But, as I write this, I can’t help but take the news coming out of Boston right now personally. 

The granddaddy of all marathons – the Boston Marathon – marred by terrorism; explosions set off at the finish line; hundreds of people injured; several people dead, including an eight-year-old child. 

I am outraged, horrified and so saddened.

My family has stood to cheer me on just feet from where the first explosion went off.

I know the euphoria that a runner feels when the finish line comes into view. This city embraces this marathon like no other. It’s more than a marathon; it’s an experience. 

What happened in Boston is absolutely sickening. 

My phone started going off shortly after noon on Patriots Day, also known as Marathon Day in Boston. 

I’ve run it the last two years, three years in all. I didn’t realize how many people didn’t know I’d be sitting out this year’s race to rehab an injury after last year’s record-breaking Boston Marathon heat.

The phone rang, the texts went off and social media messages started coming in almost immediately from people wanting to know if I was okay. Right away I thought about Bonnie, my friend and executive producer who was running her first Boston Marathon. The explosions went off right about the time I figured she’d be crossing. I called her frantically and, when I got her voice mail, I panicked. I turned on the TV and sat in horror as I saw the video of the explosion and the terrified looks on the faces of spectators as they scattered like bugs. I watched in horror as runners collapsed and cried in disbelief.

I know Boylston Street well. I know how packed it gets with cheering people lined up along it, using their voices to give runners that last boost of energy. I know that last turn of the corner less than a mile from where the explosions went off. I know that had I been there this year, my sister, my daughter and my fiancé would have been just feet from where the first bomb went off, just as they had been before. 

The reality of all what could have been – and all that is – is simply surreal. 

For all the victims, my heart breaks. Their world will never be the same.

Bonnie crossed the finish line 15 minutes before the explosions. She was safe and we were all so relieved.

When my co-anchor walked in to work today, the first thing he did was give me a hug. 

We both got emotional tonight during the newscast, thinking about the “what ifs.”

Tonight we couldn’t help but show we are more than just faces on a screen. We are real people with real emotions.

Tonight the news got personal and we weren’t afraid to show it.

Catherine Anaya anchors CBS 5 News weeknights at 5, 5:30, 6 and 10 p.m. She is a mother of two, marathon runner and motivational speaker. Reach her at catherine.anaya@cbs5az.com; connect with her on Facebook, twitter and at CatherineAnaya.com.

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Elizabeth Barrett Browning

A poet’s voice has a way of lasting from generation to generation and, in each era, the poet’s words ring true. Born in England on March 6, 1806, Elizabeth Barrett Browning was the author of the poem, How Do I Love Thee, which has endured the test of time and is considered one of the finest poems of the Victorian era. Most students in high school will, at one time or another, study her poem and listen to the rhythm and cadence of its words, perhaps opening their hearts to the poem’s deeper meaning, a meaning that transcends time. 

Her opening stanzas begin with a question: How do I love thee? Then she begins a series of answers to the question posed: Let me count the ways. I love thee to the depth and breadth and height my soul can reach, etc. She sees love as a “quiet need,” and as something freely, purely and passionately given. By the end of the poem, Elizabeth has given profound new insights to something we often take for granted. Writing the poem was also her way of expressing her love for her husband, Robert Browning, who had introduced himself to her as an avid fan of her poetry via letters. He wrote: “I love your verses with all my heart, dear Miss Barrett.” Unfortunately, Robert Browning was considered a lower-class gold-digger by Elizabeth’s father and, due to her marriage to him, she was disinherited from her father’s estate and lived most of her married life abroad in Europe. 

Beginning her writing career at the age of six, Elizabeth took on the social issues of the day in her poems, especially the enslavement of Africans in Jamaica where her family owned land and businesses. Her adherence to the belief that slavery was cruel and violated human rights led her to put pen to paper and write rousing poems such as The Runaway Slave at Pilgrim’s Point in which she describes the brutal beating and rape of a black woman who, even in the midst of suffering horrific cruelty, still cursed the slave-owners. 

What does an English poet writing in the 1800s mean to Latinos in Arizona today? First of all, Elizabeth used her artistic abilities to send vital messages of love and hope to heal the sufferings of those around her. In a similar fashion, hundreds of artists living in Arizona and across the Southwest have responded to the unjust treatment of our immigrant community by employing their artistic abilities to challenge the destructive waves of prejudice and racism that rise again and again to injure thousands and victimize innocents with abusive, unjust laws. 

In spite of suffering chronic illnesses, Elizabeth was able to rise above the discrimination that existed against women writers in the masculine-dominated Victorian era and continued throughout her life to look deep into her own heart for the things that truly mattered to her. In considering the women recently honored as Trailblazers in Arizona, and those who shared in creating the PBS Special, Makers: Women Who Make America, I am grateful for the women, mothers, grandmothers, tías and primas who have stood up to the cruelties they have encountered, expressing in so many ways to family, friends and community the same love Elizabeth wrote about in her poems.

The last words of Elizabeth’s poem, How Do I Love Thee?, summarize the world of love in a most profound way, and lead us to understand that love on earth is only the beginning of eternal love:

I love thee with the breath, smiles, tears, of all my life! – and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death.

Stella Pope Duarte was born and raised in South Phoenix. She began her award-winning career in 1995 after she had a dream in which her deceased father told her that her destiny was to become a writer. Contact her at stellapopeduarte.com.

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I am a Latina Still Standing, but not of my own accord. I stand tall today because of my faith, family and friends – one of whom has just been laid to rest.

Nine years ago, I became friends with a man named Eddie Basha. He was godsend to me during one of the most difficult periods of my life. 

My older sister, 40 years old at the time, had a surgery and she nearly died from subsequent complications. What should have been a simple medical procedure turned into the worst nightmare for my sister; she was in a coma for several months and her prognosis wasn’t good. While she was in intensive care, I had started a new job as the communication and public affairs director for Basha’s, Inc., and had met with each of the senior leadership team, which included Basha family members and the CEO, Eddie Basha.

I told them about my sister because her situation was weighing on me so much. Eddie made special trips regularly to my office to ask how my sister was doing; we even prayed a couple times. Less than two months into the job, I was called away from planning a big conference for our store managers and directors and rushed to the hospital to sign for acute dialysis when I was told that my sister’s kidneys were failing. While I was waiting in the lobby to see if my sister was going to make it, I received a phone call from someone asking me where I was. I informed them that I was in the lobby of the hospital. I was told to stay there.

I saw a friend of my father’s walk in with a DPS officer and they asked me to sit down. They told me my father was just killed on the I-17 in Phoenix. Much of what happened after that moment is still a blur to me, but at some point I had to call my job and let them know what had happened, and that I would need to take some time off. I didn’t know what they would say, considering I had been on the job less than two months. With no hesitation, I was told to take as much time as was needed and that they were all praying for me.

While I was off, Eddie’s office informed me that he wanted to provide the food for the reception after the services for my father. I was so moved by his kindness. On the day of the services in a packed church in South Phoenix, I saw Eddie, his sons, the president of Basha’s and many of the senior leadership walk into the church to pay their respects to my father, a man they never knew. That is an example of the compassion and support that has enabled me to be a Latina Still Standing.

That is the kind of man Mr. Eddie Basha was to me and to countless other people. I am honored to have known him and to have called him my friend. I am grateful that God sent me to work for Eddie and his family during one of the toughest times in my life, and I believe God used one of His special servants to lift me up while I was down.

When I heard of the news of Eddie’s passing, my heart was heavy and I felt a tremendous loss. I am grateful to have personally experienced Eddie’s generous spirit, his witty sense of humor and his compassion for people.

Thank you for extending your hand in my time of need. Descanse en paz, EB.  

Diana Bejarano is an Arizona native and a graduate of Arizona State University’s Walter Cronkite School of Journalism and Mass Communication. Reach her at latinastillstanding@yahoo.com or latinastillstanding.blogspot.com

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I knew I’d feel frustrated by having to pack everything I own and physically move it to a new home knowing nothing would be out of its box or in its right place for days, if not weeks. But, what I didn’t expect was the emotion I’d feel for some of the things I was leaving behind.

It’s been exactly six years since I last moved. I remember the excitement I felt at getting the keys to my own, post-divorce home. It felt good to buy furniture knowing I didn’t have to ask what somebody else thought first. Everything, from where I’d place my TV to what kind of sheets I put on my bed, was my decision and I loved everything these possessions represented.

So, as I stood the other night in the middle of the near empty house, I had mixed feelings. I looked at the holes in the wall where my pictures once hung, remembering that it was one of my bosses and her husband who came over that first weekend after I moved in to help me hang them.

I looked at the barbecue grill in the backyard remembering another co-worker who came over with his son one afternoon so they could assemble the grill for me, along with a desk and bar stools, too. 

The boxed Christmas tree in the garage was too big for me to put together by myself that first Christmas in my home. All it took was the promise of some pizza, and some of our production guys were there to put it up and take it down for me after the holidays.

The TV stand? Yup, one of the editors at work put that together for me.

On the outside, they’re just things. But I see them as more. They’re also lovely reminders of how much my friends and co-workers rallied around me when I needed the help. 

We’ve heard it takes a village to raise a child. Well, sometimes it takes the same to help carry an adult through transitions in life and I’m, oh, so grateful for my little village of co-workers I also call friends.

As for the neurosis stimulated by the oodles of boxes? I’m learning to temper it knowing that everything will eventually find its place. More important is taking a few moments to stop and appreciate the new beginning these boxes represent; something my son’s fourth-grade teacher affirmed for me with this one sentence e-mail she sent about him:

“[He] is glowing with the move, new house, and your upcoming marriage!”  

It doesn’t get much better than that!

Catherine Anaya anchors CBS 5 News weeknights at 5, 5:30, 6 and 10 p.m. She is a mother of two, marathon runner and motivational speaker. Reach her at catherine.anaya@cbs5az.com, connect with her on Facebook, twitter and at CatherineAnaya.com.

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Many of my Latina friends are in their early 40s, and there’s been a change from the topics we conversed about in prior decades to the ones we discuss now. 

Topics include aging and changing our lives. Some talk about internal changes: belief systems that are no longer working, breaking old habits, exercise and nutrition, and managing stress better. Others talk more about changes they could make on the outside: facials, Botox and plastic surgery. 

We all want to hold on to our youth. As Hispanics, we are fortunate to have great genes; many Latinas I know look five to ten years younger than their age. Still, they are still women on the quest to remain youthful.

Is this what is meant by a “mid-life crisis”? Now entering my fourth decade, I was curious about the phenomenon.  According to several sources, some of the characteristics of a mid-life crisis (which usually occurs between the ages of 40 and 60) is that people often perceive their lives as in drastic decline. Some other common feelings are a sense of remorse for goals not accomplished or a sense that one’s goals remain undefined. Others translate their loss of youthfulness to feeling inferior to more successful colleagues.

I believe this period can be beneficial for Latinas who often make the best of any situation. It’s a time when we can re-evaluate our lives and make changes to shift our efforts to line up with new goals. Working on our insides is often harder than working on our outward appearance.

However, some Latinas I know are opting for cosmetic surgery at mid-life. One of them, named Lily, recently underwent a dramatic change and had a “Latina Miami Makeover™.”  At 41 years old, Lily decided that she wanted to change a few things about her body that nature had altered after having borne three children.

She said the surgery gave her a boost in confidence and helped her tremendously in her business interactions as a dance instructor and wedding/quinceañera planner. She was lucky, she says, to have found a board-certified plastic surgeon that speaks fluent Spanish and understands the culture. Many of the other surgeons she researched didn’t have the kind of certifications she felt comfortable with. 

Lily cautions women who are thinking about plastic surgery to make sure that they feel comfortable with the rapport they have with their surgeon. “Before” and “after” photos can give you some indication of a surgeon’s ability, but they cannot guarantee the result you will achieve.

The American Academy of Cosmetic Surgery suggests that you look into the surgeon’s credentials and experience. Ask for referrals from friends, and find out where the surgery will be performed. Another resource is the American Society of Plastic Surgeons; to find a member surgeon, visit ASPS.org.

Each Latina’s mid-life experience is different and, though I have never undergone any type of plastic surgery, I realize that in some cases it can make a huge difference in a person’s life.

Sometimes change can be subtle and come from within; other times it comes in the form of a total body makeover. 

As a Latina, I support other Latinas who choose to make changes in their lives on the inside or on the outside.

Diana Bejarano is an Arizona native and a graduate of Arizona State University’s Walter Cronkite School of Journalism and Mass Communication. Reach her at latinastillstanding@yahoo.com or latinastillstanding.blogspot.com

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When I was a child, there was a tax man who would come to our house on 7^th Avenue and Pima Street and sit with my father with a small calculator and papers that made no sense to me. My father would invariably get a refund and that made me happy; el gobierno was sending us money, so life was good. I had no idea that we were receiving a refund because my father’s income was low, below the poverty line, or close to it. 

Over the years, I have wondered about “tax time,” with a new anticipation and, certainly, with great concern. Millions share that concern as they try to figure out how much money they made, what percentage of that is taxable, and how much tax they might still owe? The numbers are often not in their favor, and they discover they must pay more tax even though their take-home pay had been habitually diminished by various tax obligations.

Several years ago as I wrote my novel, Let their Spirits Dance, I sat at a table in a small restaurant off Central Avenue in South Phoenix. As my hand rested on the table top, I felt a warm spot on the surface and thought perhaps someone had placed a warm plate or hot coffee cup on the table. However, there was no evidence that anyone had sat there before I came in. I even ran my hand under the table, thinking there might be an electrical outlet under the table that was shorting out. There was none. Understanding that, as a writer, things come to me from “left field,” I immediately took a small notebook and wrote a reflection that fit into the story of Sergeant Jesse Ramirez, the Vietnam veteran who had been killed in 1968 during the Tet Offensive. His sister, Teresa, was voicing her pain over losing her brother, and it came in the form of a debt she owed the universe.

There was a balance owing in my life that day – a debt of tears, pleas, cries, energy pushing to the surface. How can you owe a debt to the universe? But I did. And the universe wouldn’t be conned into taking anything less than the cold chill in my heart, strange payment for the warmth that was to follow.

At tax time, millions of Americans owe money. But what does a person owe when a cold, hard chill exists within? Teresa owed a debt, but it had nothing to do with money. It had to do with the bitterness and anger she felt over her brother’s death. Her debt was to be an exchange: the cold chill for the warmth. Sometimes the debts we owe have little to do with tax time, or the IRS. We owe hatred, anger, revenge, remorse; the list is endless. Until we pay the debt by giving it up to the universe, we will not receive the opposite – love, forgiveness and peace. 

Stella Pope Duarte was born and raised in South Phoenix. She began her award-winning career in 1995 after she had a dream in which her deceased father told her that her destiny was to become a writer. Contact her at stellapopeduarte.com.

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But, after years of complaining and eye-rolling about it, I finally accepted that what I considered my mother’s obsession with “junk” was actually a passion she’s had for finding treasure in someone else’s so-called trash.

It made her happy and who was I to argue with that, right?

We all have a little bit of it in us – slumbering passions and interests just waiting for us to stir and transform into dreams.

Take, for example, Cathy Garcia. I recently featured her in a CBS5 News story about her Cha-Cha Chic line of designer tees that were selected to go inside the Grammy Award celebrity “swag” bags.

Think about that. Everyone who is anyone in the music industry will now own one of her very colorful, fun, Latin-inspired tees. It’s her biggest break yet, and one that this Glendale woman might never have had were it not for a conversation she had with her granddaughter.

After years of taking care of her family, she wondered out loud about what she could do for herself. She credits her granddaughter with goading her: “Nana, you’re creative; just create!”

So, she took her passion for fashion and flair to a sketch pad and came up with a unique set of vibrant tees inspired by childhood memories and moments. In just three short years, her dream went from a conversation to a reality.

And that brings me back to my mom.

At 62 years old, she’s finally living a dream of her own.

Just last month, she took her love of all things used and opened her own thrift shop. All the boxes and bags of “stuff” that have taken up room in her house, garage, car and even my closet now sit, hang and  stand beautifully in the space she calls “Second Hand Treasures.”

She beams when she talks about it, despite the labor and dollars involved in becoming a small business owner. 

Both of these women are prime examples of the many shapes and sizes our passions can take and why no dream is ever too big or small to build on. Inspiration is everywhere we just have to take the time to look.

Catherine Anaya anchors CBS 5 News weeknights at 5, 5:30, 6 and 10 p.m. She is a mother of two, marathon runner and motivational speaker. Reach her at catherine.anaya@cbs5az.com; connect with her on Facebook, twitter and at CatherineAnaya.com.

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Photo courtesy of Girl Scouts of the USA

She is an award-winning community leader and she has served as deputy chief-of-staff for urban relations and community development under former Governor of Arizona and current U.S. Secretary of Homeland Security Janet Napolitano, and she is now the chief executive officer of Girl Scouts of the USA, one of the largest and most prestigious non-profits in the country. 

But, before accomplishing all of this,  she was a young Latina born to migrant farm workers in the small town of Eloy, Arizona, and she was a Girl Scout.

At the age of 10, Anna Maria Chavez joined a local Girl Scout troop, and her world has never been the same. She was able to join a sisterhood and travel to camps and learn about things she had never heard about, such as protecting the environment.

 “The Girl Scouts inspired me,” says Chavez, “I discovered I wanted to be an attorney because they help to protect the environment and people’s civil rights.”

At a very young age, Anna’s parents instilled in her a strong work ethic and the belief that one should be a good person who gives back to the community. The Girl Scouts built upon that foundation and continued to reinforce those values.

Anna set her goals high and, after graduating high school, she attended Yale University where she received her bachelor’s degree in American History and then went on to graduate from the James E. Rogers College of Law at the University of Arizona. 

 “We weren’t a wealthy family, but we were always giving back to the community. And we believed that, as long as you give more than you take, things would always work out in the end,” she said.

On March 12, the Girl Scouts will celebrate their 101^st anniversary of helping so many women, including leaders, such as Condoleeza Rice, former U.S. Secretary of State, Sonia Sotomayor, Associate Justice of the Supreme Court, and former U.S. Secretary of State Hillary Clinton.

“We need to work harder to ensure that we are reaching all girls, including Latinas,” she said. In the last decade, the Girl Scouts have increased Latina membership by 55 percent, according to Chavez. She says the Girl Scout organization is very focused on developing culturally relevant outreach methods to work more closely with the Latina community. 

There are 3.2 million Girl Scouts in every zip code in the United States, including Arizona, and there are Girl Scouts living in more than 90 countries around the globe. There are also 59 million Girl Scout alumnae and, Chavez says, there are data that clearly show a correlation between being a Girl Scout alumna and higher earning power, greater level of civic engagement and greater satisfaction with life than non-Girl Scouts.  

To learn about volunteering, visit girlscoutsaz.org/become-a-volunteer.  

Diana Bejarano is an Arizona native and a graduate of Arizona State University’s Walter Cronkite School of Journalism and Mass Communication. Reach her at latinastillstanding@yahoo.com or latinastillstanding.blogspot.com

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Ash Wednesday is the beginning of Lent, or Cuaresma, a word referring to the number 40, the days from Ash Wednesday to Easter Sunday, counting only weekdays and not Sundays. Non-church-goers felt perfectly at ease going up to the altar to receive their ashes as the call was for sinners to repent, and we all fit that category. Cuaresma reminded us of Christ fasting for 40 days in the wilderness, suffering, praying and being tempted by Satan before He began his earthly ministry. 

What did you give up for Lent? This question took over our minds, as we struggled with ways to show how much we were willing to suffer. We, Latinos, take quite quickly to suffering, as we have often taken the brunt of hardships due to injustice and discrimination. There is always someone in the family labeled la sufrida, a woman who has put up with a violent husband, or swindlers for children, or a host of other sufferings, and has endured it all. “Se aguantó,” (she endured) family would say, through her faith, sheer will or not having anywhere else to go. 

Most of the kids I knew chose to give up gum or candy. It was a hard choice, but one that actually benefited us. None of us ever went to a dentist and we had no sense of dental hygiene, nor the fact that our teeth were connected to our gums and everything needed care. I would wager that we all have missing teeth as adults. Another popular thing to give up was cussing. That was hard, but it also led us to come up with very creative ways to say things when we yelled at each other in anger. No one that I knew ever gave up tortillas, or rice, beans or carne asada on a daily basis. On Fridays during Lent, we all fasted from meat, but made up for the loss on the weekends.

There was a huge plus to Cuaresma, and that was capirotada, the rich bread pudding baked in the oven or steamed in a pot. Each cook had her own mysterious way of preparing this delightful dish but, nowadays, the mystery has been unraveled via the Internet and ingredients are listed as: stale bread, raisins, nuts, apple slices, cinnamon, anise, cloves, egg yolks, milk, a pinch of salt and sprinklings of lemon and orange juice. Some cooks spread this mixture over a tortilla, others just set it in a baking dish. Capirotada made up for all the candy we had given up.

What is it about suffering that is redemptive? This I have never understood, but I do know that suffering tests us; it makes us take a look at who we are and what we are doing and, more importantly, where our hearts are. Are we all about finding easy pleasure? I’ve learned that it’s not what you suffer, but how you suffer it that makes you holy. What you give up for Lent is not as important as loving yourself and others through life’s worst sufferings, ultimately realizing that joy, your own Easter Sunday, is at the end of it all.

Stella Pope Duarte was born and raised in South Phoenix. She began her award-winning career in 1995 after she had a dream in which her deceased father told her that her destiny was to become a writer. Contact her at stellapopeduarte.com.

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Comadrita, Lola here.

Listen, I need to cancel our cafecito. I’m taking some much-needed time off and will go incomunicada for a while. I wish I could tell you I’ll be traveling to the Nile Valley in Egypt, or de fregado Napa Valley, but no.

I’m taking time off to be home. Fully present at home, not just in and out as has become customary. I need to confront the ghosts that haunt me at night.

You know, the ones living in the spare bedroom closets, the kitchen cabinets and drawers and pretty much every other storage space in mi casa. This, my dear, will be a major feat and is something I haven’t done in quite some time.

I won’t even be back at the office until I confront the clutter head on and come out of the state of denial I’ve been living in for the past few years.

You see, I was raised to believe I can do a-n-y-thing I set my mind to. The thing is, because I do believe this to be the case, I’m drowning in a sea of evidence left behind by my “I can do it” attitude.

Exhibit A: 20-plus sticky notes reminding me of things to do throughout the house that have been in place for a while. They’re taped to different surfaces to prevent them from falling off, God forbid. You know, out of sight, out of mind.

This is on top of the reminders I’ve set on my smartphone, plus the family calendar on the fridge, plus the DON’T FORGET sign by the door intended as a final, fool-proof reminder, mostly for my viejo, that is longer than our wedding vows. It says things like:

MONDAY: Drop off stuff @ cleaners. Water play day for Kid A (pack snack, water shoes, swim trunks, towel, water bottle, sun block, cap & glasses) Karate day for Kid B (white karate shirt, shorts, tennis shoes).

TUESDAY: Pick up stuff from cleaners. Movie day for Kid A (wear camp t-shirt; water bottle). Book day for Kid B (take book, plus speech therapist will see her at camp – don’t forget speech folder. Leave at front desk with payment in envelope).

WEDNESDAY: Water play day for Kid B and dance class (pack snack, water shoes, swim trunks, towel, water bottle, sun block, cap & glasses. Take dance bag, dance slippers and tutu).

THURSDAY: Nada.

FRIDAY: Show and share for both kids. Prepare payment for yard service, cleaning lady, pest control guy.

SATURDAY: Swimming lessons for both kids (take goggles, cap, towels, water shoes, sun block and change of clothes).

Exhibit B: The “new” exercise equipment I bought three months ago is still boxed and collecting dust. This, because I haven’t had time to exchange the “new” one-size-too-small workout shoes I bought five months ago.

Exhibit C: The gadgetry and utensils in my kitchen I know I’ll never use. Like the two blenders and two food processors and two tortilla presses, and enough cookie sheets to set up a baked goods shop. The last time I made meatloaf was around Thanksgiving, and that’s all I’ve ever used the food processor for. Plus, even though I’m sure I can make tortillas, I’ve never made them in my life!

Exhibit D: My skinny and my fat wardrobe. I’ll spare you the details.

Wish me luck. And FYI, don’t get me any more Rosie the Riveter memorabilia. I know “I can do it.” Now I need the discipline to say, “If it doesn’t conduce to the greater good or to my personal realization, it doesn’t mean I have to.”

Hasta pronto, I hope.

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