Nine years ago my courageous mother died... this is my eulogy from that day:

When my father died last year, I began his eulogy by noting that another oak had fallen.

This morning, around 1:25AM, Ana Olivia Cruzata Marrero de Campello, his wife of over 60 years, and my beloved mother, passed on on the day of her 97th birthday.

If my father was an oak, then my mother was an equally strong, but also very pliable, and elegant tree.  When hurricanes attack the main lands of the world, the strong tall trees often fall, but the pliable ones, like plantain trees, always give with the wind, and survive the storms, and thrive in the drenching rains.

My mother was like a an aged plantain tree, not only immensely strong and pliable, but also giving and nurturing.

Like many Cuban women of her generation and her social-economic background, she had never worked for a living in Cuba, and yet within a few days of our arrival in New York in the 1960s, she was working long hours in a sewing factory, putting her formidable seamstress skills, honed in the social sewing and embroidery gathering of young Cuban girls, to use in the "piece work" process of the New York sewing factories.

As soon as we saved the money, one of the first things that my mother bought was an electric sewing machine - a novelty to her, as she had always used one of the those ancient Singer machines with a foot pedal.

I remember as a child in Brooklyn, that women used to bring her fabric and a page from a magazine with a woman wearing a dress. Without the benefit of a sewing pattern, my mother would whip up a copy of the dress that was more often than not probably better made than the original. As the word of her skills spread, so did her customers and soon she was making more money working at home than at the factory - but she kept both jobs.

I once noted to her that I admired the courage that it must have taken  her to leave her family and immigrate to the United States. "We didn't come here as immigrants," she corrected me. "We came as political refugees, and I initially thought that we'd be back in Cuba within a few years at the most."

When the brutal Castro dictatorship refused to loosen its stranglehold on her birth place, she became an immigrant, and from there on an American citizen from her white-streaked hair down to her heel bone (that's a Cuban saying). Like my father, she loved her adopted country with a ferocity, that I sometimes feel that only people who have been bloodied by Communism can feel for a new, free homeland.

As as I've noted before, Cubans are archaic immigrants... we love this great nation because we recognize its singular and unique greatness; perhaps it is because our forebears had the same chance at greatness and blew it.

I remember as a teenager, once I started going out to parties and things at night on my own (around age 16 or so), that my mother would wait up for me, sitting by the third floor window of our Brooklyn apartment, where she could survey the whole neighborhood and see as far as the elevated LL subway station a few blocks away, to watch me descend the station stairs and trace my way home.

My mother was always fit and, as once described by my father, "flaca como un fusil" (as slim as a rifle). She was strong and fast. She was also quiet, but never silenced, and when needed, could and would command attention.

My mother was always well dressed and superbly coiffed. When we'd go to parties and events, women would always ask her where she'd gotten that dress! The answer was always the same: she'd made it!

At least once a week, to my father's dismay, and in spite of his demands that my mother stop it, she'd get her hair done at the nearby peluqueria (hair dresser).

My dad knew, and respected his limits with my mother. 

I remember one time that my father and I were returning from shopping at the supermarket, dragging one of those wheeled folding carts that could carry four full paper grocery bags. It had been snowing, so the Brooklyn streets were wet and muddy.

When we got to our apartment my father opened the door. He then stood there.

"Go in!" I demanded.

"We'll have to wait," he said gloomily, "Your mother mopped the floor and it's still wet." This giant, tough, street-brawling Galician then looked at me sheepishly, "I'd rather walk through a mine field than step on your mother's wet floor."

I learned a lesson there.

She used to delight in telling stories how, as a child, she would often win the horse races that kids staged around the small country towns where she was raised in Oriente province, where her father was a Mayoral. 

"I almost always won," she'd say, and then would add: "Even though I was a skinny girl."

Once, in her seventies, back in the days where you could actually accompany people to the departing gates at airports, we were escorting my oldest daughter Vanessa, who had come to visit, and we were running late. As we got to the airport, we ran to the gate, and to everyone's surprise, Abuela got there first. I still remember how delighted my daughter was that her grandmother could still run like a gazelle.

When I joined the Navy at age 17, my first duty station was USS SARATOGA, which at the time was stationed in Mayport in Florida, and thus my parents decided to migrate south to Florida and moved to Miami... just to be close to me.

They spent the next 40 years in the same apartment while I was stationed all over the world.

The mostly Cuban-American families that lived over the years in that apartment loved my mother, and would always tell me stories about my mother, ever the nurturer, bringing them food when she knew that they were going over tough times, or riding the buses with them, just to show them the routes.

This week, when I arrived in Miami, already somewhat knowing that this was approaching the end, I saw her with tubes coming out of her mouth and her eyes closed. When I spoke to her she opened her eyes, and in spite of the visuals that my eyes were seeing she somehow still managed to look strong. 

I showed her photos and movies of her grand children, and talked to her for a long time.

I thanked her for having the courage to leave her motherland and afford me the opportunity to grow as an American.

When she was being extubated, a young woman came into the room with a guitar and played and sang the haunting free prose of Guajira Guantanamera (The peasant girl from Guantanamo); a most fitting song, since my mother was from Guantanamo, and she came from strong Cuban peasant stock.

"Guajira pero fina (A peasant, but a very refined woman)", noted a neighbor and loving caretaker. 

The song, which can start with just about any prose, started with the Jose Marti poem:

 Yo quiero, cuando me muera, sin patria, pero sin amo, tener en mi tumba un ramo de flores y una bandera

I want to, when I die, without my motherland, but without a master, to have on my tomb a bunch of flowers and a flag.

She died without a master, a strong and pliable woman who not only gave me the gift of life, but also the gift of freedom.

And as my mother died in her sleep in the early hours of the morning, in the capital city of the bitter Cuban Diaspora, all that I could gather to say to her was mostly the same that I said to my father when he passed last year: "Thank you for your courage... from me, and from my children... and soon from their children. You opened a whole new world for them."

I love you Mami... Un Abrazo Fuerte! Thank you for your gifts to me and my children, and happy birthday in Heaven!

 Update on the Women Artists of the DMV survey show: 

1. We are up to nine venues, and working on a 10th! Over 300 artists selected so far! Know of an exhibition venue who may be interested? Email me!

2. The deadline to apply is coming up! If an artist does not apply, then I can't include!

3. Please pass the word to any and all DMV female artists who you may know!

4. If you know any politicians, businesses,  or anyone willing to sponsor a prize, please contact me directly! I can use some help with this!

5. All details here: https://dcartnews.blogspot.com/2025/01/women-artists-of-dmv-all-that-you-need.html

6. The artists selected so far are listed below -- if you have emailed me, and I have not responded with a YES or NO, please email me again.  If I have responded and said YES, and you're name is not on the list below, please email me!

Abramson	Cathy
Achu	Shiri
Altman	Evie
Alzona	Esperanza
Andreozzi	Maremi
Antognoli	Erin
Applequist	Courtney
Arkin	Sondra
Armstrong	Sharon
Balamaci	Suzi
Banks	Michele
Banner	Marilyn
Bardin	Sara
Barfield	Kate
Barker-Barzel	Veronica
Barlow	Jennifer
Barnes	Victoria
Barr	Denée
Barr	Tara
Barsha	Carol
Bass	Holly
Battle	Lisa
Beaudet	Jennifer Lynn
Benderson	Judith
Bentley	Sarah
Birch	Karin
Bishop	Jennifer
Blom	Liliane
Bloom	Julia
Boccella Bagin	Carolyn
Bonds	Prudence
Boocks	Lori
Boozer	Margaret
Borchert	Vian
Bouie	Anne
Brabant	Jill
Brandt	Claire
Breen	Laurie
Brito	Maria
Brotman	Lisa
Brown Goldberg	Carol
Bruce	Amy
Buck	Patricia
Bugash	Dianne
Bullock	Shante
Burley	Melissa
Byron	Judy
Calisti	Denise
Calvin	Stephane
Canuteson	Sue
Carren	Rachel
Casqueiro	Elizabeth
Chandrasekar	Shanthi
Chang	Mei Mei
Chen	Hsin-His
Cherubim	Anne
Clouthier	Irene
Coelho	Amanda
Collier	Bonnie B.
Cooper Cabe	Diane
Cornett	Ellen
Cornwell	Kathy
Craigie-Marshall	Lea
Crider	Sheila
Crocetta	Jacqui
Cullins	Andrea
Curren	Beth
Cybyk	Andrea
Danzinger	Joan
Daryl	KayLee
Dastur	Delna
Davis	Jenny
Davis	Tanya
Davis	Anna U.
Davison	Elizabeth
Dawson	Danni
Day	Catherine
de Poel Wilberg	Patricia
Dekel	Limor
Demovidova	Anna
Donahoe	Wendy
Dowell	Margaret
Droblyen	Jen
Durrett	Nekisha
Early	Mary
Eder	Susan
Edwards	Cheryl
Edwards	Bria
Ellyn	Dana
Elsner	Rita
Erickson	Hyunsuk
Farrell Johnson	Cynthia
Federman Cogut	Felisa
Feit Covey	Rosemary
Finsen	Jill
Fishel	Sharon
Flanders	Sheila
Fragione	Cianne
Frank	Mary Anella
Frederick	Helen
Freestone	Jenny
Fussner	Emily
Gallegos O'Neill	Helena
Gauthiez-Charpentier	Marie
Ghim	Genie
Gibson-Hunter	Claudia (Aziza)
Giganti	Kate
Goldberg	Margery
Goldman	Susan
Goodman	Janis
Goslee	Patricia
Grand	Freya
Granek	Graciela
Haden	Josephine
Halprin	Debra
Hamblett	Beatrice
Harrison	Elyse
Hasbun	Muriel
Hashem	Seemeen
Hassan	Rania
Hayes	Jennifer
Hecht	Mira
Hehlen	Alexandra
Herman	Michelle
Hester	Francie
Hill	Lisa
Hill	Ellen
Hipschen	Pattee
Holt	Leslie
Hostetler	Susan
Hoysted	Jackie
Hull	Sarah
Hunter	Michal
Ichiuji	Melissa
Ilchi	Hedieh
Jackson	Selena
Jackson Jarvis	Martha
Jakobsberg	Pauline
Januszkiewicz	Barbara
Jarzynski	Teresa
Jenkins	Carmen
Johnson	M. Jane
Kallista	Jessica
Kanzler	Jenny
Karametou	Maria
Katalkina	Anna
Katz	Lori
Kauffman	Sally
Kent	Trish
King	Megan
King	Zofie
Klein	Lillian
Klein	P D
Kretz	Kate
Lambert	Bridget Sue
LaMont	Susan
Lawler	Linda
Le	Ngoc
Lee	Kyujin
Lee	Jun
Lescault	Liz
Lesser	Harriet
Levin	Carol
Lillis	Jennifer
Lin	Kara
Lin	Amy
Linowitz	June
Liotta	Barbara
Little	Kirsty
Litwak	Taina
Lowenstein	Shelley
Lukaszewski	Laurel
Luttwak	Dalya
MacKinnon	Caroline
Maegawa	Akemi
Maher	Megan
Makara	Susan
Malakoff	Julia
Manalo	Isabel
Mánlapaz	Joey
Mann	Katherine
Marchand	Anne
Marcus	Jai
Marshall	Lucinda
Martire	Isabella
Marx	Amy
Massaro	Sheryl
Mayorga	Carolina
Maza Borkland	Elena
McAleer-Keeler	Kerry
McCracken	J.J.
McCrocklin	Sophia
McCullough	Donna
McFall	Becky
McGrath	Dale
McLean	Marla
Meagher-Cook	Anne
Michael	Maggie
Miele	Regina
Militaru	Ramona
Mojica	Marily
Montalbano	Michele
Montgomery	E.J.
Moody	Sharon
Morgan	Ally
Morris	Meredith
Mosley-Pasley	Camille
Moumin	Adrianne
Mueller	Lindsay
Mussoff	Jody
Nassikas	Georgia
Newmyer	Carol
Niehuss	Juliette
Niland Rounds	Lori
Nolan	Leslie
Nzinga Terrel	Zsudayka
Oaxaca	Teresa
Offen	Ronnie
Okropiridze	Tea
Olivos	Claudia
Orgen	Erica
Osher	Marian
Packard	Betsy
Parker	Nicole
Patin	Dora
Peck	Judith
Perdomo	Monica
Pérez-Ramos	Sandra
Pham	Anne
Ping Shen	Pearl
Pinner	Robin
Pocen	Naan
Poku-Speight	Patricia Edwine
Pollock	Maryanne
Posey	Kelly
Prinsloo	Yolanda
Raab	Susana
Rachko	Barbara
Raedeke	Erin
Rebhan	Gail
Reed	Carol
Reed	Felicia
Renteria	Cindy K.
Ress	Beverly
Riccio	Marie
Riley	Lesley
Ringwald	Marie
Rivarde	Cindy
Robles-Gordon	Amber
Rodman	Sarah
Rogers	Alla
Rojas	Roxanna
Rosenstein	Lisa K.
Rothschild	Gayle
Rubin	Carol
Ryan	Christine
Sandell	Renee
Sargent	Madeleine
Sausser	Nancy
Schmitz	Karen
Schwartzberg	Deanna
Sestakova	Martina
Sever	Lian
Shalowitz	Susan
Shaw	Janathel
Shaw-Clemons	Gail
Shelford	April
Sigethy	Alison
Sikorska	Elzbieta
Silverthorne	Alexandra
Siple	Pauline
Southerland	Judy
Springfield	Molly
Srinivasan	Pritha
Staiger	Marsha
Stockton	Eve
Stout	Renee
Svat	Terry
Szalus	Veronica
Thompson	Kat
Underwood	Patricia
Uskievitch	Christine
Van Brakle	Jessica
Vasquez	Gloria
Vera	Rosa Ines
Vess	Claudia
Vidales	Marite
Viola	Pamela
Walsh	Lori
Walton	Jenny
Warren Gobar	Sandra
Way	Andrea
Weiss	Ellyn
Wellman	Joyce
Wilkerson	Tracy
Wolf-Hubbard	Marcie
Wolpoff	Sharon
Wood	Helen
Wrbican	Sue
Yamaguchi	Yuriko
Yancy	Shawn
Yurdin	Suzanne
Zeller	Paula
Ziselberger	Barbara
Zughaib	Helen

From Yelp:

We're officially hiring a new community intern for later 2025 when Riley's time comes to an unwanted end, and we're on the hunt for another perfect fit. As Elites, you know a ton of talented people so we're tapping on you to help us spread the word on this five-star opportunity. If you know someone that is the best at throwing parties, loves all things local, and has brand social media experience, have them apply at the link below.

Apply here.

Nine years ago my courageous mother died... this is my eulogy from that day:

When my father died last year, I began his eulogy by noting that another oak had fallen.

This morning, around 1:25AM, Ana Olivia Cruzata Marrero de Campello, his wife of over 60 years, and my beloved mother, passed on on the day of her 97th birthday.

If my father was an oak, then my mother was an equally strong, but also very pliable, and elegant tree.  When hurricanes attack the main lands of the world, the strong tall trees often fall, but the pliable ones, like plantain trees, always give with the wind, and survive the storms, and thrive in the drenching rains.

My mother was like a an aged plantain tree, not only immensely strong and pliable, but also giving and nurturing.

Like many Cuban women of her generation and her social-economic background, she had never worked for a living in Cuba, and yet within a few days of our arrival in New York in the 1960s, she was working long hours in a sewing factory, putting her formidable seamstress skills, honed in the social sewing and embroidery gathering of young Cuban girls, to use in the "piece work" process of the New York sewing factories.

As soon as we saved the money, one of the first things that my mother bought was an electric sewing machine - a novelty to her, as she had always used one of the those ancient Singer machines with a foot pedal.

I remember as a child in Brooklyn, that women used to bring her fabric and a page from a magazine with a woman wearing a dress. Without the benefit of a sewing pattern, my mother would whip up a copy of the dress that was more often than not probably better made than the original. As the word of her skills spread, so did her customers and soon she was making more money working at home than at the factory - but she kept both jobs.

I once noted to her that I admired the courage that it must have taken  her to leave her family and immigrate to the United States. "We didn't come here as immigrants," she corrected me. "We came as political refugees, and I initially thought that we'd be back in Cuba within a few years at the most."

When the brutal Castro dictatorship refused to loosen its stranglehold on her birth place, she became an immigrant, and from there on an American citizen from her white-streaked hair down to her heel bone (that's a Cuban saying). Like my father, she loved her adopted country with a ferocity, that I sometimes feel that only people who have been bloodied by Communism can feel for a new, free homeland.

As as I've noted before, Cubans are archaic immigrants... we love this great nation because we recognize its singular and unique greatness; perhaps it is because our forebears had the same chance at greatness and blew it.

I remember as a teenager, once I started going out to parties and things at night on my own (around age 16 or so), that my mother would wait up for me, sitting by the third floor window of our Brooklyn apartment, where she could survey the whole neighborhood and see as far as the elevated LL subway station a few blocks away, to watch me descend the station stairs and trace my way home.

My mother was always fit and, as once described by my father, "flaca como un fusil" (as slim as a rifle). She was strong and fast. She was also quiet, but never silenced, and when needed, could and would command attention.

My mother was always well dressed and superbly coiffed. When we'd go to parties and events, women would always ask her where she'd gotten that dress! The answer was always the same: she'd made it!

At least once a week, to my father's dismay, and in spite of his demands that my mother stop it, she'd get her hair done at the nearby peluqueria (hair dresser).

My dad knew, and respected his limits with my mother. 

I remember one time that my father and I were returning from shopping at the supermarket, dragging one of those wheeled folding carts that could carry four full paper grocery bags. It had been snowing, so the Brooklyn streets were wet and muddy.

When we got to our apartment my father opened the door. He then stood there.

"Go in!" I demanded.

"We'll have to wait," he said gloomily, "Your mother mopped the floor and it's still wet." This giant, tough, street-brawling Galician then looked at me sheepishly, "I'd rather walk through a mine field than step on your mother's wet floor."

I learned a lesson there.

She used to delight in telling stories how, as a child, she would often win the horse races that kids staged around the small country towns where she was raised in Oriente province, where her father was a Mayoral. 

"I almost always won," she'd say, and then would add: "Even though I was a skinny girl."

Once, in her seventies, back in the days where you could actually accompany people to the departing gates at airports, we were escorting my oldest daughter Vanessa, who had come to visit, and we were running late. As we got to the airport, we ran to the gate, and to everyone's surprise, Abuela got there first. I still remember how delighted my daughter was that her grandmother could still run like a gazelle.

When I joined the Navy at age 17, my first duty station was USS SARATOGA, which at the time was stationed in Mayport in Florida, and thus my parents decided to migrate south to Florida and moved to Miami... just to be close to me.

They spent the next 40 years in the same apartment while I was stationed all over the world.

The mostly Cuban-American families that lived over the years in that apartment loved my mother, and would always tell me stories about my mother, ever the nurturer, bringing them food when she knew that they were going over tough times, or riding the buses with them, just to show them the routes.

This week, when I arrived in Miami, already somewhat knowing that this was approaching the end, I saw her with tubes coming out of her mouth and her eyes closed. When I spoke to her she opened her eyes, and in spite of the visuals that my eyes were seeing she somehow still managed to look strong. 

I showed her photos and movies of her grand children, and talked to her for a long time.

I thanked her for having the courage to leave her motherland and afford me the opportunity to grow as an American.

When she was being extubated, a young woman came into the room with a guitar and played and sang the haunting free prose of Guajira Guantanamera (The peasant girl from Guantanamo); a most fitting song, since my mother was from Guantanamo, and she came from strong Cuban peasant stock.

"Guajira pero fina (A peasant, but a very refined woman)", noted a neighbor and loving caretaker. 

The song, which can start with just about any prose, started with the Jose Marti poem:

 Yo quiero, cuando me muera, sin patria, pero sin amo, tener en mi tumba un ramo de flores y una bandera

I want to, when I die, without my motherland, but without a master, to have on my tomb a bunch of flowers and a flag.

She died without a master, a strong and pliable woman who not only gave me the gift of life, but also the gift of freedom.

And as my mother died in her sleep in the early hours of the morning, in the capital city of the bitter Cuban Diaspora, all that I could gather to say to her was mostly the same that I said to my father when he passed last year: "Thank you for your courage... from me, and from my children... and soon from their children. You opened a whole new world for them."

I love you Mami... Un Abrazo Fuerte! Thank you for your gifts to me and my children, and happy birthday in Heaven!

 Update on the Women Artists of the DMV survey show: 

1. We are up to nine venues, and working on a 10th! Over 300 artists selected so far! Know of an exhibition venue who may be interested? Email me!

2. The deadline to apply is coming up! If an artist does not apply, then I can't include!

3. Please pass the word to any and all DMV female artists who you may know!

4. If you know any politicians, businesses,  or anyone willing to sponsor a prize, please contact me directly! I can use some help with this!

5. All details here: https://dcartnews.blogspot.com/2025/01/women-artists-of-dmv-all-that-you-need.html

6. The artists selected so far are listed below -- if you have emailed me, and I have not responded with a YES or NO, please email me again.  If I have responded and said YES, and you're name is not on the list below, please email me!

Abramson	Cathy
Achu	Shiri
Altman	Evie
Alzona	Esperanza
Andreozzi	Maremi
Antognoli	Erin
Applequist	Courtney
Arkin	Sondra
Armstrong	Sharon
Balamaci	Suzi
Banks	Michele
Banner	Marilyn
Bardin	Sara
Barfield	Kate
Barker-Barzel	Veronica
Barlow	Jennifer
Barnes	Victoria
Barr	Denée
Barr	Tara
Barsha	Carol
Bass	Holly
Battle	Lisa
Beaudet	Jennifer Lynn
Benderson	Judith
Bentley	Sarah
Birch	Karin
Bishop	Jennifer
Blom	Liliane
Bloom	Julia
Boccella Bagin	Carolyn
Bonds	Prudence
Boocks	Lori
Boozer	Margaret
Borchert	Vian
Bouie	Anne
Brabant	Jill
Brandt	Claire
Breen	Laurie
Brito	Maria
Brotman	Lisa
Brown Goldberg	Carol
Bruce	Amy
Buck	Patricia
Bugash	Dianne
Bullock	Shante
Burley	Melissa
Byron	Judy
Calisti	Denise
Calvin	Stephane
Canuteson	Sue
Carren	Rachel
Casqueiro	Elizabeth
Chandrasekar	Shanthi
Chang	Mei Mei
Chen	Hsin-His
Cherubim	Anne
Clouthier	Irene
Coelho	Amanda
Collier	Bonnie B.
Cooper Cabe	Diane
Cornett	Ellen
Cornwell	Kathy
Craigie-Marshall	Lea
Crider	Sheila
Crocetta	Jacqui
Cullins	Andrea
Curren	Beth
Cybyk	Andrea
Danzinger	Joan
Daryl	KayLee
Dastur	Delna
Davis	Jenny
Davis	Tanya
Davis	Anna U.
Davison	Elizabeth
Dawson	Danni
Day	Catherine
de Poel Wilberg	Patricia
Dekel	Limor
Demovidova	Anna
Donahoe	Wendy
Dowell	Margaret
Droblyen	Jen
Durrett	Nekisha
Early	Mary
Eder	Susan
Edwards	Cheryl
Edwards	Bria
Ellyn	Dana
Elsner	Rita
Erickson	Hyunsuk
Farrell Johnson	Cynthia
Federman Cogut	Felisa
Feit Covey	Rosemary
Finsen	Jill
Fishel	Sharon
Flanders	Sheila
Fragione	Cianne
Frank	Mary Anella
Frederick	Helen
Freestone	Jenny
Fussner	Emily
Gallegos O'Neill	Helena
Gauthiez-Charpentier	Marie
Ghim	Genie
Gibson-Hunter	Claudia (Aziza)
Giganti	Kate
Goldberg	Margery
Goldman	Susan
Goodman	Janis
Goslee	Patricia
Grand	Freya
Granek	Graciela
Haden	Josephine
Halprin	Debra
Hamblett	Beatrice
Harrison	Elyse
Hasbun	Muriel
Hashem	Seemeen
Hassan	Rania
Hayes	Jennifer
Hecht	Mira
Hehlen	Alexandra
Herman	Michelle
Hester	Francie
Hill	Lisa
Hill	Ellen
Hipschen	Pattee
Holt	Leslie
Hostetler	Susan
Hoysted	Jackie
Hull	Sarah
Hunter	Michal
Ichiuji	Melissa
Ilchi	Hedieh
Jackson	Selena
Jackson Jarvis	Martha
Jakobsberg	Pauline
Januszkiewicz	Barbara
Jarzynski	Teresa
Jenkins	Carmen
Johnson	M. Jane
Kallista	Jessica
Kanzler	Jenny
Karametou	Maria
Katalkina	Anna
Katz	Lori
Kauffman	Sally
Kent	Trish
King	Megan
King	Zofie
Klein	Lillian
Klein	P D
Kretz	Kate
Lambert	Bridget Sue
LaMont	Susan
Lawler	Linda
Le	Ngoc
Lee	Kyujin
Lee	Jun
Lescault	Liz
Lesser	Harriet
Levin	Carol
Lillis	Jennifer
Lin	Kara
Lin	Amy
Linowitz	June
Liotta	Barbara
Little	Kirsty
Litwak	Taina
Lowenstein	Shelley
Lukaszewski	Laurel
Luttwak	Dalya
MacKinnon	Caroline
Maegawa	Akemi
Maher	Megan
Makara	Susan
Malakoff	Julia
Manalo	Isabel
Mánlapaz	Joey
Mann	Katherine
Marchand	Anne
Marcus	Jai
Marshall	Lucinda
Martire	Isabella
Marx	Amy
Massaro	Sheryl
Mayorga	Carolina
Maza Borkland	Elena
McAleer-Keeler	Kerry
McCracken	J.J.
McCrocklin	Sophia
McCullough	Donna
McFall	Becky
McGrath	Dale
McLean	Marla
Meagher-Cook	Anne
Michael	Maggie
Miele	Regina
Militaru	Ramona
Mojica	Marily
Montalbano	Michele
Montgomery	E.J.
Moody	Sharon
Morgan	Ally
Morris	Meredith
Mosley-Pasley	Camille
Moumin	Adrianne
Mueller	Lindsay
Mussoff	Jody
Nassikas	Georgia
Newmyer	Carol
Niehuss	Juliette
Niland Rounds	Lori
Nolan	Leslie
Nzinga Terrel	Zsudayka
Oaxaca	Teresa
Offen	Ronnie
Okropiridze	Tea
Olivos	Claudia
Orgen	Erica
Osher	Marian
Packard	Betsy
Parker	Nicole
Patin	Dora
Peck	Judith
Perdomo	Monica
Pérez-Ramos	Sandra
Pham	Anne
Ping Shen	Pearl
Pinner	Robin
Pocen	Naan
Poku-Speight	Patricia Edwine
Pollock	Maryanne
Posey	Kelly
Prinsloo	Yolanda
Raab	Susana
Rachko	Barbara
Raedeke	Erin
Rebhan	Gail
Reed	Carol
Reed	Felicia
Renteria	Cindy K.
Ress	Beverly
Riccio	Marie
Riley	Lesley
Ringwald	Marie
Rivarde	Cindy
Robles-Gordon	Amber
Rodman	Sarah
Rogers	Alla
Rojas	Roxanna
Rosenstein	Lisa K.
Rothschild	Gayle
Rubin	Carol
Ryan	Christine
Sandell	Renee
Sargent	Madeleine
Sausser	Nancy
Schmitz	Karen
Schwartzberg	Deanna
Sestakova	Martina
Sever	Lian
Shalowitz	Susan
Shaw	Janathel
Shaw-Clemons	Gail
Shelford	April
Sigethy	Alison
Sikorska	Elzbieta
Silverthorne	Alexandra
Siple	Pauline
Southerland	Judy
Springfield	Molly
Srinivasan	Pritha
Staiger	Marsha
Stockton	Eve
Stout	Renee
Svat	Terry
Szalus	Veronica
Thompson	Kat
Underwood	Patricia
Uskievitch	Christine
Van Brakle	Jessica
Vasquez	Gloria
Vera	Rosa Ines
Vess	Claudia
Vidales	Marite
Viola	Pamela
Walsh	Lori
Walton	Jenny
Warren Gobar	Sandra
Way	Andrea
Weiss	Ellyn
Wellman	Joyce
Wilkerson	Tracy
Wolf-Hubbard	Marcie
Wolpoff	Sharon
Wood	Helen
Wrbican	Sue
Yamaguchi	Yuriko
Yancy	Shawn
Yurdin	Suzanne
Zeller	Paula
Ziselberger	Barbara
Zughaib	Helen

From Yelp:

We're officially hiring a new community intern for later 2025 when Riley's time comes to an unwanted end, and we're on the hunt for another perfect fit. As Elites, you know a ton of talented people so we're tapping on you to help us spread the word on this five-star opportunity. If you know someone that is the best at throwing parties, loves all things local, and has brand social media experience, have them apply at the link below.

Apply here.

Nine years ago my courageous mother died... this is my eulogy from that day:

When my father died last year, I began his eulogy by noting that another oak had fallen.

This morning, around 1:25AM, Ana Olivia Cruzata Marrero de Campello, his wife of over 60 years, and my beloved mother, passed on on the day of her 97th birthday.

If my father was an oak, then my mother was an equally strong, but also very pliable, and elegant tree.  When hurricanes attack the main lands of the world, the strong tall trees often fall, but the pliable ones, like plantain trees, always give with the wind, and survive the storms, and thrive in the drenching rains.

My mother was like a an aged plantain tree, not only immensely strong and pliable, but also giving and nurturing.

Like many Cuban women of her generation and her social-economic background, she had never worked for a living in Cuba, and yet within a few days of our arrival in New York in the 1960s, she was working long hours in a sewing factory, putting her formidable seamstress skills, honed in the social sewing and embroidery gathering of young Cuban girls, to use in the "piece work" process of the New York sewing factories.

As soon as we saved the money, one of the first things that my mother bought was an electric sewing machine - a novelty to her, as she had always used one of the those ancient Singer machines with a foot pedal.

I remember as a child in Brooklyn, that women used to bring her fabric and a page from a magazine with a woman wearing a dress. Without the benefit of a sewing pattern, my mother would whip up a copy of the dress that was more often than not probably better made than the original. As the word of her skills spread, so did her customers and soon she was making more money working at home than at the factory - but she kept both jobs.

I once noted to her that I admired the courage that it must have taken  her to leave her family and immigrate to the United States. "We didn't come here as immigrants," she corrected me. "We came as political refugees, and I initially thought that we'd be back in Cuba within a few years at the most."

When the brutal Castro dictatorship refused to loosen its stranglehold on her birth place, she became an immigrant, and from there on an American citizen from her white-streaked hair down to her heel bone (that's a Cuban saying). Like my father, she loved her adopted country with a ferocity, that I sometimes feel that only people who have been bloodied by Communism can feel for a new, free homeland.

As as I've noted before, Cubans are archaic immigrants... we love this great nation because we recognize its singular and unique greatness; perhaps it is because our forebears had the same chance at greatness and blew it.

I remember as a teenager, once I started going out to parties and things at night on my own (around age 16 or so), that my mother would wait up for me, sitting by the third floor window of our Brooklyn apartment, where she could survey the whole neighborhood and see as far as the elevated LL subway station a few blocks away, to watch me descend the station stairs and trace my way home.

My mother was always fit and, as once described by my father, "flaca como un fusil" (as slim as a rifle). She was strong and fast. She was also quiet, but never silenced, and when needed, could and would command attention.

My mother was always well dressed and superbly coiffed. When we'd go to parties and events, women would always ask her where she'd gotten that dress! The answer was always the same: she'd made it!

At least once a week, to my father's dismay, and in spite of his demands that my mother stop it, she'd get her hair done at the nearby peluqueria (hair dresser).

My dad knew, and respected his limits with my mother. 

I remember one time that my father and I were returning from shopping at the supermarket, dragging one of those wheeled folding carts that could carry four full paper grocery bags. It had been snowing, so the Brooklyn streets were wet and muddy.

When we got to our apartment my father opened the door. He then stood there.

"Go in!" I demanded.

"We'll have to wait," he said gloomily, "Your mother mopped the floor and it's still wet." This giant, tough, street-brawling Galician then looked at me sheepishly, "I'd rather walk through a mine field than step on your mother's wet floor."

I learned a lesson there.

She used to delight in telling stories how, as a child, she would often win the horse races that kids staged around the small country towns where she was raised in Oriente province, where her father was a Mayoral. 

"I almost always won," she'd say, and then would add: "Even though I was a skinny girl."

Once, in her seventies, back in the days where you could actually accompany people to the departing gates at airports, we were escorting my oldest daughter Vanessa, who had come to visit, and we were running late. As we got to the airport, we ran to the gate, and to everyone's surprise, Abuela got there first. I still remember how delighted my daughter was that her grandmother could still run like a gazelle.

When I joined the Navy at age 17, my first duty station was USS SARATOGA, which at the time was stationed in Mayport in Florida, and thus my parents decided to migrate south to Florida and moved to Miami... just to be close to me.

They spent the next 40 years in the same apartment while I was stationed all over the world.

The mostly Cuban-American families that lived over the years in that apartment loved my mother, and would always tell me stories about my mother, ever the nurturer, bringing them food when she knew that they were going over tough times, or riding the buses with them, just to show them the routes.

This week, when I arrived in Miami, already somewhat knowing that this was approaching the end, I saw her with tubes coming out of her mouth and her eyes closed. When I spoke to her she opened her eyes, and in spite of the visuals that my eyes were seeing she somehow still managed to look strong. 

I showed her photos and movies of her grand children, and talked to her for a long time.

I thanked her for having the courage to leave her motherland and afford me the opportunity to grow as an American.

When she was being extubated, a young woman came into the room with a guitar and played and sang the haunting free prose of Guajira Guantanamera (The peasant girl from Guantanamo); a most fitting song, since my mother was from Guantanamo, and she came from strong Cuban peasant stock.

"Guajira pero fina (A peasant, but a very refined woman)", noted a neighbor and loving caretaker. 

The song, which can start with just about any prose, started with the Jose Marti poem:

 Yo quiero, cuando me muera, sin patria, pero sin amo, tener en mi tumba un ramo de flores y una bandera

I want to, when I die, without my motherland, but without a master, to have on my tomb a bunch of flowers and a flag.

She died without a master, a strong and pliable woman who not only gave me the gift of life, but also the gift of freedom.

And as my mother died in her sleep in the early hours of the morning, in the capital city of the bitter Cuban Diaspora, all that I could gather to say to her was mostly the same that I said to my father when he passed last year: "Thank you for your courage... from me, and from my children... and soon from their children. You opened a whole new world for them."

I love you Mami... Un Abrazo Fuerte! Thank you for your gifts to me and my children, and happy birthday in Heaven!

 Update on the Women Artists of the DMV survey show: 

1. We are up to nine venues, and working on a 10th! Over 300 artists selected so far! Know of an exhibition venue who may be interested? Email me!

2. The deadline to apply is coming up! If an artist does not apply, then I can't include!

3. Please pass the word to any and all DMV female artists who you may know!

4. If you know any politicians, businesses,  or anyone willing to sponsor a prize, please contact me directly! I can use some help with this!

5. All details here: https://dcartnews.blogspot.com/2025/01/women-artists-of-dmv-all-that-you-need.html

6. The artists selected so far are listed below -- if you have emailed me, and I have not responded with a YES or NO, please email me again.  If I have responded and said YES, and you're name is not on the list below, please email me!

Abramson	Cathy
Achu	Shiri
Altman	Evie
Alzona	Esperanza
Andreozzi	Maremi
Antognoli	Erin
Applequist	Courtney
Arkin	Sondra
Armstrong	Sharon
Balamaci	Suzi
Banks	Michele
Banner	Marilyn
Bardin	Sara
Barfield	Kate
Barker-Barzel	Veronica
Barlow	Jennifer
Barnes	Victoria
Barr	Denée
Barr	Tara
Barsha	Carol
Bass	Holly
Battle	Lisa
Beaudet	Jennifer Lynn
Benderson	Judith
Bentley	Sarah
Birch	Karin
Bishop	Jennifer
Blom	Liliane
Bloom	Julia
Boccella Bagin	Carolyn
Bonds	Prudence
Boocks	Lori
Boozer	Margaret
Borchert	Vian
Bouie	Anne
Brabant	Jill
Brandt	Claire
Breen	Laurie
Brito	Maria
Brotman	Lisa
Brown Goldberg	Carol
Bruce	Amy
Buck	Patricia
Bugash	Dianne
Bullock	Shante
Burley	Melissa
Byron	Judy
Calisti	Denise
Calvin	Stephane
Canuteson	Sue
Carren	Rachel
Casqueiro	Elizabeth
Chandrasekar	Shanthi
Chang	Mei Mei
Chen	Hsin-His
Cherubim	Anne
Clouthier	Irene
Coelho	Amanda
Collier	Bonnie B.
Cooper Cabe	Diane
Cornett	Ellen
Cornwell	Kathy
Craigie-Marshall	Lea
Crider	Sheila
Crocetta	Jacqui
Cullins	Andrea
Curren	Beth
Cybyk	Andrea
Danzinger	Joan
Daryl	KayLee
Dastur	Delna
Davis	Jenny
Davis	Tanya
Davis	Anna U.
Davison	Elizabeth
Dawson	Danni
Day	Catherine
de Poel Wilberg	Patricia
Dekel	Limor
Demovidova	Anna
Donahoe	Wendy
Dowell	Margaret
Droblyen	Jen
Durrett	Nekisha
Early	Mary
Eder	Susan
Edwards	Cheryl
Edwards	Bria
Ellyn	Dana
Elsner	Rita
Erickson	Hyunsuk
Farrell Johnson	Cynthia
Federman Cogut	Felisa
Feit Covey	Rosemary
Finsen	Jill
Fishel	Sharon
Flanders	Sheila
Fragione	Cianne
Frank	Mary Anella
Frederick	Helen
Freestone	Jenny
Fussner	Emily
Gallegos O'Neill	Helena
Gauthiez-Charpentier	Marie
Ghim	Genie
Gibson-Hunter	Claudia (Aziza)
Giganti	Kate
Goldberg	Margery
Goldman	Susan
Goodman	Janis
Goslee	Patricia
Grand	Freya
Granek	Graciela
Haden	Josephine
Halprin	Debra
Hamblett	Beatrice
Harrison	Elyse
Hasbun	Muriel
Hashem	Seemeen
Hassan	Rania
Hayes	Jennifer
Hecht	Mira
Hehlen	Alexandra
Herman	Michelle
Hester	Francie
Hill	Lisa
Hill	Ellen
Hipschen	Pattee
Holt	Leslie
Hostetler	Susan
Hoysted	Jackie
Hull	Sarah
Hunter	Michal
Ichiuji	Melissa
Ilchi	Hedieh
Jackson	Selena
Jackson Jarvis	Martha
Jakobsberg	Pauline
Januszkiewicz	Barbara
Jarzynski	Teresa
Jenkins	Carmen
Johnson	M. Jane
Kallista	Jessica
Kanzler	Jenny
Karametou	Maria
Katalkina	Anna
Katz	Lori
Kauffman	Sally
Kent	Trish
King	Megan
King	Zofie
Klein	Lillian
Klein	P D
Kretz	Kate
Lambert	Bridget Sue
LaMont	Susan
Lawler	Linda
Le	Ngoc
Lee	Kyujin
Lee	Jun
Lescault	Liz
Lesser	Harriet
Levin	Carol
Lillis	Jennifer
Lin	Kara
Lin	Amy
Linowitz	June
Liotta	Barbara
Little	Kirsty
Litwak	Taina
Lowenstein	Shelley
Lukaszewski	Laurel
Luttwak	Dalya
MacKinnon	Caroline
Maegawa	Akemi
Maher	Megan
Makara	Susan
Malakoff	Julia
Manalo	Isabel
Mánlapaz	Joey
Mann	Katherine
Marchand	Anne
Marcus	Jai
Marshall	Lucinda
Martire	Isabella
Marx	Amy
Massaro	Sheryl
Mayorga	Carolina
Maza Borkland	Elena
McAleer-Keeler	Kerry
McCracken	J.J.
McCrocklin	Sophia
McCullough	Donna
McFall	Becky
McGrath	Dale
McLean	Marla
Meagher-Cook	Anne
Michael	Maggie
Miele	Regina
Militaru	Ramona
Mojica	Marily
Montalbano	Michele
Montgomery	E.J.
Moody	Sharon
Morgan	Ally
Morris	Meredith
Mosley-Pasley	Camille
Moumin	Adrianne
Mueller	Lindsay
Mussoff	Jody
Nassikas	Georgia
Newmyer	Carol
Niehuss	Juliette
Niland Rounds	Lori
Nolan	Leslie
Nzinga Terrel	Zsudayka
Oaxaca	Teresa
Offen	Ronnie
Okropiridze	Tea
Olivos	Claudia
Orgen	Erica
Osher	Marian
Packard	Betsy
Parker	Nicole
Patin	Dora
Peck	Judith
Perdomo	Monica
Pérez-Ramos	Sandra
Pham	Anne
Ping Shen	Pearl
Pinner	Robin
Pocen	Naan
Poku-Speight	Patricia Edwine
Pollock	Maryanne
Posey	Kelly
Prinsloo	Yolanda
Raab	Susana
Rachko	Barbara
Raedeke	Erin
Rebhan	Gail
Reed	Carol
Reed	Felicia
Renteria	Cindy K.
Ress	Beverly
Riccio	Marie
Riley	Lesley
Ringwald	Marie
Rivarde	Cindy
Robles-Gordon	Amber
Rodman	Sarah
Rogers	Alla
Rojas	Roxanna
Rosenstein	Lisa K.
Rothschild	Gayle
Rubin	Carol
Ryan	Christine
Sandell	Renee
Sargent	Madeleine
Sausser	Nancy
Schmitz	Karen
Schwartzberg	Deanna
Sestakova	Martina
Sever	Lian
Shalowitz	Susan
Shaw	Janathel
Shaw-Clemons	Gail
Shelford	April
Sigethy	Alison
Sikorska	Elzbieta
Silverthorne	Alexandra
Siple	Pauline
Southerland	Judy
Springfield	Molly
Srinivasan	Pritha
Staiger	Marsha
Stockton	Eve
Stout	Renee
Svat	Terry
Szalus	Veronica
Thompson	Kat
Underwood	Patricia
Uskievitch	Christine
Van Brakle	Jessica
Vasquez	Gloria
Vera	Rosa Ines
Vess	Claudia
Vidales	Marite
Viola	Pamela
Walsh	Lori
Walton	Jenny
Warren Gobar	Sandra
Way	Andrea
Weiss	Ellyn
Wellman	Joyce
Wilkerson	Tracy
Wolf-Hubbard	Marcie
Wolpoff	Sharon
Wood	Helen
Wrbican	Sue
Yamaguchi	Yuriko
Yancy	Shawn
Yurdin	Suzanne
Zeller	Paula
Ziselberger	Barbara
Zughaib	Helen