Initiative Radio interviews ME !!! take a listen if you like

"Although it may seem cliché to say that art can be a healing element for people, Angela's guest Marthalicia Mataritta, a New York City born painter is a living testament to this sentiment. As a youth, she and her two brothers grew up in an unstable fashion with their ailing mother and the family moved between New York City and Massachusetts, then between the Dominican Republic and back to New York City, where they lived in cramped quarters and finally in a homeless shelter.

Children are resilient however and Marthalicia and her brothers were no exception. They used art and music to distract them from all of the negative events that resulted from their nomadic lifestyle. So strong was Marthalicia's passion for art, that her natural talent and enthusiasm won her the opportunity to attend the reputable La Guardia High School for Music, Art and Performing Arts and thereafter, with a military scholarship she attended college to finalize her formal studies in Visual Arts.

Today, Marthalicia is the mother of an energetic four year old boy and a busy live painter, who engages in art battles. Art battle competitions are an exciting part of New York City's dynamic art and music scene and for skilled painters like Marthalicia who are both talented and expeditious with their craft, the rewards can be tremendous and an artist's popularity can soar in a relatively short amount of time. The story of Marthalcia Matarrita is an inspiration to her fellow artists and to people who are facing adversity in their lives" ~Angela Mckenzie.

http://www.archive.org/details/IR-08-48

Update on my dog Isis: July 13 THE BRONX

What an ordeal, what a struggle not to have had Isis, my dog placed in animal control. My other dog Bruce was placed in animal control, and sadly was put down.

Ever since April of this year, I was place in a situation where my family and I had to relocate from Brooklyn to Manhattan; and our current place doesn't allow dogs or any another animals of any kind. I was so lucky to have had a friend that have held her from early April until late June. Although we don't have our place yet in the Bronx, but at least we have our Isis back. All I am singing today is : REUNITED and IT FEELS SO GOOD ... ~Peaches and Herb

Brooklyn Street Art : Interviews me. yay

Below is a link and also a copy of the interview that was done a not so long ago. Thank you Steve.



This is the page:

Brooklyn Street Art
…loves you more every day.Being “Street” and Supporting Independent Women
Posted on | July 10, 2009 |


The pressure of “live” performance sometimes can stress a girl out (Marthalicia and helper) (photo Anthony J. Causi)What makes you “street”? What makes you “hard”?
A lot of street art and graff culture glorifies a kind of toughness that is born of the streets; Yeah Brooklyn We Go Hard! That’s right, we’re down with that. From Rock to Rap to Tech to Funk to hoods to spikes to cans to fire-tags, the right to be rebellious and wreck sh*t feels like a birthright in Brooklyn.
We’re also down with giving back, giving support, sharing your talent. We met a cool street artist/artist named Marthalicia Matarrita recently and she reminded us that these gifts can be shared in a positive way too. She’s a street artist, a graff artist, a fine artist. From her blog you’ll find out she is also “mother, sister, daughter, entrepreneur, community advocate, and former National Guard”. She grew up in Harlem and went to La Guardia High School of Music and Arts in lower Manhattan.

She also spent time homeless and living in shelters. Okay, how “street” do you want it?

These days Marthalicia is doing a lot of live painting with Art Battles, a New York based creation of artist/event thrower/entrepreneur Sean Bono, who produces live art events and competitions to expose emerging artists to the masses. Marthalicia is also performing live art painting tonight in Brooklyn - at Cafe Europa as a celebration of independent women, something she teaches you about in the most gentle way.

Brooklyn Street Art: What kind of art you do?
Marthalicia Matarrita: I paint on canvas with acrylics. I unify the concept of traditional figurative subject matter and those of the comic book/urban graff illustrations (graffiti) to create a conversation about contemporary issues that affect all of us; environmentalism, homelessness, the military, etc.

Brooklyn Street Art: Have you done work on the street?
Marthalicia Matarrita: I used to create images on the street on the Upper West Side and I have a piece currently that I did this spring on the rooftop for a fundraiser at The New School of Design in the Lower East Side. It was such a thrill to know that I was part of something so cool and now I’m a “Rooftop Legend”. So many great artists had the opportunity to BLESS those walls with so much creativity and it humbled me to look at their art.


Marthalicia’s piece on the roof of The New School of Design at Parsons (photo courtesy the artist) Brooklyn Street Art: What has it been like working the Art Battles events and doing live painting with them?

Marthalicia Matarrita: I have been painting live since the spring of 2006. And since then my art has developed well into the theme of live audience and painting in an allotted time. I have been painting at different art functions, shows and events all over New York City and its’ 5 boroughs.

Since early 2008 I have been invited to participate with Art Battles at many art programs. It’s been an incredible experience working with Art Battles and its team. and what I have learned about painting “live” is that time and environment (the audience and music) has made me a more concentrated artist and more focused as an artist. Art Battles also recognizes the struggles of the artist and reimburses and also purchased materials.

See Marthalicia in this Art Battles video from this spring (click the little PLAY button in the lower left of navigation bar):





Brooklyn Street Art: “Do you think you have to be “hard” to be “street”? Marthalicia Matarrita: The street conditions you, even if you do have a soft heart or one hard like a stone.

Brooklyn Street Art: Some street artists feel like they have to destroy to get respect or credibility. Marthalicia Matarrita: Some people say that “most street artist have no siblings so they feel like they need to break stuff to get attention”. Others don’t have the means of an art education such as studio art. Street artists feel the need to express art just as strongly as a studio artist, but they do it without an easel and canvas. For them it’s much better to create images of thought or reflections of life in a cheaper way with cans and use THE WALLS as a canvas.


“I unify the concept of traditional figurative subject matter and those of the comic book/urban graff illustrations (graffiti) to create a conversation about contemporary issues that effect all of us; environmentalism, homelessness, the military, etc.” Atomic, by Marthalicia (image courtesy the artist) Brooklyn Street Art: Can you speak about the July 10th event and what it means to you.
Marthalicia Matarrita: The whole event is a fundraiser and the proceeds go to help a young child named Chanty, who lives in Cambodia. Felecia Cruz is the organizer of the program at her bar, Club Europa. I was called one day by Felecia to ask me to participate in her upcoming show July 10th as a live painter. She described this little girl Chanty, who she met in Cambodia during a recent trip, and she explained how she was determined to help her and her family to send Chanty to school to improve her future. That touched me to know that a stranger from another country was willing to invest her time and energy to genuinely help a young child in great need of education. It convinced me to join in her program and her mission because I wanted to be a part of something good, something that in the end would show a child hope and help her progress. I was given a similar opportunity when I was a young teenager, and I know how important it was to me.

Proceeds from tonight’s benefit will go to Chanty, who appears in the video below :


Brooklyn Street Art: This show is more than just about Chanty, it is about Women’s empowerment. Can you talk about the importance of having strong women today?
Marthalicia Matarrita: As you see, without strong women, you have disrespectful children, who walk around with their pants half off their ass and girls that think more about sex and sneakers then their future. In history woman struggled to have their voices heard.

It’s very important to have events like these to display not only that we are capable of making great achievements as our male counterparts, but also as individuals.


“Frida of Brooklyn” Marthalicia shot by Alex Bershaw (courtesy the artist)Brooklyn Street Art: The Mexican painter, Frida Kahlo, used her personal experiences, including some that were very painful, in her work. Has she affected you as an artist, and how?

Marthalicia Matarrita: Tremendously. I learned painting with oils and acrylic in high school. Most of my paintings were self-portraits. College was the time where I was exposed to her and her works and how amazed I was when I learned about her history. I felt somewhat connected to her because of her personal struggles; I too had some of my very own. The more I learned from her the more I saw my art footsteps evolving, not to copy her style or her intensions but her communication of her life with her art. I do the same with my art.

My life wasn’t a great one. I struggled here and there with poverty, being in the shelter, both parents were alcoholics, and my mom suffered a lot and she became schizophrenic.

My art saved me from dwelling on the negative activities in my environment.

Frida learned in her art to communicate her personal life story with Diego (Rivera) and about WAR. I painted with political themes when I was in the Army National Guard. I was called twice to Iraq and I painted how I felt about being toyed around with…fighting a cause that’s not our own.

Frida showed me that whatever kind of personality you have, art is a tool to show others how similar we all are and how we can help and teach one another.

That’s one of the things I wanted to do with my art in the long run.
*************************************************************************

“Independent Women”, Chanty’s Final Fundraiser, Friday July 10, 2009




An arsenal of female talent coming together to show Chanty and other young girls around the world that they can be whatever they want.

Performances by:
Eyeris with Radio Rose
Bless Roxwell
Jeanette Berry
Linda Laporte
Dama Nilz
Jasmine Solano
Her Virgins
Diva from CYM

Special Guest:Miz Metro
Music By: DJ ILL P


A short film:”Married Girl” by Alexandra Lopez

Live Art and Displays by Marthalicia

Make-up and Design by Lauren Weakly

Club Europa
98 Meserole Ave
Brooklyn, NY 11222

Marthalicia’s Blog

Category: Artists
Tags: Alex Bershaw > > Club Europa > Independent Women > Marthalicia > Marthalicia Matarrita
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My brother Tomas * ATOMIC* break dance for K*Swiss

Some time during this year, my older brother enters a competion in New York City, where he dances to a great audience and media. Check out the video. I am very proud.

Tomas ATOMIC Manon: Aka My brother

Tomas ATOMIC Manon: Aka My older brother is making moves. Check out the flier he has developed if your are interested in maving ill moves on them dance floors. His contact info:

B Boy Atomic 1 @yahoo.com
myspace.com/bboyatomic1
cell: (917)703-2164

Ana Manuela Manon: Aka Mom, part 2

After nearly two years; after a long time of worry some years, my mom returns to us. My mom returns to my dad's job in Manhattan, after a year plus in search for her existence; she sits silently and looks in a confused yet serene manner towards me, as if waiting for me to say something? I was a bit uncomfortable, but I understood my mom is older and must be on something. (I know this because of the way she looked; pale, sunken cheeks and very slow reactions when she moved).

My brothers showed up and greeted her with excitement as well, and showed her how much they themselves missed her. It felt like a reunion. We talked a bit and she mentioned to us how she needed to leave. She said that she now lives in Weston House on 113 Street, at the corner of 7th ave. We were surprised that she was around and some what close to where we were living. We were all glad to know that she was around, and we vowed to see her soon. I made it my personal business to see her as often as I could.

And that's exactly what happened. I saw her everyday. After working in Victoria secrets, I took the 2 or the 3 trains to 116th street and walked over the familiar neighborhood. Once familiar with the place and the staff, I then had a meeting with them, for they were letting me know about my mother's condition. I was told by the facility managers the history of my mothers mental state and what it was. I found out that my mom has schizophrenia . They also told me how often she needed to take her medications, and how they are covering for them.
I was stunned. All along I thought she was just drunk and sad, as well as saying things that she was thinking out loud. Now all made sense. The news took some time to let it sink in, into my heart. I had some questions that I had to ask the staff member, such as:

me: "can it be cured?"


staff: "no"


me: "is it hereditary?"


staff: "possibly, cant tell if your family line has a common gene, if so yes, if not
your lucky"

I didn't let the news bother me. I place my time in seeing my mom as often as I can which helped me coup internally. She at least needed to know that someone loves her and that they are there. I made sure she understood that. So I visited her and took her out for lunch every afternoon, and or walks around the central park walk side, all the way down to 42ND street. yup we can walk. Some days I took her out to the movie theater and then walk right back to her facility. This was a fantastic time for me and her to bond together. She told me stories of her survival experience living in the streets. From almost being set on fire while she was sleeping on a public park bench, to the time she was scavenging for food in trash cans. She told me that she was arrested for peeing in front of a church, and a bunch of police officers arrested her and placed her in a van. a couple of days later she was in New York city. This mom of mine, walked all the way up North to Rockland County.

Fast forward to the year 2003. My family had the opportunity to move from the shelter and into a brand new home of our own, a 4 bedroom apartment in Brooklyn Crown Heights. This was such a thrill that we couldn't even contain our excitement. This same year my older brother Tomas left to Iraq. The year 2003 was the year that my youngest brother decided to take my mother out of Weston House and bring her "HOME" back to us, as we once was. I have to say, it was a wrong mistake.

My mom agreed and was very motivated to leave at once from her medical and social worker staff that she left with a bounce in her steps. Once home we had a nice room set for her and everything. It felt like a traditional family. I was at peace. months turned into a year, and I started to notice that my mom would return home a bit late. One day I asked why was she returning home so late, (11pm ish) and would say, "I was taking a nice walk, and getting to know Brooklyn better". As she was speaking, I smelled alcohol in her breath. I ignored it, but was conscious that she did it. A couple of days after, she continued to do the same. I confronted her and I told her that it wasn't a good idea and that she really needed to stop. She would say "yes yes, I understand, but its only one drink". There was no hope. There was no way getting to her. Her mental condition started to return to how it used to be while we were living in the shelter. I was getting so worried. I felt that I didn't have power this time, the power to monitor her. (this is the time period that I was also living in S.U.New Paltz as a student and an Resident Assistant).

I pleaded with my brothers and my dad to place time for my mom and give her, her medications. Tehy all tried, but they all had their agenda and their lives fixed. It was hard for them to brake their routine, so my mom was left alone once again.

Month turned into a year. 2004 I found out I was pregnant, and my mom was there for me. At least this new opportunity arose for her to changer her habits, because a new family member was about to be introduced to the world. The year 2004, was a year that I found out that I was schedule to leave with my combat medical unity, to Iraq and fight the "terrorist and care for the wounded". I was at least 3 month pregnant and they still wanted me to go. (long story, but to keep it brief, I didn't go. way too many Combat medical assistants were lined up to go, and I was one far too many. So I, and 80 other soldiers were left to work in the states).

2004 became 2005, and pretty much the same scenario. I graduated from school and I gave birth to my son Wesly. My mom was there for everything that happened to me. She baby sat for me as I did a few errans, worked part time and did some art gigs.

2006 storms on by, where my mother drinking resurfaced. The summer of this year as well as the fall was hard for us economically. The year 2007 the turning point of my mother mental condition began to regain more strength and her attitude towards us, was more and more defiant, refusing her medications, refusing to stop drinking and refusing to get help. She was getting way out of control. Eating with her eyes close, and drank her self to sleep. Peeing on her cloth, barley caring for personal hygiene and was arriving home extremely late and staggering. This particular year she was something I did recognize, a behavior oh so unwanted. She didn't take a shower for months. She slept with her going out cloth, and eat in her bed, which so happen to have 3 dead mice on her bed as well. He entire bedroom started to look like a dumpster, a place where old food with fungus, pee stains in her bed and on the floors, food /garbage where she slept, and it all smelled so bad. She started to eat soap and had dirty underwear covering her entire face. The most disturbing bad habit was that shes refuse to talk to people, and would sing and laugh out loud. She would often talk to herself and get angry every time.

On a steamy hot summer of June 2007, my mom didn't arrive home at all. She was missing for an entire day. A day knocked on my door saying that she saw my mother on the last floor laying on the ground. I rushed to see her and it was true. I found her in my building on the 6th floor hallway area floor. She was incoherent, and was angry at me, and was sweating heavily. She was drinking alcohol and was wearing two sweaters, one coat and dirty underwear over her entire head. I tried to take that ugly underwear off her head; and as I yanked it out, I saw quickly that her eyes were shut close with some Vaseline and turpentine ointment. She smelled so bad and started to fight me physically. She couldn't event get up. Her skin of her face was so caked up, and dry. She was also wearing socks on both her hands for some days now and now they were torn and dirty. She was trembling as of being cold, but its June, the hottest day this week? Why is she wearing a coat? I called the ambulance as an emergency aid, to convince my mom to get some medical help. She didn't react to people in a normal way and was hurting herself very badly. The paramedics arrived shortly, and took my mother away. I went with her, and I noticed that they placed her in a phyiatric ward near where I lived. The Hospital was called, "Kings County Hospital"I was surprised this was the spot to evaluate her condition, and I follow what the doctors were telling me.

I stayed with my mom. She wouldn't let me go either, digging her sharpen nails into my arm's flesh as if clinging to me for dear life. And all the time she was calling me a "stupid son of a bitch!", for sending her there. I been telling her that eating soap and drinking liquor or even turpentine was not a natural thing to do, and she needed professional help. Eventually we got some doctors that evaluated her in front of me and asked me about her condition, and why I sent her there. They agreed with me and told me that shes is Schizophrenic and its something that she needed frequent medical attention, and the alcohol made it worse.


Below is a YouTube clip of the very same place I took my mother to. This event happened one month after her admittance to Kings County Hospital.





Late (hot and very humid) June 2007 passed and a few month later, my youngest brother Jorge was frustrated that my mom was held in a mental ward, requested that she should be taken out and that my family would take better care of her. The hospital didn't hesitate and respected Jorge's' request. He called me and told me to bring my mom home. And so I did. I took her out, filed some paper work, and everything was well. I wanted to took a taxi to her house, but she didn't want to go home at all. I convinced her, and on the arrival of our destination: "you stupid son of a bitch!!!! I told you I didn't want to go here! Why did you take me here?!" I was so surprised that she said that!. The entire day I was forcing my mom that she need to go back home, that it was getting cold on this late July afternoon. She refuse. She was waiting for an answer to see if she can move in with me. She was out side her home for one entire day. From 3 o'clock until 11:28 pm she was standing out side, refusing to eat and drink, and often peed on herself. My older brother Tomas decided to call the ambulance and take her back to the hospital. And so it happened. He went with her to re admit her to the Phyciatric ward. One day later, Jorge to the rescue. This time I took her home again.

One year later her habits continued where she was uncontrollable. More strange, more behaving as a captive and waiting to died in her room. 2008 April my mom felt it was time to leave. She left one morning. One day later I called the police for a missing older woman. days turned into weeks, until I got a phone call from Jorge. He called me that my mom just arrived and he needed to go to work, and wanted me to go to his house and convince her not to go out again. I took a taxi from where I was and ran up the stairs, keyed myself in, and opened her bedroom door and saw her. Laying on top of her bed, with glasses , shoes and everything she has taken with her.

Below is the report of my mom being missing:




Once again, one more time, I was face to do something to prevent me from losing my mother. I told my older brother Tomas to call the police to report her reappearance. he did and they arrived 30 minutes later. They questioned her and they asked me for my father who wasn't there at the time. I called my father and my sister for advice, and they suggested that I should re admit her again, and this time do not allow
any one to take her out of the hospital. I told the police that I strongly suggest to place her once again to the hospital that she was in.

Teams of police officers arrived at the foot steps of my building, ambulance and medics were assessing my mother and persuaded her to get up from her bed and move towards the ambulance; and while that was happening, my family stood still. We were all surrounded by silence and flashing of red, blue and white lights, from the police cars, playfully dancing all around us. "One more time", I said to myself, and this time I went with her. (Once again she told me storied of where she was for the week she was missing, and what has happened to her: sleeping while it was raining in the parks, getting violated in Eastern Parkway and had a bunch of teenagers that picked her up from her sitting on the bench, and how all 7 other this guys punched her and kicked her. She also showed me her wrist which was badly swollen and black and blue. The pain ran out my eyes as tears and into my hands. I felt helpless.) We stayed together and got her re admitted. She cried out and cursed me out as usual. Sleeping on a chair until her name was called. She was waited in the waiting room for about one week, until there was a room her her sot sleep in; and then a month later she was relocated to a different hospital where seniors with mental stress were located at Kings Borough Phyciatric Hospital in Brooklyn off of Utica Avenue.

2008: The run down until present.
She appears to be in great faith, and I saw her practically everyday. I sometimes took my son to see her, which she loved oh so much. We talked about my family's progress and disappointments, and I tried my very best to bring her spirits up as she once did when I was a little girl. "Mami, I miss you so much. I want to take you to the park as we once did, and take you to the movie theaters." but in do time is what she replied.

Now my mother is relocated as of November 24th 2008, her birthday, to upstate New York at a Seniors hospital called Hedge Wood in Beacon New York. I haven't yet seen her but have been calling her as frequent as I possibly can.

Thank you all for reading my story.
~Marthalicia Matarrita

Ana Manuela Manon: Aka Mom

This blog perhaps is the most stressful blog I ever have to write. Maybe this is therapeutic for me, who knows.



Imagine a little girl, stress free, walking along the dusty road walking with a pale of water on one hand and a bag of platanos on the other. No thought, just a simple routine walk on a hot humid afternoon in Santo Domingo,(Dominican Republic).

Imagine that this little girl is walking home with no shoes and a bit torn up dress and smiling on her way home, knowing that her mom is waiting for her with her eleven brothers and sisters. Yeah I said it, eleven siblings, all at home doing some sort of choirs around the house to keep it maintained and bug free. A life style like the one this girl had, can only project family pride, team work, and harmony. Dang eleven boys and girls combination, all under one roof, the mouth to feed, the cloth to put on each child and schooling, all must have been an after school program in her home. All seems great in the Manon - Melo family. Base on Christianity and hard work, the little girl grew up to be Ana Manon. A very social butterfly and a loved young lady both in her home and outside. To a degree, her personality was a magnetic one. Her personality blossomed more so when the idea of earning money to help her mother pay the bills since her dad was always drinking or beating her mom up at other times. This home also presented a stressful environment where pretty much everyone was affected by the father of the house.

Such a turn off to go home from school and keep a routine such as the one she used to have, she gathered up some strength at the age of 24, and decided to travel and explore a new world. A world where there shouldn't be so much struggle to feed oneself, nor a struggle to fight for a little bit of pride. So often she have heard of New York City, as a place where Money grew on trees. New York City was AMERICA to her, the land of prosperity and wealth.

Fast speed ahead to when Ana meets Martin. Both were alcoholics. My dad met my mom at a bar, and my mom was a bartender at this time. yada yada yada, my dad gets with my mom, and had my older brother Tomas in Massachusetts. Issues arose where they weren't together. My mom and dad meet again, yada yada yada, and pow, here I am born in New York City, Roosevelt Hospital. This time around my dad lives with my mom and, here it goes: yada yada yada, Jorge pops out, born in New York City, same place I was. How convenient.

"The life style as to how I remember it, went a little like this. I so feel for my mom and that's why she is my inspiration."

I remember living in a one bedroom of a 4 bedroom apartment that we were sharing with Mexicans in Manhattan close to Riverside Drive. I remember us, my brothers and my mom arriving to my dad's place (which was a one room situation, we all five of us in it), having a tiny window overlooking the street, and also a small hand sink on the wall. One twin size bed, and massive bowling trophies along the sides of the bed. I remember the smell of BRUTE colone and a radio blasting to the beat of Whitney Huston, " I wanna dance with some body, I want feel the heat with some body yeah!..." This was the begining of when my mother started to lose herself in small pieces fragments of hope.

Story there ends where we were evicted, because the Mexican lady Dona Juana didn't get along with my mother. So we were roaming the streets the night of the eviction, and misses fix it, mom to the rescue found a gentlemen which she befriended, and begged him to stay with him and all of us included. This new one bedroom of a 2 bedroom apartment was on 144 street in Broadway. We once again lived together all five of us on one tiny room. We slept on suitcases and on the tiny bed. Dad worked, as we went to school. The owner of the apartment agreed for us to stay, the man said yes, and so we staied. There weren't no contracts, nada. We stayed there for about one year and a half, until the owner, Mr. Maximo felt that we were using his kitchen alot and he felt that we needed to leave.
He surprised us all, one afternoon, as we were returning from school, as my mom enters her key and couldn't get in. All our stuff was still inside. That dude, even placed an alarm if we was gonna get in. We were out side our apartment for at least 9hours. We called the cops, (long story) so we were lead in. He got a bit paranoid and was hustle towards us all. My mom to the rescue surf the city and that same night found another spot in Manhattan leading closer to Harlem.

187 Edgcome Ave, new york city; Harlem. What a neighborhood. during this time my mom's mental symptoms of deep depression started to erupt. After so many exhausting living situations and having no money for the children( us), no team work and the feeling of imposing on others, got her drinking. Our battle didn't end there. 187 provided for the first time a place of our very own. Of this three floor brownstone, we first were living on the second floor, the bathroom we shared since we all were living in a studio apartment. Yes again, all five of us, teenagers with mom and dad in a studio apartment with a built in closet size kitchen. My mom couldn't bare it, but she tried. She sometimes will get the food and return drunk? How was that?

Crack Head Mr.and Miss H,(can not disclose of their names), often shoot up. We were frequent awaken by their violent fights at night over a rock, and or alcohol. These folks were so heavy with the drugs that they often set their house on fire accidental, as they were cooking and they fell asleep. We were the ones that saved the building by calling the fire department, lets say more then 7 times. My mom kept her cool. She even kept her cool when she found out my dad was laid off. No money was running. Starvation. This wasn't her dream at all. The promise land of hopes and dreams all washed away by a stubborn husband. ( more to this story, too much to include. If you have questions, ask.)
We all witness shooting, by foot or drive by. We all witness gang related muggings and were victims of them as well. This let to what made my mom worse; for one year mom started to talk about " El Hombre Malo" the bad man. the mad that "killed her mom"( all in her mind, she died of natural causes). The cascades of events got worse. The Landlord, in which my dad was paying his rent too, didn't pay the eclectic bill for the entire building and ran off with the rent money. This meant that we were without electricity for one year and a half.(started during the fall of one year and ended towards we the next year in the spring with no electricity). We couldn't cook food, take a shower, there was no heat, we couldn't read our homework's, nothing. Candle light was the way to go. My mom couldn't take it. So she once again wanted to rescue us by looking for clothing from the streets for us, collecting cans of food to sell to get some type of income. She bought trinkets in whole sale and resell them to the public around the schools we were going. There wasn't any shame of getting money for her family. She did that in Dominican Republic, what was the difference?

Living in 187 I notice my mom's behavior to be more and more obscured and very very unfamiliar. I remember one night she didn't return home at her usual time, 7pm. She instead return home, humming, carrying a one gallon of milk on one hand and the other a pound of uncooked white rice. At this cool winter night, I asked my mom if I could her her unload some of her stuff. She nodded, with her hat covering half her salty face. I thought it was kinda weird. After unpacking the food, my mom ran away from me quickly. I chased her and cornered her and asked her about her face. She ran passed me and into the other room, where she laid down and sat down in the most strange way. I asked to see her face. To my horror, my mom had a very swollen black and blue eye. It was so swollen that the dry blood that was crusting over it made it look like a peperoni roll. It was so shocking. She said that a car backed up on her and pushed her, she fell and broke her left wrist. I rushed to access the wound, and once again, to my shocking surprise, my mother's bone was sticking out of her wrist. I ran and got a wooden chair and got straight piece to help her from not tearing her flesh even further. I called the ambulance and she was alright from there.
Alcohol got the best of her.

After being evicted from 187, a letter on our main entrance door stated a place in which we all need to attend, and it was a near by homeless and family relocate Shelter that was on 137th street between 6th and 7th ave. The YWCA.(Lenox and Adam Clayton Power Boulevard.)

This was the Turing point of where I totally lost my mother.
In the shelter we each were given a separate room. One for each of us, all in the same floor, sharing a local/public bathroom with 14 other rooms. These people didn't cared about themselves, I can say this because of the way they did things. Taking a dump on the sinks, throwing food in the shower, condoms with blood all over the floors both in side the bathrooms, and in the hall ways. I saw perhaps the most drug needles in my life time by me living there. The most dirtiest place , mud and scum on the doors and in side the bathrooms. Warms crawling on the side of these rooms, no light and broken window were a hash condition to live in.
This is when my mom died inside. At times I return from school and I run to look for her. She was either shitting on the floor of the room we both shared or walked the street with out socks nor shoes. Her behavior worsen, to an out of control state. I even saw her in the streets, and I force her to come home with me because I know she will either get killed by someone of she will hurt herself. She has spat on me in public, rubbed it on my face. She has cursed me out in from of strangers, and wanting to fight me. Was a difficult time.

One sad afternoon, after returning from Aikido, I noticed that her room was a bit different. Emptier. It appeared as if some was ran sacked her room and wiped it clean of goods, leaving behind dirty paper and some tooth past. I started to clean up, and hours turned into 24 hours. As the night fell, my dad and I called the police and called for a missing person. Those hours turned into days, then weeks and month. A year pass. Silence in my family. We didn't know if she was dead or alive. Another year pass, and my dad calls me from his job and asked me to hurry to see him there.

I saw a ghost. It was my mother. over two years, my mom returns, looking totally different. Older, sunken in, she looked like she was on some medical drugs. I cried and hugged her oh so tightly. I couldn't believe it, it was her, I was holding my mother, I was holding her as to make sure she will not leave me again. My mother came back.

To be continued.....

Why I chose art making.

My reason for Art Making: PART 1


Not many people know this, but there is a story that explains why I chose art. Place in mind, that I believe in a higher power, and that there something so much greater then I, is out there. People call it GOD, or the Universe, and any other deity or worshiped figure.

I am writing this because there were a lot of people asking me the same questions, and maybe this will explain my art reasoning better. Thank you for your time and also patience in understanding me and of what I do. ~Marthalicia

One Sunday morning, I went to church. I was twelve or thirteen years old at this time, and I remember listening to the priest. I remember the priest discuss a story (a parable) and towards the end of the parable, he explains the lesson of the story.

"Jesus walked through the shore line and he encountered 3 fishermen at different locations. He wanted to give each fisherman a life lesson, in doing so, he gave each fisherman a "gift" ( worth).

*This "gift" worth, was something that represented money at that particular time in history, it could have been sea shells.

Jesus told these man that he will return, and upon his return he will ask what they have done with the "gift" worth and for those that UNDERSTOOD his meaning will join him to the kingdom of Heaven.

Days turned into months. Then one day, Jesus returned. Then he asked the first fisherman "What have you done with what I gave you (The gift that GOD gave you)?, and he said", Nothing, absolutely nothing, I figured you would return and would want it back, so I stayed at home and didn't spend nothing.

To the second fisherman: What have you done with the gift that GOD gave you? The second fisherman said he spend it all. He thought that GOD wanted him happy.

To the third fisherman: the same question. And the fisherman said: I divided the money into two equal portions. One portion I purchased some cows, some chickens, and some food for the animals, the other portion was to purchased grains of rice and seeds for plants to harvest. With this, I was able to mate my cows, to get more calves, and milk for me and my family and also sell them to my neighbors. The vegetable the same, I ate and sold to my neighbors, and as well the chicken for their eggs and meat and sold them. I lived happily in my community and everyone gets what they needed in harmony. "

The priest goes on by saying: God gives everyone a special gift. To others there is more then one gift. It is up to you to figure what your gift is, and it is up to you to understand it and help others along the way. Some gifts are simpler while others are sophisticated. Don't fright or sadden if what your heart isn't content with what you don't have. Figure out what you can do with what you already have. Harness it ( Harvest) so that you can make the best out of your existence here on Earth.

I found purpose to my being that day: The best gift I knew oh so well was and still is ART. Creating. But my question was, how can I Harness and help myself and my community? I took it so personal and so passionately that I refocus my intentions in school and in my furthering my art experience.

I was determined to make art my destiny: That I joined the Army National Guard because I couldn't afford college. Bachelor of Fine Arts. Many people still didn't understand why military. Well folks that is going to be another blog.

Stay tuned for your next episode of the Marthalicia Chronicles, 2008. mm

Why I chose the military path

The Military Path
Category: Life


I remember my father taking me to the movies when I was 10 years old. I remember looking up to him and seeing his expressions while he talked. I remember him being a very strong man, one that always stressed the righteous path of living, but contradict it by drinking alcohol and always had a bad temper.

As I got older, I noticed that he was different, as well I was different. Different in the way we talked and express ourselves. It was my first time I found out that I wasn't 100% Dominican, but also something else. ( another blog to discuss social issues). 14 years old and drawing as usual, I remember asking him about his past. He shared with me unique experiences about his life in Costa Rica, and of his tough up bringing (way too much to tell but I guarantee you will know about it.). This sharing of stories really got me feeling some pride for him and of what I was made of. Cool stuff I thought. What was really "cool" was when he accidental blurted out that he was in the Marines.

Wow, was I taken by surprise. Marines? What made you to join papo? He said he wanted to get out of his country and have a brand new life of adventure and also establish his independence in the North American, New York. What better way to say that he was proud to be a US citizen was to join a military branch. He asked a stranger what was the toughest military brand, and Marines was the reply.

Years passed, and I grew older. My art got better and unique, but those stories of his youth that my dad often told me, always lingered in my imagination. Around this time, I was also dating a friend from high school who eventually enlisted to the Army. I was invited to see his graduation ceremony, and it was my very first time that I actually saw military people. I have to say I was so drawn to the way of life style and rough training, that I found myself memorized. The unity and the tough sounding of communication between soldier and drill sergeants was so powerful and impressionable, that I caught myself so engaged at their every move. My eyes couldn't blink. I was fixated on the beat of the troops, that I too felt so much pride in being the daughter of a soldier. In my mind, I told myself I can do this. I already had martial arts training, how easy it could be for me to just train my body and mind in a totally different way.

I was very naive at first in the realism of life of a soldier and their purpose of their training. All the stories were fantasies and so thrilling, that life and death didn't appear real, but fictional as in TV or stories in books and comics. Although my dad did express some discomfort in telling some rare but never to be repeated stories, it still didn't appear real. I disguise it with the non so important stuff, like the physical training, the excitement of doing something that your mind and body hasn't been placed before, the forced feeling of placing your entire body to its limits. That kind of stuff filled my head. Politics appeared like issues that only "grown- ups " should handle. So I didn't stress it especially during the WAR times, and why is the real purpose of a soldier was. It simply didn't matter to me at that particular time. When returning home, I was impressed visually and emotionally by the ceremony that it stayed in my mind for some weeks. Then again it died out.

School, and Art. And how the military join the two well in my path in life.

Once I reach a time where I had to decide what High school to enroll, I went to a period of hibernation, mentally and as well physically. I was really stressed because I really wanted to do good in school. It was all that my dad talked about. Weeks passed and I had a time limit as to select the school I wanted to go. I pondered a lot. I then retreated to a church on Sunday morning, and I left there feeling totally different. I felt like a new girl. I knew in my heart where and what I wanted to do in life. Art. I was blessed to have had the experience of been given a scholarship. I thought I had this scholarship for the 4 years of school, but I sadly found out that the scholarship was for one semester. I was surprise and so sad. I didn't want to quit because I couldn't afford it. What could I do? Before I had the chance to make a drastic decision, I "accidental" bumped into a friend that enlisted into the military. She told me all about G.I. Bill and how the military gave her money back for just enrolling for 3 years plus. She looked great and appeared so strong. That impressed me tremendously that I decided to go to a Marines recruiter, and make my dad proud. Another week past and that same friend expressed how she really wanted to join the Army National Guard because a soldier under war time, will remain in the States and also work part time as a weekend warrior. I was happy, finally something that I liked to do, something that made my father happy, something that can help me in school. All for the name of ART.