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Choking on water and gasping for air, I found myself clutching onto the nose of a life guard’s kayak in the first three minutes of my first triathlon. As I floated there panting, clutching onto my neon green lifeline, I glanced over at my Apple Watch to see that my heart rate had spiked to 200 BPM. My breath was erratic. My mind was spinning. I was in full panic mode. It was then that I made eye contact with the lifeguard and he asked, “You need me to pull you out?”. I contemplated the offer, which sounded more like a threat, and thought to myself, "What have I gotten myself into?".  Waitng for my start whistle, manically happy. Little did I know that that water would teach me some lessons. Trying a Tri The line item, “complete a triathlon” has been on my “bucket list” for seven years now. It made it on every vision board and it has come up in my dreamy conversations often. However, there it sat on the list, nagging me. Its untouched presence on that list left me feeling like I was “all hat, no cattle” or in layman's terms, “all talk, no action”. And that bothered me to my core. So, in the spirit of “putting my money where my mouth is”, I “gifted” myself a triathlon on my 33rd birthday. It conveniently left me with exactly twelve weeks to train. Signing up for the triathlon, I knew the swim would be the biggest beast in the three round battle of the swim, bike, run. My swim anxiety was caused by a mix of things: the daunting distance, the dark depths of fresh wild water, and the mere fact that your girl has never swam in any competitive capacity. Frankly, I did not grow up swimming to win medals; instead, I grew up swimming to survive a midday buzz on a paddleboard. Therefore, upon registering, I intimately knew that these survival swimming skills were not going to be enough to get me through an open water swim of 820 yards. So, that is exactly where I began my training. On my first day of self-imposed swim practice, I snapped on my first swim cap and swim goggles and never felt more sexy (heavy sarcasm). I jumped in the swim lane of a pool for the first time in my life and found myself exhausted after ten laps in a 25 yard pool. For all you math fiends out there, that is only 250 yards. That is not even the distance to the first buoy in the official race. So, I knew I had work to do, and only twelve weeks to do it.
The progress in the swim came slow as I was literally a fish out of water and without a coach. Three to four times a week, I was self-teaching myself through trial and error and on my off nights of swimming I was worshiping at the altar of youtube seeking divine guidance from the swim teachers on my screen. I quickly learned how complicated swimming is and how difficult it is to coordinate all parts of your body so as to propel your body through water in the most graceful and most efficient manner possible. And on top of all that, learning how to properly breath in water (I legitimately didn’t know you were supposed to breathe at a normal rhythm. I instead was breathing by the premise of, “hold your breath as long as humanly possible, then gasp for air). When I swam, I swam slowly, and I looked like I was fighting the water instead of gliding through it. How do I know that? Well, I merely had to look to the swimlanes on my right and on my left. I was the new kid in the water, and that was very humbling, but I was in the water. And I was making progress. And even though the progress was rough and tedious…I was doing it. And that is half the battle. Trying. There was so much to learn and seamlessly coordinate, but I embraced my role as a beginner and showed up to that damn pool three to four times a week…even when I absolutely didn’t want to. While wrestling with the puzzle of the swim, I was also training for the bike and run. I felt comfortable in both these disciplines. I did not need to learn the very basics of form or technique, unlike swimming, so I knew that my main ground to cover in these disciples would be to build up my endurance and speed which would also benefit my swim. By the end of my twelve weeks of training I was running five miles without stopping at a 9 minute pace, biking the ten miles with relative ease, and I was swimming the 820 yards. I felt ready and enthusiastic for race day.
Race Day The nectarine sunrise crept over the Golden basalt flows as I set up my transition station. I hung my dad’s early 90s Cannondale bike on the rack, threw down my towel and tennis shoes and watched the other contestants pour in. The crowd was a mix of weekend warriors and seasoned triathletes. The age range was from early teenagers to spry 80 year olds. The crowd was predominantly male and predominantly anglo. And I, a novice 33 year old latina triathlete, was pumped to be in their company. All these athletes were at this race to challenge themself and test their limits, whether they were the veterans dawning their Ironman regalia or they were the 80 year olds smiling as they premeditatively rubbed on their Bengay. I felt honored to be their racemate and my nerves slipped away.
Start time was 7am. My transition station was prepped and my wetsuit was suctioned to my body. I was excited…elated, even. There was a pulse in the crowd as hundreds of us waited to be whistled into the water. I found my mom and dad amongst the crowd and they each gave me a kiss and signed a small cross on my forehead (something my parents have given to us each night as we went to bed…or other momentous occasions). I waved goodbye and joined the mass of fish out of water. I, in my pink swim cap, was the last to enter the water as I was a first time female athlete. And with being last to start, I got to watch everyone dive into that cold water…even those 80 year olds. I was so inspired and couldn’t wait to get in that water and chase after them.
The final whistle was blown and I summeraged into the water. I was immediately hit with the shock of the cold as the water began to fill my wet suit. I took my first strokes and felt my heart rate skyrocket like I have never felt before. My breathing quickened and then took on the pace of hyperventilation. I felt frozen. Panicked. And dumbfounded by the other first-timers who took off without hesitation…and most of them in just their swimsuits. The combination of my physical reaction to the cold and then my mental anguish at being dead last in the water left me paralyzed. I knew fresh water swimming panic was a common thing, so I tried to calm myself. I tried to slow my breathing. I tried to stroke and move forward, but then I got my first drink of lake water. I bobbed up and choked on what very well could have been geese shit, but I wasn’t phased, I was just happy to be above water. I didn’t want to give up, but in that water I didn’t know how to calm myself down to swim the 800 yards ahead of me. The distance was daunting as I had never seen it laid out, but instead only tackled it in 25 yard chunks via my rec center pool. I surrendered to the water’s choppy waves and began to do a modified breaststroke so as to keep my head above water. But even with this modification, the wind was blowing big chops of water that I found myself drinking while I tried to regulate my breath. To put it shortly, it was terrifying, and I knew that this terror was all in my head. I remember thinking, “Come on, Brianna…clam the fuck down…You can swim this distance…Just calm down!”. But then also thinking, “Why did you think you could do this? You’ve never swam in a race. You can’t do this. Wave down the kayak and have him pull you out.” And those thoughts between my chokes of air must have subliminally alerted the man in the green kayak. He paddled over, a jolly and kind older man, and asked…”You need me to pull you out?”. "No!”, I gasped, without hesitation. I shocked myself with my quick reply because emotionaly I was in the terrifying mental anguish of self-doubt. Chuckling he said, “That’s what I like to hear…grab the nose of my kayak and catch your breath. What is your name?”. We exchanged names. I looked at my watch to see my heart rate sitting above 200 bpm, but as we conversed for a couple minutes I saw it slowly start to fall down. I then lamented, “I want to do this…I want to finish…I’m going to finish”. He nodded his head and emphasized,, “Yeah, you’re going to have a big notch on your belt when you finish this thing. You’re a fighter. I’ll be right here if you need me.”. It was the pep-talk I needed, so I let go of the nose of the kayak and released into the cold depths of Soda Lake. The swim felt like hours, but I emerged out of the water in twenty-seven minutes…which ironically was not too far off from my best time in the pool. However, those twenty-seven minutes were some of the longest of my life. The swim was a mental battle over a physical one. I was fighting such negative and self-critical thoughts. I had trained so hard, but the water punched me in the face and reminded me that I was in fact just a novice. But with each stroke, I felt myself casting out the negative thoughts and reminding myself of my training, reminding myself of all the other times I’ve fought through and conquered a seemingly impossible situation, and reminding myself that I had people that loved me waiting for me on the shore and that they would be proud of me whether I was pulled in by a kayak or by my own stubborn will. Climbing out of the water with legs like jelly felt like passing over the finish line, even though I had two more events to do. I had finished the most difficult discipline for myself and I had conquered my self-doubt. I felt like a champion as I passed my family and began to pull off my wetsuit.  "You're a beast!", I heard my dad yelling as I hit shore. It made me smile to see all my family waiting for me as I conquered one of the most mentally taxing feats to date. I've always known I am physically strong, but that water reminded me how mentally strong I am as well. So, as I passed by them to move onto the bike, I already felt like I won the race...and yes...I am still a MF beast. I was thankful to be on land and on my bike as I rode through Bear Creek Lake Park. I pedaled hard, but found my legs stiff from my excessive kicking in the water. I embraced the fact that my previously fast rides wouldn’t be happening in this race, but kept my head down and my spirit high as I passed those who had passed me in the swim. 10 miles later, I was back at my transition station, and excited to tackle the three mile run. During the course of my triathlon training, I fell in love with running, which l never knew could be possible. I’ve always joked that I only like to run if I am chasing after a ball…but my twelve weeks of training changed that. Those three miles on the triathlon course were incredibly meditative as I worked through all the thoughts and doubts I was taxed by in the water. It was during this third leg of the race that all those doubts fell away and I was able to appreciate all of my growth, gumpton, and bravery. I’ve always prided myself on my spontaneity, my determination, my child-like love for life…and this little triathlon sprint proved that. I crossed the finish line an hour and forty-five mins later as the one who started last in the race, but was not the last to finish the race. However, placing didn’t matter to me. What mattered to me was that I crossed that finish line feeling proud of being a person who is resilient, bold, and persevering. Oh, and a bit crazy.
Call to Action
Finishing my first triathlon allowed me the honor of striking a line through the 'bucket list" item of "finishing a triathlon". Doing so felt fulfilling as I’ve never wanted to be a person who only “wishes” and “dreams”. I've never wanted to be a person who allows time to leave me with the regret of unmade attempts. No, instead, I want to be a person who recognizes my desires and moves on them without the excuses of inadequacy or daring to err on the side of too much caution. I want to be a person with her bucket list items scratched off and shining like a trophy and not a cobwebbed wish list. Therefore, by completing my first triathlon, I was faithful to my life philosophy and faithful to my desire to live life with the wonder of a child who is not afraid to try new things or move into new horizons. The victory wasn't found in the race, but in my faithfulness to myself. And for you, whoever you are reading this, I hope you feel inspired to do the same. I hope each one of you ponders the desires of your heart and has the nerve to strike out after them. I hope you pull out that "bucket list" and sharpen your pencils in preparation for the final strike-out. I hope you get caught up in your day-dreams and even have the nerve to pursue them. I encourage you to try, and to try hard. To try hard in a world of quiet quitting is a revolutionary act. To try hard in world of lazy boy recliners and bottomless streaming tv is a revolutionary act. To try hard in a world of instant gratification that is fueled by the likes of GrubHub and internet shopping is a revolutionary act. Be a revolutionary, not a creature of comfort. And, your try, doesn't have to be a Tri. Your try is anything that has been living on your "bucket list' for far too long. Whether that be taking that pottery class, attending that dance lesson, or trying a new recipe off of pinterest. I think it is essential to try, as many opportunities allow, to get out of our comfort zone, because as that saying goes, "A comfort zone is a beautiful place, but nothing grows there". And it is once we are out of those comfort zones that we are able to conquer our own self-imposed limiting beliefs. And this is essential as we are truly our own greatest enslavers by which we enslave ourselves with doubt and fear. So break those chains, smash that box of comfort, and go do that thing that terrifies you. Because that's where growth lives. And if you do manage to embark on that new terrifying thing...I'd love to cheer you on and/or hear about it! P.S. Did you know that high schoolers use the phrase "try-hard" as an insult toward another student if they are showing any sort of passion/dedication/ambition toward something. I think this highlights a "sickness" we see in our society; a belief that something should not be pursued unless it is instant or easy. As a teacher, I am doing my best to show the beauty in the "try-hard" philosophy in a world of "comfortable creatures". P.S.S If you do feel like doing a Tri with me. My next one will be in Northern Colorado mid June 2025. I am already registered and already nervous. But, my only goal in this triathlon is to conquer my "open water swim panic" and improve my mental wellbeing in the water on race day.
A little video diary of a day in June:
-Triatholon Training -River Rat Activities -Auntie Fun -"Get Ready with Me" -Sloan's Lake Walk and Tacos Making videos has been an enjoyable creative outlet and has opened up a new avenue for the documentation of the beauty of everyday life. I plan to make more and grow in my videography & editing skills. Follow my journey from a baby bartender to a drink slanging barmaid for the cowboys of Wyoming.
 Every little girl grows up dreaming of her wedding and the diamond that will crown her left hand. That's the narrative, right? Well, I must have missed this programming because I never found myself using my vivid imagination to daydream about my wedding dresses, chosen colors, nor my desired diamond that would be presented to me as a man asked for my hand in marriage. No, instead my daydreams consisted of becoming an explorer who built dams alongside beavers. I daydreamed about hitchhiking across America with only five dollars in my pocket. I daydreamed about sitting in a Native American Indian Sweat Lodge as spirit animals were greeted and discussed. I daydreamed about milking a cow and learning how to lasso cattle from the saddle of mighty steed. I daydreamed about hoping on a train and riding the rails only to be dumped off in a mountain town. I daydreamed myself hiking the Appalachian Trail with all of my life’s belongings on my back. I daydreamed about wild adventure. And still do today. This proclivity for the wild led to a childhood adored in “tomboy” clothing, dirt under my fingernails, and tangled hair not foreign to being matted in mud. I was a mess and it was glorious.  Is it obvious I learned to walk and escape my crib at 9 months? It wasn’t until third grade that I felt the first pangs of self-consciousness concerning my own lens of life. I began to feel different, separate, and dare I say like a little bit of a freak. I did not blend in well, I was the tomboy in Michael Jordan’s basketball shoes and playing pick-up football with the boys at recess. The girls in my class were braiding hair and playing “wedding” and any attempt I made to hang out as the “wedding party” left me feeling bored and as if I had wasted my precious recess time. Years have passed, but this sentiment stays the same. Sure, there have been some developments along the way (I traded in my tomboy fashion for a feminine elegance and learned to curl my hair), but I am still that wild little girl. And with that, I still feel that same “otherness” that I felt when I was in third grade as I am still not the woman who daydreams about her wedding or the various arenas that fall under “domestic bliss”. Ultimately, I still feel like an oddball… That is until I read a story like Jane Dotchin’s. Jane Dotchin is a badass woman who makes the 600 mile trek from England to the Scottish Highlands by horseback each year. She takes no map and carries minimal supplies…oh, and she is a mighty 82 years old. Yup, she’s wild.
Jane has been making this annual pilgrimage since 1972. Each year, around the same time, she loads up her pony, Diamond, and she sets out on a seven week trek across her country's countryside. She has no practical reason for this trip, meaning that she is not on some mission to retrieve an item or complete some task, but instead her sole reason for doing it is to enjoy life. When asked her reason for starting this tradition decades ago, she simply answered, “I love camping and I love the countryside”. She’s a woman after my own heart. Her story appeals to my own desire to wander and test the instinctive skills of our own survival as she ventures off with only the minimum: a tent, her food rations, a few personal belongings, and her Jack Russel Dinky all piled up on her pony, Diamond. She has no fancy gear. Instead, all she has is the will to enjoy life and set out on the road ahead. I love this detail because it is a stark contrast to our consumerist culture which has transformed the “outdoor lifestyle” into a competition to see who has the latest Patagonia; and instead, our girl Jane is out here ruling the road with the minimal gear that she has had for the past 50 years.  Jane is a badass wild woman because she does not let the rain, her age, or her limited eyesight deter her from her date with nature. Her story is inspirational to all, but for myself particularly it prompts a validation of my own desires as I travel further into adulthood.
As I travel this winding road of adulthood, I still do not find myself daydreaming about my wedding, babies, or other arenas of “domestic bliss”, but the absence of these desires does make me feel that old familiar feeling of feeling out-of-place…or dare I say behind. But, I quickly snap back to my own reality of recognizing that those are not my desires, even if that is for right now. I do not feel pressured by some hypothetical timeline nor do I feel unfulfilled by not having the picture of “domestic bliss”. Because, again, my desires are rooted in freedom, adventure, new experiences, and embracing my own wildness…my own self as I am. Jane’s story is one that we can all gain inspiration from as she is a simple woman doing a simple task…enjoying life. And, she has reminded me that not every girl’s daydream diamond will be found on the left hand, but instead your Diamond could be the one that carries you into life’s next adventure.
 Recently rooted in a new neighborhood, I found myself bored on a Thursday night. Instead of attending to the cardboard boxes stacked and scattered around my new home, I pulled up a map, like some old-school navigator, to see what life could be found around me. Little red dots quickly filled my screen and alerted me to all the adventure to be had now that I was displaced from the suburbs and now in the heart of the Mile High City. After a few scrolls and zoom pinches, I landed on the “Skylark Lounge”. It was “Western Wednesday” and they’d have a live band playing in the “Bobcat Club”. Eight o’clock. “Show starts at 9, I’ve got time”, I thought as I threw on my red cowboy boots for the impromptu “Western Wednesday”. I did a quick glam and left my new home to find me one of those fated lime green scooters that would be my wild mustang for the night. I’m sure I was a sight to see as I rode my “horse” in my red “shit-kickers” and white dress to the local watering hole. I think my Denver ancestors would be proud. The “Skylark Lounge” is a corner bar that looks like it got helicopter-dropped from a mountain town. It’s a simple and sturdy sanctuary that’s been serving Denver’s workers since 1948.  I first went to the “Skylark Lounge” when I was freshly twenty-one. Then, it was a dive with potholes in the white and black checkered floors that you had to dodge as you looped around the pool tables. The pours were heavy, the lighting was questionable, and the jukebox was from the 50s. It was a “shit-hole”, and I loved it. “The band will be upstairs in the ‘Bobcat Club’”, the bartender said as he poured the night’s special, The Deep Eddy Pink Drink. As the fountain gun sprayed, I took in the room, comparing and contrasting my memory with present day reality. Everything looked much the same, but with much needed cleaning and improvements. “They got rid of all the pool tables”, I said to the bartender in a disappointed tone. “Yeah, you’d only know that if you’d been here before Nathanial bought this place and renovated”, he said while he garnished my drink. Nathaniel Radcliff is a local Denver “celebrity” of sorts who shot up the Billboard charts with his song “SOB” . I always thought the song was a little overrated, but I could appreciate Denver being put on the map for a couple weeks. He bought the bar in 2021 and since then the joint has been improved for the better and it is transitioning into a concert venue of sorts. Hence, the selling of the big bodied pool tables. I paid my tab and as I made my way to the stairwell I saw a divine presence. There, serving as a headstone for the wood horseshoe bar, was “Superstition Land of Thorn” by Mark Maggiori. I stood spellbound with my little pink drink in hand. It served as a divine message, a reminder that good and beautiful things come to you when you ignore the sensible bedtimes and instead live by the reminder, “You’ll sleep when you’re dead”. I climbed the narrow stairs to find a half-circle wood bar illuminated by pink neon light with a taxidermied bobcat perched above. The pink light complemented the bobcat mural that was on the opposing wall. The black and white checkered tiles glowed in pink and led to the corner stage where the band would play. It was a small gig in the attic of a bar and the collection of people depicted that. There were middle aged couples obviously on a weekday date night (dressed in Western Wear for the “Western Wednesday”), modern day hipsters with shag haircuts, bolo ties, and patch work tattoos. And blue collar workers still in their HVSA and steel toed boots.
I sat at the bar thrown amongst the variety and ordered my second single. “What’s that you’re drinkin’?”, I heard a dainty and cheerful voice ask. “I don’t know really, it’s pink and it’s cheap”, I joked. She laughed and copied my order as we struck up conversation as bar stool companions do. Her name was Jennifer. She was the girlfriend of one of the band’s lead singers. She wore a cotton yellow a-line dress with brown thigh-high suede boots. We “cheer-ed” our pink drinks while we chatted under the fluorescent pink bar light. It was nice to have a girlfriend for the night. As backgrounds and lore were exchanged she shared that she had recently moved from Durango. She had owned a boutique lingerie shop and erotic novelty shop down there. The disclosure fascinated me and I thought, “I know an adventurous soul when I see one”. Our conversation twisted and turned as we spun on our bar stools. We talked about professions, children, camping, music, lingerie, life philosophy, and me trying to convince her to try out burlesque. Our conversation only took a halt when her boyfriend came onto the stage. And from there, we just grooved and enjoyed the beauty of live music in a beautiful space. After their 45 minute set, Jennifer’s boyfriend Nicholas came and met us. He quickly kissed her and said, “Well from where I was it looked like y’all were having some fun”. He was right. He was quickly crowded by fans only to again emerge from the crowd with a closed fist. “Look what someone gave me as a ‘thank you’”, he said giggling. He opened his hand and there layed a psychedelic surprise. To which, Jennifer quickly yet delicately claimed as her own. She then turned to me and said, “I have to offer one to my pink lady friend”. I smiled, but declined. I’ve never been into drugs; blame it on my Catholic guilt or my firm knowledge in my addictive lineage and tendencies. Jennifer, without hesitation, put one of them in her purse and downed the other with a swig of her “Deep Eddy” pink drink and then took a hit from her banana color vape. A tornado of influences, a hurricane, a torrent tipping the scales of the blood stream. She was out to have a good time. She obviously didn’t have to work the next day or maybe being hungover is doable when you're a “budtender”. I, being a teacher, know that is never an option. We then made our way back down stairs for the band’s smoke break. I bummed a Camel off Nicholas, not my preferred cig, but it hit like jet fuel as it was my first cigarette in months. Each time I smoke a cig I feel like I am encountering my secret and forbidden lover as I am limited in my time and exposure to him because of the grim reaper that lurks watching across the room. Therefore, when I get my hands on my lover, I soak in each moment. Bask. And allow myself to be swallowed up in the smoke and ashes. This love affair is so intense, that buying my own cigs is strictly forbidden. The only ones I take are the ones that I am offered in the circles outside of dive bars. These are where the best convos are had as life turns into an even playing field of smoke and ashes. Life feels less serious as we chat and breathe in promised death between laughs. While dancing in the ashes, a new friend joined the circle asking to bum a lighter. Jennifer reached her hand into Nicholas’s pocket and pulled out his bright orange bic lighter. She handed it to the pink-stripped stranger as I said, “I think you just wanted an excuse to reach into his pocket”. She smiled and said, “You’ve only known me for an hour and you know me so well”. The pink-stripped stranger introduced himself as Matt in a horse tranquilized voice. He said, “I’ve been walking by this place every night and just wanted to get on stage for some karaoke, but my voice isn't working tonight”. We sympathized and understood as the smoking circle expanded to draw him in. He was an interesting looking man: as skinny as six o’clock, with blonde loose curls that looked equally disheveled yet cherubic…a young Gene Wilder. His face asymmetrical with heavy eyes burdened with whatever substance that dragged the rest of his body in the Bobcat Club. “Hey, what’s that stone you have around your neck?”Jennifer excitedly asked as she turned the entire circle’s attention to the newest member’s vulnerable neck. He was wearing a leather tethered stone that hung closely to the base of his neck, perfectly resting between his unbuttoned pink collar. The stone was harsh, unpolished, and looked to be a geode. Smiling, he took it into the tips of his fingers with both hands as he mumbled over his words. We all nodded, pretending to understand his mumbling which could have very well been some ancient spell or some story of how he bought it at the Renaissance festival. Jennifer broke the spell and subsequent deafening silence and said, “Well, I carry around a piece of moldavite with me wherever I go” as she took out this small leather drawstring bag that you typically find in a mountain town gift shop. My jaw dropped, not because she is carrying a random rock around with her (as a fellow rock lover…I too do this), but because moldavite is said to cause transformation in the life of the beholder…and this Colorado hippie is just haphazardly walks around with it in her little leather satchel. “Does anyone want to hold it?!”, she asked as she pinched the coal green rock and held it under the neon light of the bar signs. Without hesitation, I placed my hand into the middle of the circle as if I were about to lead us in a pre-game huddle cheer. She then dropped the rock into my open palm while my half-burnt cigarette rested between my two fingers. I didn’t feel a bolt of lightning nor a change of heart, but I do believe that magic was there. The rock of transformation passed around the smoking circle until it reached our pink-stripped eccentric friend who took it and whispered into the moldavite’s metaphorical ear. If any transformation comes, I am sure that it will come for him. “Can I bum another cig?”, this time asking Jennifer. This one was a Newport, better tasting but lacked the nicotine punch as it was my second. “I better get going soon”. I said as I dragged on my second bummed cigarette. “Why?! We’ve just got started. There is a whole other band coming on.”, Jennifer said in a cute kind of begging way. “It’s almost midnight. I’ve got children waiting on me in the morning.” I said, trying to convince my own self that I needed to be responsible and not push my luck with the fun. The smoking circle collectively shook their heads remembering that I was the sole teacher in the group of full time artists, budtenders, and vagabonds. “But before I go, there is one more thing I wana do”, I said half-jokingly. “What’s that?”, Jennifer asked. We killed our Newports and paid our five dollars to hop in the contortion box called a photobooth. We posed like models and burlesque stars for our beloved five frames, each time waiting for the flash. And flash. Our strip printed. We took it to show it proudly to the smoking circle and then they waved me off as I boarded my mighty steed, the lime scooter. I rode home thankful to have answered the call to encounter life and encounter the other. I could have stayed home, felt bored and lonely and hunkered down in my bed with a Netflix special, but I chose to be bold. To put myself out there and to be unafraid what life could throw at me…to be unafraid to live. And by making that choice, I met such wonderful and welcoming people, I got to see one of my favorite artist’s pieces in real life, and I got to be a silly little girl in my red cowboy boots spinning on a bar stool with a new friend.
 Like other rare birds, she was never afraid to wear her bright colors. The world lost a rainbow of colors this week with the passing of Iris Apfel, the "Rare Bird" of the fashion and style scene. Iris Apfel was the glorious age of 102 when she passed this week on March first. Now, the news wasn't unexpected as the icon had lived a long and glamorous life, but the news still pinched my heart as her presence in this world has served as such a source of joy and inspiration for all, including myself. Iris Apfel has been a foundational source of inspiration in my own style journey as she was not afraid of color nor afraid to pair them in unusual/unpredictable color combinations. She worshiped at the altar of the accessory and was bold in her choices whether they were luxury items or from the corner costume jewelry store. She dressed not for attention, but to express her soul as well as to bring color into a dull world. She saw style not as a thing that was ruled by the rich or by the "trends'' of the current fashion, but instead she saw style as something inherently individual. I discovered Iris close to ten years ago through her documentary which is self-titled "Iris". The movie documents her life and captures her spirit of enthusiasm for life. To this day, it is my favorite documentary and I would advise everyone to watch it as it captures the joy of creative expression, the individuality of beauty, and the eternal youth that we all possess. Below are some of my favorite outfits/ quotes of hers for your own inspiration and appreciation. Enjoy, and please wear something colorful this week in her honor.
At the age of fifteen he fell in love; not with a high school crush, but with the American West. Mark Maggiori was born in Fontainebleau, a commune of Paris, in June of 1977. His childhood was spent in France, but at the age of fifteen his family took a month-long road trip from New York to San Francisco and this is when he met his love, the Great American West. Mark was struck by the National Parks, the vastness of the plains, and the archetype of "cowboy culture". This trip left a lasting impression on him, but its manifestation would not present itself until later in his life. Mark returned to his home country and was formally trained in academic drawing at Paris’s "Academie Julian". After completing his degree, he then decided to take an artistic detour and pursue one of his other loves, music. In 1997 he formed a successful nu metal band named "Pleymo". The band went on to achieve success and through the various opportunities Mark began to dabble in other creative outlets such as photography, filmmaking, and graphic design. During one of his artistic escapades of filming a music video, he met his future wife Petecia Le Fawnhawk. She was on set as set designer as well as fashion designer for the video. The two artists bonded and Mark eventually made the trip to Oklahoma to meet her family. While on the trip, Mark donned a cowboy hat and Le Fawnhawk’s father challenged his apparel choice by stating something like, “If you a Frenchman are going to wear the cowboy hat, you better know the true story of the cowboy”. So, Le Fawnhawk's father urged Maggiori to visit the “National Cowboy and Western Heritage Museum” in Oklahoma City. Maggiori went, and states that he felt as if he was “struck by lightning” and shortly after this visit his Western-themed painting career began. Mark Maggiori’s paintings capture the American Cowboy in a theatrical light via billowing clouds, strong contrasting light, and profoundly realistic portraits. His canvases are large and dominating, but provide comfort as the viewer gets pulled into the lullaby that is the beginning of the West. His artwork is adored in the Western art world and he has won several honors, one which includes being named a member of the “Taos Society of Artists”. I found Mark Maggiori via Instagram and upon first scroll, I was captured by his use of light and his gift of storytelling via a stagnant yet dynamic image. His landscapes capture the beauty of the American Southwest that I have experienced and loved since my youth. Several of his paintings remind me of my summers in New Mexico where I would spend countless hours running through fields and then settling only at night under the moon that hovered above our tents. Mark Maggiori’s pieces arrest me with a nostalgia and a longing for simplicity, adventure, and undomesticated wildness. I hope his art sparks these same feelings for you. P.S. Below are four random facts about Maggiori that I couldn't seem to weave in anywhere, but are worthy of your admiration. 1. He has incredible style. And this denotes for me that his incredible taste doesn’t stop merely at his paintings, but extends into any medium he takes on. And this is inspiring.   2. He loves classic American cars. Check out the photo. Need I say more. 3. His impecable taste extends into his architectural design. This can be seen via his studio in Taos. It is an example of living art and a artistic breakway from the cookiecutter homes we find in suburbia. 4. Mark Maggiori has great music taste. I know this because of what he shares via his Instgram stories. His most recent share was from "Hermanos Gutierrez". When I saw that, I was flabberagsted as they are a smaller band and deserve many more flowers. My favorite song by them is "Cerca De Ti". Give it a listen.
I am a lover of a well used sample.
And I would argue that Common's use of Bobby Caldwell's "Open Your Eyes" chours is one of the all time best. Bobby Caldwell, or better known as the "blue eye of soul", is beloved in the soul and r&b genre. You can hear his songs playing at the neighborhood cookouts and car shows. I grew up listening to Bobby Caldwell, and it wasn't until my teens that I discovered that he was a white man. I remember my jaw dropping just like when I found out the "The Bee Gees" were a group of white boys as well. Something about their silky voices and cool demeanor had me believing I was listening to black musicians. Furthermore R&b, especially in the 70s and 80s, when Bobby Caldwell emerged, was a genre dominated by black musicians. But, Bobby Caldwell broke into the genre and was not denied his rightful place as a voice in the scene. His lyrical poetry and jazzy melodies are well loved in the R&B genre, so much so that so many artists have sampled his work to pay him homage. One of my favorite songs from Bobby Caldwell (as there are many) is "Open Your Eyes". It starts out with just a soft melody and Bobby's unique voice singing slowly yet passionately. You can hear the yearning in his voice as he says, "I can see you, in a lonely place/ How can you be so blind./ You're still regretting the love you left behind/". He tries to convince his lover to "open your eyes” and asks her, "Are you expecting to find a love that is mine?". He wants to show her "the light". He is screaming for her surrender and love...trying to remind her that he is the place where her heart should land. It's an ache we all know. And the message is conveyed beautifully through a soft melody and Bobby's poetic wording. He then eases into a light-hearted rhythm that picks up in pace so as to mimic the racing of his heart as he anticipates her answer. It’s a love song, but it is also a song of desperation and uncertainty as we never know his lover’s choice. We just know that he has asked. This is one of Bobby's lesser known songs, but it has been forever immortalized by Common's now famous sample in his song "The Light". Common's rhymes lying on top of Bobby's smooth melody is musical love-making and is one of the best fusions of rap and r&b. Both songs hold a special place in my heart and a definite place in my song rotation, but Bobby Caldwell's original will always be king. I'm a sucker for a sample, but I am a sucker for that blue-eyed boy of soul. RIP Bobby Caldwell, you are well loved. P.S. Other songs I love from Bobby Caldwell include: 1. "My Flame" - This is a song I deeply love. Means a lot to me. And, I can only play it when I'm prepared to cry. 2. "What You Wont Do For Love" - His most famous song 3. "Heart of Mine" - A heartbreak song with some 80s synthesizer and saxophone 
I am a West Denver girl, through and through. I love the lowriders cruising on Federal Boulevard, a steak from Columbine Steakhouse, my Denver Broncos, and the National Western Stock Show.
This annual event is a ceremonial call-back to Denver’s roots as a “cow town” as 700,000 people gather to watch rodeos, attend stock shows, wear their best Western wear, and eat funnel cake. The National Western Stock Show has been held in the same location in Denver since 1906, and I have been lucky to attend it for all of my life. My first attendance at the stock show was with my “Popeye”, my paternal grandfather. He would make a point to attend each year as this event was held in own neighborhood of Swansea (this is the same neighborhood where I spent my summers riding bikes under the I-70 underpasses and tunnels). We would gather at his house, all nine of us varying from ages thirteen to four years old, and we’d begin our yearly pilgrimage to the event. At that time, we wouldn’t pay for rodeos, but instead spent most of our time wandering around and looking at all the animals. It was always a highlight of our year, and we only lost a couple cousins a couple of times.
This year, I attended the Stock Show during Martin Luther King Jr. weekend which highlighted the African-American riders and focused on the history of the American Cowboy.
The rodeo hosted the traditional events, but between rides and challenges the announcers taught about the history of the American Cowboy. They spoke of the diversity that the field has always had even though, cinematically and thematically, the American Cowboy has been portrayed as a blue-eyed man, John Wayne. When in reality, the cowboys of the west consisted of Mexicans from original Mexican land of the southern United States, the African-Americans from the newly emancipated South, and the Native Americans who have always tended to the land. It is stated that, “Latinos, Native Americans, and African Americans consisted of about a third of all cowboys during the “golden age” of the American cowboy [between 1866 and 1895] (Roberts).
I personally love all the educational elements of the National Western Stock Show as they highlight the history of the West, the agricultural trades and practices, and the livestock; however, another element that I love about the Stock Show is the Western Fashion.
As you walk the Western Complex grounds you’ll see working men in carhartt overalls while they groom the cows, riders in bedazzled and fringed chaps signing autographs, women dawning their furs while they haggle for turquoise, and almost everyone in either their cowboy hats or cowboy boots. I love the mingling of aesthetics: working-men with showmen. While walking between the horse stalls you will see someone who looks like they could be walking a runway and on the next pass you’ll see a life-long rancher wearing coveralls for practicality over beauty. I personally chose to dress for the runway in one of my newest vintage purchases from one of my favorite antique stores on Broadway, “The Odditorium”. It is a 1960s leather jacket with fox fur accents. She is a dream come true and I chose the stock show as her first outing. And, she was a hit. I easily received fifteen compliments on the coat alone and I attribute her beauty to our free “gator ride” from the parking lot to the venue (which was much needed since it was zero degrees and it was snowing).
Western wear fashion is currently experiencing a renaissance and we can see this via Louis Vuitton’s latest release at this past week’s fashion week. It was a gorgeous collection and captured the American spirit intertwining together the practicality of the working man with the flamboyant flare of the showman.
Now, I am not saying that Louis Vuitton is the end all be all in fashion (because it's not and I am actually not a fan of the logo-game), but it goes to show that Western wear is receiving a lot of love and I am so hopeful that this niche will explode and bleed into the wear of everyday life. I would love to see more bolo ties, leather, denim, fringe, and turquoise around me instead of Kirkland specials and athleisure laziness. I’d love to hear the click of a cowboy boot instead of the squeak of the borderline geriatric cushioned sneaker. I would love to see men dressing for the day and I feel like "Western Wear" is a authentic avenue that a lot of men can adopt seamlessly and without feeling as if they are being disingenuous to themselves; because lets face it...what man (or woman) hasn't grown up wanting to be a cowboy?
So, this concludes my love letter to “The National Western Stock Show”. She is a Denver gem and if you’ve never been, I hope this blog post encourages you to go. Today is the last day and it is worth every penny and every minute of your time, especially if you were born and raised here. I think this annual event captures the charism of Denver and calls us back to our "cow-town" roots and serves as a reminder of the diversity that this city was built on. It calls us back to nature and reunites us with the cowboy or cowgirl that lives in all of us. It is an opportunity to remember that we were not always domesticated humans running the rat race, but instead we were united with the land and filled with a sense of adventure.
I hope that all of you readers go and get reacquainted with your inner wildness by wandering through cow stalls while dodging “cow-piles”, eat a turkey leg straight off the bone, and then appreciate the sway of some well-laid chaps. Giddy up. P.S. Featured below is music playlist for your listening pleasure. And, a video of my "stock show" experience. P.S.S. DId you know, that the "most beautiful cow" gets to grace the halls of the historical Brown Palace after he/she hs been crowned the "Grand Champion Steer"? Please google it if you haven't seen it. They are so gorgeous and deserving of gracing those halls. I love those fluffy cows.
The thin chapters of my childhood are littered with the dialogues of family and strangers complimenting me with the confusing phrase, "You're an old soul". The phrase would slip from their lips as I questioned divinity, humanity, purpose, and free will. I'd often shrug my shoulders at the phrase, not knowing whether it was a compliment or some sort of curse. All I knew was that it felt true as I found myself pondering philosophy while dribbling my basketball in the back alley and worrying for the state of my soul while I played in the creeks of the Evergreen mountains. I was pensive yet playful; I was heavy in thought yet light with a sense of impending freedom...I guess that is what makes an "old soul". One of the first times I recall being called an "old soul" came at the age of six. I was belting out Roberta Flack's "Killing Me Softly With His Song" in my Grandpa Danny's cigarette smoke filled apartment. You would have thought I was in the local bar at the Thursday evening karaoke night with the performance I was putting on. I was crooning, swaying, closing eyes, holding my heart while singing with little assistance from the words that danced across the karaoke screen. That song was mine and my aunts and uncles would gather around and cheer me on as I sang that song of ache and abandonment. Even to this day, my Uncle Chris says he always thinks of me when he hears the song or its cover by "The Fugees" on the radio. My status as an "old soul" gained more and more footing as I found myself gravitating toward vintage design and styling, classic literature, and the now dead practice of burning CD mixtapes that were filled with 60s, 70s, and 80s music. I was ten years old dancing to 70s r&b in my bedroom, fifteen years old falling in love with Nathaniel Hawthorne's "The Scarlet Letter'' and seventeen years old driving my 1984 Toyota 4Runner through the Harvey Park neighborhood in order to admire the "California-Style" homes from the 70s. I have seemed to always ache for a time that was never mine, but I loved passionately anyways. When I reflect on all these loves in my life that have contributed to my “old soul” signature, I see a vein of similarity that permeates throughout…creativity, vibrancy, and novelty. When I look at the things that are considered "vintage", I see a break from the cookie cutter templates that we are currently functioning in our times. Architecture was creative and unpractical and I am sure it wasn't cost-effective as it wasn't concerned with protecting the "profit margins". Clothing was bright and colorful while being well-made in contrast to the blah functionality of the "Kirkland" specials that literally everyone is wearing. Our current design and styling is too much focused on "blending-in" and protecting the "practicality" and "comfortability" of everyday life that we have lost the fun and appeal of life. Instead, we are left with overly square homes that are called “modern” in place of the historical home in the new gentrified neighborhood. Instead we are left with chain restaurants and stores which create clones of society in every suburb of America. Everything is too blah, too streamlined, too sensible, too predictable. Personally, I would rather live in a world where people are impractical, fun, and expressive than one where we are minimalistic yet so obsessed with an image that has been developed via consumerism rather than by creativity and/or self expression. And, if that makes me an “old soul”, then I’ll take it.
I see the wisdom in expression, in color, art, and a well written novel that is free of SMUT (if you don't know what that is...google it...I just learned about it from a man I met in the sauna). I love a 70s playlist playing while I play a game of pool in my bellbottoms. I have no desire to “blend in” by assimilating into the trends of today in order to maintain some semblance of social status (which is just consumerism and “keeping up with the Joneses”).
I, instead, desire to move under the influence of self-expression and passion. I love what I love even if it crosses genres, eras, and niches. And by embracing the messiness of our own passions, desires, and loves…we find individuality…and the wisdom in expressing your own soul is what being an “old soul” is. It is the ability to unapologetically embrace yourself as you are, in all its mess and glory…no neat lines or boxes necessary. So, put the cookie cutters down and embrace the paintbrush. Bring color into the gray Kirkland ruled world. Decorate a space with thrifted treasures in lue of the Pottery Barn “latest”. Play the funk song that encourages movement in a calcified room. Stop watching “trend reports” and curate your own style. And please, for the love of god, express your soul in a world that seems to be losing its own. P.S. Read "Why Culture Has Come to A Standstill" at the New York Times if you'd like to further dive into the ponderings of why it seems culture has become so bland. I loved his point about how in the past we seemed to be pushing forward with creativity, but now we seem to only be pushing forward with technology and consumerism.
Two years ago, I put my Edgar Allan Poe, Shakespeare, and Dante's Inferno on the shelf as I moved from teaching literary classics to basic English grammar in the name of ESL education.
I miss working with elevated texts and teaching middle schoolers how to dissect and analyze a text, but my current position at my current school has been fulfilling as I feel like I am functioning less as an "intellectual" and more as a true "public-servant". My students come from all over the world and are new to the United States. They arrive at my school for various reasons and with various backgrounds and needs. I often receive them in fragile states as so much is new to them: a new country, a new culture, a new school, and a new language. It is my job to foster these students and to be their point of contact and advocate in the building. Most of my students are Latinos and speak Spanish, but this year I have had the opportunity to work with some Middle Eastern students whose "home-language" is Arabic. The blending of Spanish, Arabic, and English in the classroom often looks like playing a game of "Password" or "Pictionary" as we try to communicate with cognates, gestures, and images....and frankly, it is so fun. Often times the classroom seems to erupt into a party of sorts as we play with language and practice daily dialogues or listen to music to que vocabulary retention. My kids are learning English and they are excited to use it in a safe place in hopes to bridge the gap of understanding between fellow English speakers and now their new Arabic-speaking friends. This "safe place" for the English Language Learners is essential as this class period is a mere forty-five minutes in their day; while the rest of the day they are immersed in English and as a result they often remain silent as they are not yet comfortable in their level of output in English. Therefore, my class period allows them to dabble in trial and error before they head off to their classes where they are learning Algebra, Chemistry, and Physics in a foreign language. There have been so many fun and fulfilling moments this school year...too many to document, but here is a quick list below of some highlights for my own rememberance and for your reading if you'd like a "glimpse" into an ESL teacher's life.
I am thankful for my current position and all the learning and growth that I have experienced as an educator. I feel that I am being of service to others (and the broader community) while being honored and respected as a professional. I look forward to the second half of the year and I am sure I will be back on here to brag more about my kids. P.S. I encourage you to get outside of your comfort zone and go learn something new. I have found so much pleasure from learning math again...I hope you too can experience the joy of being a "forever-learner".
 Halloween may be my favorite holiday of the year. Sure, I love to dress up, but it is so much more than that. It is a respite from the daily grind and monotony of earth tones and beiges. It gives the wider population an opportunity to embrace self expression unapologetically. I love to see people step outside of their comfort zone and welcome that child-like wonder of play in daily life. It exudes a spirit of joy, freedom, and playfulness…..and our world needs a lot more of that. The philosophers call this a catharsis and frankly, I think more respites such as these would benefit everyone. This playfulness is not to be confused with “childness”, but instead it is an act of rebellion against cynicism and bitterness. I see this cantankerousness all too often in daily life and it often seems like people are competing to see who can have the “more-shit” day. Seriously, people will start a conversation with, “Wow, isn’t this weather terrible?”, or “Did you see that horrible headline on the news?”, or “How about inflation?”. Um, no thanks. That is why I think the holiday of Halloween is so important, it prompts a return to your inner child and prompts one to lay down their armor from the daily grind. I love seeing everyone’s rendition of Halloween. You get to see people’s personalities, infatuations, role models, and their creative confidence. I exercised my own creative confidence this weekend by putting together a streetwalking ode to my first girl crush, Julia Roberts. As a young child, I spent many hours rewinding the VCR to rewatch my favorite movie, "My Best Friend's Wedding". In that movie, everything about her captivated me. Her wide and frequent smile and her big wild hair. I worshiped at the altar of Julianne Potter (Julia Roberts's role in the movie) and concurrently fell in love with the leading man, Dermot Mulroney. “My Best Friend’s Wedding” is my favorite of hers, but her most famous movie is her role in "Pretty Woman" as Ms. Vivian Ward. It is an unlikely fairytale story where the girl from the street captures the heart of the man in the upper penthouse. It has a cult following, rightfully so, and I am a member. So, for this Halloween I decided to honor that first "girl crush" by dressing up as her most famous role. I had all of the pieces already in my vast wardrobe sans the iconic white and blue "streetwalker" dress and the platinum blonde bob. When I put it all together, I felt like Julia and it was easy to replicate her big wide smile.   As I danced my way through "Halloweekend" my costume was appreciated by all the right people. "Pretty Woman" is over 30 years old and has somewhat faded in the pop culture consciousness; therefore, when I would hear...."Hey, Pretty Woman!"....It created a fun exchange between both parties. In my opinion, that is what makes a great costume...capturing the likeness of character to such precision that you are recognizable to those who "know" while also remaining unique and inimitable in the crowd….because the world can only handle so many Spidermans and cheerleaders.
While out, the joy felt palpable. People dressed as silly or sexy characters created an energy of expression without restraint. People were not concerned with looking “buttoned-up” or “acting their age”, but instead they were living in the moment as whatever character they were that night. No one was talking about the stock market, war, inflation, or whatever doom and gloom that is circulated on the news, but instead people were present to one another and enjoying the freedom of that moment on the dancefloor. It was beautiful and we need more of that Halloweekened energy. So, if you’re reading this before the end of Halloween…I hope you dress up. Embrace that inner child. Play. Get creative. And find a way to express yourself freely….because if you don’t, it’d be a big mistake. Dare I say, “Huge!” (get it?) P.S. I am entering the costume contest at the concert I am going to on Halloween evening (yes, it is a school night). Wish me luck! P.S. Julia Roberts's love interests in her movies profoundly influenced my taste in men...and I'm more than okay with that. |
AuthorBrianna is a proud native of West Denver and she is an avid admirer of the arts. Her admiration of the arts is centered around her draw toward the beautiful and good of everyday life. Brianna finds beauty in a well-worn book, in the eclectic colors and textures of a thrift store find, and in the sound of a killer guitar solo whether it be live or through a well thought out Spotify playlist. Her passions are varied and many, but they all center on appreciating the fullness of life. Archives
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