list of things I wanted to do before my birthday on May 12. Some of the goals ranged from the inane – learning how to cook and paying off my undergraduate loans – to some life-changing fears I wanted to conquer.

I was happy I learned how to cook and ice skate, and that I mustered the courage to apply to Columbia School of Journalism (and actually get in!), but the perfectionist in me was annoyed that I didn’t get a chance to reconnect with an old schoolyard bully, become more self-confident, become better organized, and learn to dance samba.

My friends said I should focus on the positives: the fact that I got so many of the goals accomplished was quite a feat. And some of the goals I accomplished weren’t easy. One was giving up anger (I gave it up for Lent, and learned to be more patient as a result). Another was to get rid of negative people in my life because I have a tendency to hold on to friendships or relationships like a figurative safety blanket – even if they’re not ideal relationships to have.

By focusing on what I learned and how I’ve grown by crossing out each of the 19 on the list, it helped me feel better about the six goals that are sitting around on my list. Actually, make that 20 goals I accomplished. One of them was to learn to be more positive.

My mother Ines had a great sense of humor — although we didn’t laugh much when she threatened to use La Correa, which she conveniently had hanging right under the kitchen sink.

And we spent a lot of time in the kitchen because cooking was her passion. Or rather, cooking for her children was her passion.

I used to think she was mean because she would force us to eat breakfast before school. Imagine that. From my bed, I’d hear her cracking soft-boiled eggs, and I’d start yelling that I didn’t want to eat them.

But of course I did. I had no choice.

And she wouldn’t let me get up from the table until I finished my meal and showed her my empty plate. Sometimes I’d be the last one hanging out in the kitchen staring at the food congealing on my plate.

My mother could whip up a meal in just seconds no matter what time of the day or night it was. As grown-ups, before heading over to her place, we could call in an order and she’d have it ready for us.

If we needed some comfort food on those days when the world seemed heavy on our shoulders, there would be una sopita de pollo simmering on the stove.

And even though I’ve leaned vegetarian since my high school days, she would insist on cooking up some chuletas or bistec encebollado. When I would remind her for the millionth time that I rather not eat meat, she’d look up at me (she was a tiny thing) with a hurt look.

And I would eat. That Inesita was a temptress. Oh yes she was.

Today, on Mother’s Day, three generations of my family will get together at a Spanish restaurant and we’ll eat a lot and have some drinks.

And we’ll toast the mother of nine who signed her cards “Ines La Cocinera.”

Like I said, my mother had a great sense of humor. I know she’s laughing with me as I watch this silly video:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s3AKTYqqsTI

Just like Christmas (when we are nice to everyone) this is the one day when we are extra nice to women because they are mothers. I find it repulsive to be reminded to be thankful to my mother on a specific day. So, today is Mother’s Day, Happy Mother’s Day Mom! Not because I want to tell you I’m grateful for waddling around for nine months with a big belly eating up everything in God’s creation, but because Hallmark, Kay Jewelers, and 1-800 Flowers.com have been telling me for over two weeks that it’s Mother’s Day. I’m not saying that we don’t need to celebrate our mothers (just to clarify), but why on the second Sunday of May? And I’m not even mad that sometimes that Sunday coincides with my birthday. Mom, I love you (despite being coo-coo) yesterday, today, tomorrow and on Mother’s Day, and hey, guess what mom? I’ll even love you when it’s not Mother’s Day.

But in all honesty, I want to thank the other mothers in my life as well. Mom “Sue”, who gave me a place to stay and cultivated me and taught me about life and protected me like her own child when I was 16. I want to thank my aunts who always loved me with unconditional love and let them know I missed that love once I came to the United States. My Grandma who, even in her old school way of whooping A$%, taught me the alphabet and how to read in Spanish. To my cousins who would took care of me when I was younger and showed me so much love, Happy Mother’s Day to you too. I can’t name you all because I have another section to write about, but know that you are all very dear to my heart; although you guys sided with my mom when I was younger and now you realize that I was right, I forgive you for that. To Mrs. T, thank you for taking me in as a son as well. If it weren’t for the warmth and gentle love you provided for me while I was in college, I would not have known what a functional family and mother is like. To Cassie, if it weren’t for your support and going to bat for me, I wouldn’t have graduated college, Thank you! So, to mothers all over the world, enjoy this day and every day, because everyday should be a day to give thanks for the wonderful mothers we have, some crazier than others, but they’re our mothers, and we love you.

Now, to the underappreciated people in this world whom without we would have no book smarts at all. May 6th was National Teachers Day, I don’t know how many knew this, but it was. I’m sure everyone knew it was CINCO DE MAYO on Monday and restaurants around the country with a Mexican “flare” had specials on beer, margaritas, and Mexican food. The important day, though, was Tuesday the 6th. I speak often with a very good friend who is a teacher and her complaint is that teachers don’t get enough respect; enough to say that she would discourage her daughter to not pursue a career in teaching if she was interested in it. I was in shock, but understood where she was coming from. Educational funding usually gets cut first in any fiscally-failing government. Education, as decrepit as it is in the United States, still gets weaker due to funding woes and misappropriation of funds in districts. Well, example A is New Jersey, where $8 billion worth of construction financing for schools throughout the state was misused for salaries and luxurious offices. Not only that, but the urban districts were left with nothing accomplished except bungalows with trailers where kids are still trapped in less than adequate learning facilities. This is not fiction, it’s a fact. So, teachers have the dawning task to educate children in overcrowded classrooms, with outdated books, low maintenance buildings (which probably have lead-based paint), and no staff support. Teachers don’t get enough credit, and some, none at all. But a teacher is important to our society and they need to be revered as such. They educate us since the first day of Kindergarten and they matriculate us into colleges and universities, and we can’t even say thank you!

I want to say thank you, to Mrs. Burton (Sutter Jr.), thank you for believing in me and always being a person who would motivate me when I was low. Mrs. Kay, my A.E. English teacher, thank you for pushing me to be the best writer I could be. Mr. Duran, the first Hispanic teacher I had in all of my Elementary, Middle School and High School career, thank you for surviving WWII, the Korean War, and the Civil Rights movement for us. And thank you for teaching with passion and for pushing us, the Latinos in the class, to be better than we thought we were. Thank you Dr. Turner, for being my Argument and Debate professor and teaching me how to use language and evidence to be prepared for their point of view, mines and the one we haven’t thought of. If we can celebrate Cinco De Mayo, than we can celebrate National Teachers Day. Thank you teachers and professors for being a part of the Village that helped create an intelligent, charming human being (me). My good looks I have to attribute to my family genes, so thanks mom for that!

My Most Valuable Players (MVPs) in life are my family members, teachers and friends. My friends, although supportive, can be very argumentative. It’s in their nature. Particularly my brothers from a different mother like to pick arguments with me. I try to be civil, but no, they push the buttons until I finally explode (I don’t like to argue, I don’t even like to pose questionable topics because I’m afraid it will lead to mental sparring). Afterwards, they stare at me and say, “Hey, it’s not that serious.” Well it is.

About three weeks ago, my Hermano Antonio “Es Guapo” said that Chris Paul (CP3)of the New Orleans Hornets should win MVP honors, considering that he as a point guard has more duties and is responsible for the pace and overall success of his mediocre team, rather than the great Lakers team in Los Angeles, California. I grew up in Los Angeles, so therefore grew up as a Lakers fan and still am. I love the Lakers and, although I’ve had my problems with Kobe, I root for him. And so I chose to humor my friend by arguing on behalf of Kobe. I personally think that although Kobe Bryant is an excellent basketball player and an assassin on the basketball court, he didn’t deserve to win the MVP award. I agree with “Es Guapo” on the point that CP3 has less capable players around him. I also agree that he does more than Kobe does for his team. CP3 can not only score, but also is a shooter with three point range, who can create his own shot and create shots for others. Now, this is expected from a point guard, but to score in the mid-20’s and dish out 12 assists (assist- a pass that leads to a basket), average about 3 steals a game and 5 rebounds; that’s impressive. Kobe has a good, solid team around him, and basically has had a good balanced team around him for several years. The only new component to the team was Paul Gasol who is a 7-footer with incredible athletic ability. CP3 has teammates that have failed miserably on other teams or have not lived up to their potential. Meanwhile, not only does CP3 navigate his team to second place in the NBA’s toughest conference (West), but also is doing it with less capable athletes who he is making better. Chris Paul is deserving of the award because he helped revive not just a team, but is also helping to revive the city in New Orleans. Kobe, on the other hand, has won the MVP because it was his “time,” so now we can move on and actually give awards to people who deserve it. So, what if CP3 gets injured next year and doesn’t play like the CP3 of this year in upcoming years? Is someone going to be sacrificed for him?

All I can say is that thank God, for mothers and teachers, for preparing us for the meaningful arguments that contribute to our personality. For if it weren’t for the tools these individuals bestowed upon me, I would have never been able to discuss Kobe vs. Paul and see both sides of the argument!

In the midst of the Democratic Primary race, the issues surrounding immigration, the increasingly high cost of food, our own challenges with working, living and raising families, I’d like us to pause for a moment and remember a woman I came to know only as a result of her brutal death, Diana Valencia.

Diana Valencia, mother of three, of Clifton NJ, was murdered a few weeks ago. As I read the Herald News article I could not help but think how this woman in another situation would have been applauded for her dedication to her children and her entrepreneurial efforts. She recently started her own business in Passaic, no doubt to provide a better future for her children. “She gave us everything we needed,” her teenage son said.

My heart hurts for her children. I cannot imagine what this Sunday will be like for them. But if we as the Latino community in New Jersey remember them, say a prayer for them, light a candle, whatever we can do that is sacred, perhaps it would help. Perhaps this is something we as a community can do for Diana Valencia, a gift for her, to remember her children on what will probably be one of the most difficult days of their young lives.