Story

Chapter 1

She was being shadowed. She couldn't tell if it was a man or a woman, tall or short, white or colored, because she hadn't actually seen her shadow. It was a feeling--no, a certainty deep in her gut, a tightening of her muscles and a shrill panicked voice in her head that was telling her, yelling at her....RUN...HIDE.

Instead she stood motionless, pressing her body tight to the grimy, graffiti-festooned concrete at her back, surreptitiously scanning the area around her with only the slightest movement of her head.

She had felt her shadow days ago, but she had been able to evade her pursuer because she knew this area of the city well. She knew the back alleys and the location of each shrubbery and dumpster, the secret places under the stairs in some of the buildings, the recessed doors and back exits.

She would feel that tingle at the small of her back and she would be gone. Poof. Crouched behind a dumpster, rigid and unmoving behind a lamp post, lost in a crowd of rowdy students crossing the street, or pasted like now, to the hulk of a wall. If she didn't move, she could almost be part of the graffiti. Mis-matched clothes, dirty sneakers, a scarf wound around her head.

She clutched her backpack close thinking she couldn't lose that, too. They'd stolen everything else she had. This she would guard with her life.

Love is....

ANXIETY
crossing your fingers
spending sleepless nights
wanting to look your best
feeling foolish
crying without reason
touching knee to knee
Love is drawing a line. Somewhere.

DOING THINGS TOGETHER
messing up his hair
eating what you don't like
sitting side by side
unseeing a movie twice
wordless
waiting for his call
counting the hours
dancing very close
hating to say goodbye
acting silly
laughing without reason
touching thigh to thigh
Love is stretching the point. Further.

HAPPINESS
knowing his footsteps
feeling breathless
sensing his presence
being idiotic
laughing with tears
touching
Love is surrendering. Completely.

Impasse

Funny
The two of us sitting here
Apart
Cold
Hostile.


I will not be the first to speak
To break the silence now would be
a sign of weakness
an admission of guilt.
I refuse to be bullied
Particularly by someone
bigger
and stronger.
Childish am I? Unreasonable?
Wait till you hear what I think of you,
you pig-headed
narrow-minded tyrant!

I will not look at you either
I fear that if I do
Your eyes will mock me,
Woo me, cow me, subdue me.
I will not be able to help myself
I will break the silence
admit my guilt
humbly
Again.

Brain drain

I went to the post office today to mail a package. Weeks ago, I succumbed to a TV ad touting the benefits of a facial moisturizer/anti-aging solution guaranteed to rejuvenate and lift my skin. If for some reason I didn't like it, I could return the merchandise and pay only a small shipping fee. I figured why not. It wasn't the first time I've tried out merchandise this way and God knew my skin needed some rejuvenating. If it didn't work, I just had to be sure to cancel before the return deadline so my credit card wouldn't be charged the $79.95 + tax that the small jar of the magic goo costs. Fine. I could remember that. That's what post-it notes are for and magnets on my refrigerator.

So each morning and night no matter how rushed or tired or sleepy I was, I took the time to cleanse my face properly, use the free toner that accompanied the moisturizer, and smooth the miracle solution all over my face. Hope springs eternal indeed. Yesterday, I finally accepted the miracle wasn't working for me. My face was peeling, there were ugly red bumps on my skin and my face felt sticky in the evening. If "rejuvenation" meant I would be getting acne again at my age, I didn't need it.

So back to the post office. Before that of course I had to call the company, tell them I had decided to return the cream, explain why, say no to their offer of another product to try, get the return number and instructions for returning the blessed jar. Fine and dandy. I wrap the package carefully in bubble wrap, make sure the RMA number is prominently displayed, pulled out my debit card and drove to the post office. I felt so in control. I get in line, wait interminably for the lady ahead of me who was laboriously handwriting addresses to about a million envelopes and chatting up the mailman when she was done, I hand over the package, pull out my debit card, and realized I had my Macy's card, instead of my bank card.

Did I feel dumb? Yes. Before that point, I felt so in control and organized. I was sure I had covered all the bases, crossed all the T's and dotted all the I's. It was that last act of pulling out the wrong card that slew me. I got careless because in my mind, I had the project all wrapped up. Teaches you that in this life, sometimes it's the little things that trip you up.

Next time, I think I'll try a memory pill instead. My brain needs tightening more than my skin.

Intruder in my Home

Police slow to respond to home intruder - but I was, too

(Published June 8, 2003, The News Tribune, Tacoma, Washington)

It happened around 10:30 one recent Friday evening. My husband was in bed with a cold, my daughter Carmela was in her room, and my mom had retired for the night.

I was ensconced in my favorite sofa watching a family of cops on TV battle a psycho serial killer. The show was mediocre at best, but figuring out the motive for the killings was keeping me engaged.

My life revolves around a dull work-run errands-work routine. To compensate, I read spy and suspense thrillers voraciously and I'm a big fan of action and disaster films, police, forensics and lawyer shows.

My fascination with crime and courtroom scenes intensified after my son Dexter was murdered three years ago and my family spent three weeks in court making sure his killer was punished.

You'd think after all those books and movies and real-life tragedy that I would have been more prepared for the scene that unfolded fairly quickly in my living room that Friday evening.

Carmela had just come down the stairs when I heard someone fumbling at the front door. I was mildly curious, wondering who among my extended family was coming to visit so late in the evening. Just as I realized I didn't hear a key turn, the door was pushed open and a man I didn't know from anywhere walked into our home.

He was a scruffy white male with the belligerent and dazed stance of someone drunk, high on drugs or both. My daughter gasped, her eyes round with alarm, while I - who could easily earn a Ph.D. in armchair criminal detection and apprehension - sat in my comfortable sofa observing the intruder with the clinical detachment of my favorite "CSI" character (shock-induced paralysis, actually).

The intruder swayed and clutched the doorknob as he staggered back. His momentum swung the door closed, taking him with it. When the latch clicked, it dawned on me that my daughter and I were alone again and momentarily safe. "Lock the door," I told her urgently, "and call 911."

Carmela secured the locks and got on the phone to 911. "He's still at the door," she said. "He hasn't left."

I peered through the blinds and noted that the man was indeed sitting with his back against the door. At least he's outside, I thought. We're safe. Then he banged on the door with his fist and muttered unintelligible threats.

The sudden fear this engendered and the rush of tears on my daughter's cheeks finally unglued me from my seat. Adrenaline to the rescue. I took the phone from Carmela and tried to calm her fears.

"It's going to be all right," I said. "I want you to go back to your room now and lock the door."

I carried a chair from the dining room and propped it against the door the way I've seen it done on TV. Then I took a sharp knife from the kitchen and stood vigil by the door.

I stayed on the phone with the 911 operator until the police arrived, at least 15 minutes later. By the time they got there, the intruder had banged on my door a few more times, testing my resolve to do the unthinkable with the knife in my hand. It sounds melodramatic now, but it was all I could think of at that time. No one was going to harm my family again if I could help it.

Thankfully, the man tired of the siege and left. The police searched briefly, but he was gone. When I asked why it took them so long to reach my house, they said they had come all the way from the other side of town. There were no other units closer to my house, and only a few of them were out that night. Budget cuts.

They theorized the man was drunk and probably mistook our house for his. They took down my name and left. Mission accomplished. End of story.

But not for me. There are lingering questions and lessons learned.

Why did he pick our house that night? And will he be back? Would the police have come sooner if the man had been inside my house instead of at the door? If he had a weapon, would help have come on time to save us? And given the situation, would I really have wielded the knife to kill another human being?

The lessons are easier. I will be more vigilant about keeping doors and windows locked. I will stop deluding myself that I am a super secret agent disguised as a middle-age bookworm. I will acquire a gun.

And next time this happens, I might just call my family first. I think their response time will be much shorter than the police.

(Belma Villa of Tacoma writes monthly as a guest columnist for the Perspectives page.)

Missing Dexter

Moment of violence turns family's life upside down

(Published 12:01AM, November 23rd, 2003, The News Tribune, Tacoma, Washington)

Five years ago we were a normal happy family. My husband and I were gainfully employed, and we had three wonderful, good-looking children, one boy and two girls.

Our children made us proud: no drugs, no gangs, no guns. Our youngest was proving to be an excellent student, and the two older kids had good steady jobs and promising futures. In addition, our son Dexter had just gone back to college to pursue his dream of becoming a computer engineer. Life was good.

Then one day fate intervened, and our perfect world was turned upside down.

This is the story of our reversal and our long journey back. Our struggle is far from over, but perhaps it will serve as a beacon for other families who have also recently lost a loved one.

Dexter was our first-born and the only boy of his generation on both sides of our family. "Unico hijo" - the only son. He was a natural for the role of dutiful son and nephew and the protective brother to his sisters and female cousins. Dexter was funny and sensitive, charismatic and loving. He was the bright flame at the center of our family.

One October afternoon he came out of his class at Tacoma Community College, straight into the path of a man who decided he wanted Dexter's prized Acura Integra.

He was a foot taller and at least 30 pounds heavier than my son, and he had a gun in his waistband.

He left Dexter by the roadside with multiple defensive bruises on his arms and legs and a .22 slug lodged in his brain.

Dexter was into speed. Not the kind that some people use to fry their brains with, but the type of speed that took him places: racing bikes, roller blades, skateboards, snowboards and cars. As an infant, he barely crawled before he was on his feet, and then he was off running. My earliest memories of him are tiny running feet pattering across the wooden floors of our home, up and down the stairs, always in a hurry.

He was happiest when he was out racing with his friends, pretending to be a pilot revving for take-off. I can almost see the sparkle in his eyes, the electric excitement and the wide grin on his face as his car "smoked" the competition.

I like to think that when that bullet entered his brain, he went just as quickly. Now here, then gone, before he realized what was happening, before he felt any pain.

Five years later we are still struggling to make sense of our loss. Dexter's clothes, shoes, colognes and remote-controlled cars are in various parts of our home. Some of his ball caps and his favorite jacket, his uniform to work, are hanging in my bedroom where I can see them every day.

His pictures are everywhere. Sometimes when I'm half asleep or dead tired on my feet and not thinking, I see Dexter's things and I'm comforted, and for a few precious seconds lull myself into believing my son is still with us.

My greatest fear is facing the fact that Dexter is truly lost to us forever. And so I watch television's John Edward ("Crossing Over with John Edward") religiously as he delivers messages from souls who have crossed over, and I ache with the hope that I might someday hear from my son, too.

Delusion and false hope are pathetic tools, but right now they seem to be the only ones working.

We drive cars with decals that read, "In loving memory of Dex," and we have little earthen jars filled with his ashes that we take everywhere we go. We celebrate his birthdays and come together at the anniversary of his death; we maintain his memorial bench and make sure he has fresh flowers every day, and we keep the oil lamp by his pictures lit - but we still can't talk about him and not cry.

My daughter Sharon said it best in one of her open letters to her brother. "I want to see you laugh again, to hear your voice, to see your smile, and call out your name. I want to look back and remember without crying and feeling sad. I want to look at your pictures without crying. I want to talk about you with mom and dad without them crying. I miss you so and I'm so sorry I didn't get to say goodbye."


(Belma Villa of Tacoma writes once a month as a guest columnist for the Perspectives page.)

A PC America

Political correctness creating climate of fear, silence

(Published July 20, 2003, The News Tribune, Tacoma, Washington)

If there is one thing that could cause the downfall of democratic America, I'd lay my bet on PC.

Politically correct. It sounds almost benign. Its original intent was certainly laudable. "Support a program of broad social, political and educational change, especially to redress historical injustices in matters such as race, class, gender and sexual orientation."

The problem is we lost control along the way, and PC has been running amok since. The result is a citizenry that is confused, virtually clueless and afraid to say anything that could possibly offend any member of our various PC-protected groups.

Take my case for example.

One Saturday morning, I was running errands and chasing down store specials as usual. I chatted with a couple of people I know and exchanged small talk with the librarian, cashiers, grocery baggers and latte junkies.

When I reached home and looked in the mirror, I nearly died. My hair was a mess. A thick clump was bunched at the side of my head with a scraggly part sticking up. I looked like an escapee from a Stephen King nightmare.

I thought of all the nice and friendly people I had just talked with. Not one of them had indicated by word or gesture that there was anything amiss with my appearance.

Can't say I blame them. I am a brown-skinned woman who speaks with the lilt of the tropics and the warm exuberance of my Spanish forebears. My tongue is used to the flat vowels of my native language and occasionally trips on tricky English words. In our overly PC-vigilant society, who would dare say anything to me that could be misconstrued as disrespectful or prejudicial?

In another world and time, any one of those people could have said, "Honey, are you aware that you hair is all messed up?" Or if I were a young man instead, maybe someone would have said, "Hey dude, what's up with the hair?" Or even, "Cool, man, you are sooo with it!"

However, I am a person of color, a minority, a member of an under-represented group and therefore to be treated with utmost caution and only with a 10-foot pole.

In our zeal to ensure equality for all, we are quickly losing the capacity to be direct and forthright. We couch our language in politically correct and euphemistic words, as though calling the blind "visually challenged" or the deaf "hearing impaired" makes their situation more palatable.

Even more worrisome, political correctness has crossed over from mere cosmetic words to public policy and actions verging on the ridiculous.

For instance, have you heard about this community in Texas where the county commissioners unanimously designated "Heaven-o" as the county's official greeting? "Hello," is no longer acceptable to them because the first four letters spell a word they'd rather not hear.

And remember the furor when a certain mayoral aide used the word "niggardly" to describe the city budget? This raised the ire of many people because it was close enough to the "n" word that we're not allowed to say it anymore.

Never mind that "niggardly" was most appropriate to the meaning being conveyed. Nor that it is a thoroughly respectable English word meaning stingy or miserly. And never mind that the message had nothing to do with race or color or ethnicity.

Some segments of our society heard what they wanted to hear, and raised a mighty outcry. "Off with his head," or words to that effect. Poor guy didn't know what hit him. He had to apologize most profusely and was forced to quit his job over a word. Imagine that.

In our bizzarely schizophrenic society, the "F-word" and the "B-word" are acceptable, and in some settings even cool. But heads have rolled and blood has been spilled over some common words and phrases that are suddenly no longer acceptable.

And that's part of the problem. Who's keeping tabs on "inappropriate" words and their politically correct alternatives? Is there a PC primer or self-help book where ordinary, God-fearing citizens who don't want to lose their jobs or be sued out of their pants can go for guidance?

If help doesn't come soon, we will devolve into a society of insincere wimps, afraid to say or do anything that would bring down the ire of PC vigilantes on our heads - and an army of gleeful lawyers behind them.

My advice to Saddam, Osama and all those lovely folks who hate us? Wait. A few more years of this PC environment and you won't have to lift a finger because we will have done it to ourselves. A nation paralyzed by the fear of offending. It would be the ultimate PC world - a Permanently Catatonic America.

(Belma Villa of Tacoma writes once a month as a guest columnist for the Perspectives page.)

Washington Achievers

Fairy tales coming true for disadvantaged scholars

(Published October 12, 2003, The News Tribune, Tacoma, Washington)

Modern-day fairy tales fascinate me. I can't resist stories about ordinary people struggling to overcome difficult personal and family circumstances in pursuit of their dreams and goals and ultimately triumphing.

It's the happy endings that get me, and the heroic struggle to get there. Because fairy tales are essentially stories of hope and renewal, I have made it my personal mission to search them out and share their powerful magic.

Today I am going to tell you about real-life fairy tales occurring here in our state - 1,500 of them to begin with, and counting. Our heroes and heroines are low-income junior and senior Achievers Scholars in 16 high schools all over the state (three of them in Tacoma: Foss, Lincoln and Mount Tahoma).

The fairy godmothers are the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation and the Washington Education Foundation.

These modern-day fairy tales began three years ago, but the idea germinated in 1998 after the Governor's 2020 Commission on the Future of Post Secondary Education released its report. Among its recommendations was the establishment of an "independent nonprofit organization that would advocate for postsecondary education and high standards of accessibility, quality, innovation, efficiency, and responsiveness to the needs of learners."

Driven by their passion for education and public service and concern for the state's disadvantaged children, two community leaders stepped up to the challenge and founded the Washington Education Foundation: Bob Craves, co-chair of the 2020 Commission and chair of the Washington Higher Education Coordinating Board, and Ann Jenkins, a fellow board member. In establishing the foundation, Craves and Jenkins hoped to encourage scholarship philanthropy among Washington citizens. They wanted to help traditionally underrepresented children go to college, improve their economic condition and achieve a better life.

The Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation pledged millions in funding, and the Washington State Achievers Program was born. The concept is simple. Working closely with 16 redesigned high schools that facilitate academic achievement and college awareness, the foundation aims to provide scholarship opportunities and mentoring support for talented low-income students who would otherwise not have the opportunity to pursue a four-year degree. (For information about the program, visit www.waedfoundation.org.)

A lot of people were skeptical in the beginning, including some school administrators and teachers from the qualifying high schools. Some believed that this sector of the student population was (a) not interested in going to college; and/or (b) did not have the skills or the persistence to succeed. Some said it was a Herculean task destined for failure.

But Craves and Jenkins, their board of directors and a small cadre of dedicated staff believed otherwise, and they appear to have been vindicated.

In the three years since the program started, about 1,500 underrepresented low-income students have been awarded the Achievers scholarship, with 1,180 of them now in college.

About a dozen students who were enrolled in Running Start when the program first started will receive their four-year degrees in June 2004. A good number of the first cohort is expected to graduate in June 2005. There will be about 400 more each year until the program ends in 2013. By that time, the number of college-trained Achievers Scholars will have grown to about 5,000.

Think about that for a moment. Over the next 10 years, there will be an average of 400 new college graduates each year from the Achievers program alone who will join the work force, earn good pay, lead better lives and contribute to the development of our economy.

The benefits get compounded when you think about the people around these students whose lives will also be changed. Achievers Scholars now serve as new role models in their communities, reinforcing the message that good work and perseverance are rewarded, access to higher education is possible and a four-year degree is attainable.

Many of the students will be the first in their families to go to college and will inspire others to follow in their footsteps.

For scholars like Thu Nguyen, who graduated from Foss High School's International Baccalaureate program with a 4.0 grade-point average and a string of scholarships and grants for college, an Achievers award has provided the option to go to her school of choice without taking out student loans or worrying about working while in college.

The lesson in these stories is clear. A few individuals with the right heart and a good cause can indeed make a difference in the lives of other people, and happy endings are possible for those who work hard and persevere. Surely, that's the stuff fairy tales are made of.

(Belma Villa of Tacoma writes once a month as a guest columnist for the Perspectives Page.)

Dexter's Memorial Bench

Instill values, and save another family from grief


(Published August 31, 2003, The News Tribune, Tacoma, Washington)

Five years ago, I received a phone call that shattered my family's peaceful existence. My son Dexter had been shot by a car thief on a lonely strip of road off Wilton Road and Sixth Avenue, leading to the Tacoma Outboard Association dock at Titlow Park.

I was the first of my family to reach Madigan Army Medical Center, but it was already too late. My son was brain-dead, with a bullet wound to his head that the doctors described as "unsurvivable." Dexter was gone, just like that.

In the days and weeks that followed, we found ourselves drawn to the spot where he had been shot. Friends and family members brought flowers, pictures, cards and things that Dexter had loved: his favorite cologne, car magazines, caramel Frappucinos.

Before long, a makeshift memorial grew on the side of the road. It was a lonely, miserable bit of ground that got churned and muddy when it rained, but to my family it was a sacred spot. This was where our son had spent his last conscious moments in life, fighting for what was his, scared, helpless and alone. The thought that we were literally not there for him when he needed us most was intolerable.

In time, and with the help of friends, we put up a park bench where the makeshift memorial had been. It's a simple wooden bench with a brass plaque bearing Dexter's name and picture, and the dates of his birth and death. We built a frame on the ground around it and filled it with small stones, and then added two huge planters with flowering plants on either side of the bench.

It sits in a quiet, shady, well-lit spot where people can rest on their way to and from the park and the dock. In creating this beautiful oasis, we hoped to turn our family's tragedy into something meaningful and useful to the community. Dexter would have liked that.

In one of his News Tribune columns last year, Federico Cruz wrote about Dexter's bench. He described it as a "small wonder of the world on the west side of Tacoma ... a place for renewal and serenity," representing a "humble remembrance of family love, epitomizing the real values of our community." Those are noble and inspiring words, and for the most part, true.

My husband and I go to the bench every day to reconnect with our son. We also pick up trash, wipe the bench clean and rake the leaves and stones. We groom and water the plants, changing the variety and color with the flow and ebb of the seasons. With each visit, we renew our vow to keep our son's memory alive, not only in our hearts and minds but also in our daily lives.

In the years, we have come to know a lot of the "regulars" who visit the park - kind, neighborly, compassionate and caring people who appreciate what the bench stands for and the care we put into making it a beautiful place for the community. Strangers sit on the bench or bring a book to read. Parents sit and watch their children play nearby.

But along with these wonderful people, there are also those who come to vandalize and trash. People leave wrappers, cigarette butts, broken beer bottles and unmentionable souvenirs of late-night trysts. Flowers are picked or uprooted and the petals strewn and crushed on the ground. The planters have been smashed, the wooden bench gouged and plants routinely stolen.

In the beginning we were outraged and incredulous. How could anyone desecrate and trash what is obviously a memorial for a loved one? But over the years, we have come to almost accept that there are those who think vandalizing, trashing or stealing someone else's property is no big deal. Even fun, no doubt.

But surely this kind of apathy is just as wrong. We shouldn't allow ourselves to be anesthetized to the point where we start to think that this kind of behavior is acceptable for some people. We shouldn't just shrug our shoulders and say, "Kids will be kids," or, "Well, what else can you expect from people like that?"

We should be responsible adults instilling the right values in our children. Values such as integrity, respect for other people and their rights, respect for life. It is wrong to uproot someone else's flowers. It is wrong to trash another's property. It is wrong to steal.

Big crimes start from little ones. And who knows, perhaps one day, one adult teaching these values to a child would help prevent someone else's son from being murdered as mine was.

(Belma Villa of Tacoma writes once a month as a guest columnist for the Perspectives page.)

My Sister Eva May

Sibling's sense of independence offers vicarious thrills

(Published April 27, 2003, The News Tribune, Tacoma, Washington)

I've discovered the secret to world peace, and like all great things, it's nothing new. It's been said before in various tongues and in many different ways. Mine is just the latest iteration.

But timing's the key here, folks. And the telling. So read on.

My sister lives in paradise. She moved there five years ago in search of a new beginning. Armed with a graduate degree in museum studies and a decade of experience managing presidential palaces, she decided it was time to take her expertise to fresh territory.

She quit her job, kissed the family goodbye and traded our uncertain weather for the sunny skies and warm waters of Hawaii.

You're thinking that's a no-brainer. Show me Tacomans in their right minds who wouldn't jump at the chance to live where orchids, birds of paradise, hibiscus and ginger lily perfume the air.

I'm probably losing it, because you don't have to look farther than me. My roots in Tacoma are sunk deep, too entangled in memories to uproot easily. So I pass on Hawaii, thank you very much.

It's fascinating how different two people of the same flesh and blood can be. While I tenaciously hang on to everything I hold dear, my sister spreads her energies far and wide. She has friends everywhere; knows people in the strangest places and networks extensively with the famous and the not-so-famous.

There has never been a job good enough that she couldn't leave it for a better one; or a relationship so strong she couldn't break it. And so when she announced she was packing it and moving to Hawaii, you could say I was prepared for it.

This was not the first time she had packed up. In the past few years, my sister has left jobs I would have killed for. She has left relationships, friends and family - all in search of greener pastures and new beginnings. I watch her daring "rebirths" from the safety of my predictable life, always awed by her capacity for renewal.

My sister believes every crisis is a chance to spring forward, change course and start anew. It's a philosophy of life I don't normally subscribe to. I'm the solid, dependable, "Let's- consider-this-from-all-angles-before-we-jump" type of person. A crisis is a challenge, a test of endurance, a time to reassess strengths and weaknesses, to pause and regroup for the coming siege.

But there are times when my sister's philosophy of life is comforting. Her belief system allows limitless attempts at a second chance; nine lives factored to the nth degree. It has sustained her through periods of crushing disappointments and failed relationships. And each time, she has magically spun a new life from the pieces of the old one. It's a handy trick.

Once in a while I am tempted to try it myself. To pack and go, leave all the baggage behind, the mounting responsibilities, the ties that choke and bind, and just fly away. Just once I'd like to be able to shed the shell that's grown through the years, to slough it off and lay bare the person beneath. Or be a totally different person.

The possibilities are dizzying. Show me a working wife and mother who has not once thought of throwing in the towel and just walking away from it all.

But I don't care to take the risks, so I live my sister's life vicariously. Her stories of faraway places and interesting people, of dramas developing and conflicts resolved, add color and excitement to my life. I travel the highs and the lows with her, battle demons and conquer unbelievers, win hearts and break a few.

I like to think that my sister, too, takes away something from me that adds substance to her life - a sense of order and logic, of constancy and permanence; the value of perseverance; and never taking "no" for an answer.

And that's my point - we take a little bit from those around us to make us whole. We need others to learn from, to make us feel and look better, to complete our lives. It's the key to survival that's encoded in our system. If we're smart, the last thing we want to do is to annihilate other people, especially those most different from us.

That's my personal epiphany. I told you it wasn't new.

Back to my sister, I have a feeling she's ready for another leap. So I'm all psyched up for an exhilarating ride. Thing is, where do you go from paradise?


(Belma Villa of Tacoma is one of five reader guest columnists who write for the Perspectives page.)