Healing

[proudxicanaatwork]

On marriage

Nov 1, 2016

On marriage.

I think it can be a beautiful thing. And really if it weren’t all tied up in heteronormativity and the idolization of the nuclear family I’d wanna get married all the time to all the peeps. What is marriage really?

At its simplest, marriage is a public declaration of love. Two people declare they will love and be with each other forever in front of people who love them. That’s another part that makes me uncomfortable. Forever. Why it gotta be forever? Why can’t we be like I will most likely love you forever but we both recognize love is not all it takes to keep a relationship going and so if and when we are no longer healthy together we’ll gladly part our ways?

It is also a blessing by god. Which is cool but also weird because you can supposedly only marry one person in the eyes of the Catholic god.

So why would I get married?

PROS:

·      Our families (moms and grandmas) would really appreciate it and love it.

·      Public declaration of love

·      Time spent with family and loved ones celebrating my partner and I

·      Amazing pictures

·      All the attention

·      Memories to be cherished forever

·      Bachelorette party

·      My court <3

·      Dope ass outfit that defies white dress normativity

·      Vows

·      Reminiscing and thinking about the future out loud and with fam

·      Planning with friends

CONS:

·      Hella money for 1 day of our lives

·      Hard to avoid heteronormativity

·      It can suck for single people who are having a hard time being single

·      It can be obnoxious

·      It can insinuate forever and if we split would cost us (divorce fees)

[proudxicanaatwork]

Pap smear trouble

Sept 26, 2016

"They were everywhere."

I made my gyno appointment. September 14th. Pap smear. I couldn’t remember the last time I got one. I don’t mind pap smears, they are uncomfortable but I like to know everything is okay down there. Especially since I got my IUD in there 3 years ago, I want to make sure that sucker is still in there. She’s also going to check my breast. I’ve had a lump in my left breast for a while now, but my doctors up until my last visit had said it was normal. This last visit she was like maybe get it checked out, it’s kind of big. Small panic, but also no time for panic I had other goals for that visit (securing a therapist and getting blood drawn).

Anyway, I was looking forward to getting checked out since I had been putting it off for quite some time now.

She asks me about my last period, I share how I’ve had an irregular period the past couple months- sometimes bleeding twice a month. She nods, probably says or asks a follow up question I don’t remember. I’m trying to rack my brain also wondering why I don’t keep track of my periods so I wouldn’t struggle so hard to guess answers to her questions.

She begins the check up down there.

She says she doesn’t feel the strings of my IUD. Oh, great. She now has to ultrasound me. I’m like okay, that sounds kind of cool. I remember hearing that it was normal for the strings to wear off or go in the cervix. Now the ultrasound machine I’ve only ever seen in movies and used on pregnant women is up beside me. Damn that’s cool, I can see my insides. Why does my doc look all concerned? You know, that look of constipation.

She says my IUD is in there and that it will most likely be fine to take out in a couple years. Unless it got positioned weirdly in which case... she doesn’t really explain worst-case scenario which I’m cool with. Why attract that negative energy into my uterus.

But she’s still looking concerned and starts pointing towards my ovary. Which she announces because I can’t really tell what’s going on all I see are black and grey blobs on the screen, hoping not to recognize a heartbeat.

She starts circling my left ovary and explains how there seem to be cysts inside it which are enlarging it, possibly to twice its normal size. Ouch- it doesn’t hurt but I can feel it. She shows me my other ovary, which is tiny. She’s like well these could be super normal and will go away on their own or they could be benign tumors that need to be removed or they COULD FLIP OVER YOUR UTERUS AND MAYBE YOU WILL NEVER BE ABLE TO GIVE BIRTH IF YOU EVER CHOOSE YOU WANT THAT EVEN THOUGH RIGHT NOW YOU REALLY DON’T WANT KIDS EVER. Or something along those lines.

She moved on to my breasts and recommended I get the lump checked out because it’s probably a benign growth BUT DOES YOUR FAMILY HAVE A HISTORY OF BREAST CANCER HOW SOON CAN WE SCHEDULE YOU TO GET IT CHECKED OUT **CONCERNED FACE**.

There’s no herstory of breast cancer in my family but I’m still pretty bummed out after this doctor’s visit. Routine checkups really can sneak up on you. She keeps repeating anything malignant in my ovary or breast would be super rare but I’m convincing myself I’ve lived a good life.

I’m surprised by how relieved I am with the possibility of not being able to birth children. Like that would be the perfect way to get off the hook (my partner really wants kids and I’m like please no).

I text bae. He doesn’t respond but I text him all the details. Like hey babe, im kind of terrified right now but can you not be and tell me everything is going to be okay? Of course I get no response but it felt good to let it out. I would later feel bad for impulsively sending these.

I think about telling one of my besfriends but I really don’t want to worry her and I really should believe everything is going to be okay. I schedule 2 follow up appointments for next week. Sept 19th and Sept 21st.

I went off to work and pulled off an arduous week. Long days with no room to break down and let out my feels. I tried to cry but it didn’t come out right. I wanted to tell my mom and dad but no use in sharing until everything was cleared.

Fortunately I have resolving cysts in my left ovary and a benign tumor on my left breast, which I can get removed if I want to. I am more grateful for my health (all my blood tests also came out normal) but also feel reaffirmed in my life choices because as I tormented myself with the possibility of living a shorter life I couldn’t think of anything I’d be doing differently. <3

[proudxicanaatwork]

Doctors and therapy

Sept 26, 2016

“Push through the pain,” I used to tell myself. But now I’m like okay maybe push through the pain but also see a therapist.

I finally got around to making my doctor’s appointment, August 31st. I felt guilty because the last time I went in was in March and I hadn’t followed up with my blood tests. They had asked me to come back and have some tests done and I put it off for so long I eventually gave up all together. Every week there was another reason not to wake up early and hit up the lab. Too many meetings, not enough sleep, cuddling with babe for 30 more minutes…it was never a good time.

But I really wanted to get hooked up with a therapist to talk through all the changes in my life- both in my romantic relationship and with my family- and I needed my doctor to refer me. Of course I show up and they tell me my doctor left the hospital and I need to choose a new one unless I want to be stuck with a young white doctor- o hell no. Add that to my to-do list.

Fortunately a woman of color doctor sees me this time. It’s all cordial, I tell them I want to see a therapist, they jump into domestic violence prevention. I assure them my partner is not abusive. They breathe easier but now she’s looking at me like, then why do you want to see someone? I can’t tell whether my request is making me sound like a privileged brat who’s had way too much time to deconstruct my needs and my relationships and is now about to soak up precious resources not accessible to most people. But I know I need this so I don’t backtrack. I try to explain what changes are happening in my life and that I’m not sure if I’m depressed because I’m not as sad as my friends who’ve been diagnosed with depression but how sometimes I can’t get out of bed. There’s a questionnaire and I have a hard time answering because I don’t keep track of my emotions in this way. If at all.

She says maybe mild depression but doesn’t seem convinced and encourages me to self-refer- hands me a phone number; which is cool I didn’t know I could do that. Would have saved me this awkward visit. Oh no, here come the questions about exercising. “Are you sure you don’t exercise at all?” Well, I do yoga once a week- for periods of time, I also go months without it. “Oh. Like hot yoga?” No, the regular kind where I don’t usually break a sweat. *awkward laugh* I don’t really think it’s funny but it seems rude not to join her. I get it, I should be exercising. I suggest I take up running, she says that’s a good idea. I share how last time I started running I pulled a knee muscle, which was the reason I even visited the doctor back in March. She explains the benefits of exercising. I feel bad because I know how unlikely it is I will begin exercising any time soon. But I pat myself on the back for yoga, I know it helps.

Anyway, I’ve also come prepared to do my blood tests immediately after this appointment so I can stop beating myself up about it. I proceed to get 8 or 9 little tubes of blood sucked out of me. I refuse to look but I can feel the warmth of my blood as we reach the last 3 tubes. I keep wondering whether I am going to faint because I’m not even allowed to donate blood because of my weight. But I make it through and treat myself to a $4 hot chocolate afterward. One of those times I get to treat myself because I woke up early to see my doctor (who’s not my regular doctor because my doctor is gone), fail at getting a referral to see a therapist, and give hella blood. Now I’m off to work and to make my gyno appointment because the doctor thinks that’s a good idea.

[proudxicanaatwork]

Assimilation

September 1, 2016

It was a terrible mistake. I thought I was praising them.

I was graduating from an internship program and delivering the graduating speech. Of course mom and grandma in front row, they’d driven up from San Jose to Sacramento to share this important moment with me. They are always invited and they always come through. I invite them because they are the reason I do the things I do and because my successes are their successes. 

I wanted the whole room to know they were there. I was there checking in with them before the program started, sharing with them how I was going to give them a shout out just like I had done at other events. A look of worry came over their faces.

“¿Te podemos pedir algo?” Can we ask you a favor?

“Claro que si, what is it?”

“Por favor no les digas que no hablamos inglés. Nos dio mucha vergüenza la otra vez cuando dijiste eso.” Please don’t tell them we don’t speak English. We were really embarrassed when you shared that with the audience last time.

My heart broke. I vividly recalled sharing -what up to this point I didn’t know was their big secret- as I gave my thesis presentation. And in that moment I wished I could go back in time and shut my mouth.

What for me was a sense of pride- here were these strong, uncompromising women who didn’t need to speak the language in this country to thrive. Who stood grounded in the language they learned in their home country. Mexicanas bellas- in all sense of the word. I was proud they didn’t speak another colonizer language. I don’t believe in assimilation. When I hear about people who’ve been in this country for decades and don’t speak English my first thought is RESISTENCIA.

My mom and grandma were embarrassed not to speak the language of the land that has to this day wrongly treated them like they are not worthy. A country that wishes and actively works to erase all the tongues that have ever been spoken on this land.

My mom and grandma measure their worth on their ability to craft a sentence in a foreign language, when I know damn well their flowery Spanish can dance piruetas around every single bland and savorless English word.

I was silent.

I wanted to explain to them how proud I was of them. I wanted to explain to them that everything I’ve accomplished is a symbol of their success. I wanted to apologize for every English-only event they’d ever attended. To explain to them how this event was failing them. I wanted to hold them and absorb their internalized hatred. To suck out the venom that this country injects immigrants with. The venom that makes us feel like we will never be good enough. That unless we look and speak like white people we are nothing.

I pushed back unsuccessfully. I knew that in the couple minutes I had before I went onstage I couldn’t undo the damage this country has been inflicting on them every day for 15 years.

I hugged them. I told them I loved them, and that I understood. Even though I didn’t.

I delivered a speech in all English. I delivered a speech praising my courageous mom and grandma- who left the world they knew for reasons beyond their control- in words foreign to them.  

[proudxicanaatwork]

When alcoholism runs through your veins

August 29, 2016

I didn’t have a choice. Alcoholism runs through my veins.

Growing up I remember being scolded by my father quite often. He hated when I told on him, but I knew damn well that he wasn’t supposed to be drinking because my mom got really mad when he did. And I knew my grandma didn’t like it either. So if they asked, I told them the truth. “Yes my dad is drinking. I can smell the alcohol in his breath from across the room- that plastic cup with Mickey Mouse on it isn’t fooling anyone.” 

He’d run after me telling me to hang up the phone and that I was una mentirosa. A liar.

My mom would get home late from work. My dad would be on the bed half drunk, no- fully drunk.

My brother and I would lock ourselves in our room, pretending not to hear the yelling and the things being tossed around in anger and desperation. The yelling would get so loud I had to cover my ears to tune them out.

 When I first started drinking it seemed so innocent. Taking sips from the bottles stashed around the house and filling them back up with water so nobody would notice. The buzz of tequila/wine/other-alcoholic-beverage-in-miniature-bottle was priceless. I didn’t even feel my tolerance build up.

Soon I wasn’t only drinking at home but drinking with friends whenever we got together- including lunchtime at school. Water bottles filled with Vodka. Middle school was a combination of tipsy with straight-A’s.

Stealing alcohol bottles from Safeway after 11pm. I must have looked so innocent then- 12 years old; the cashiers didn’t look at me twice. Runaway car ready to go waiting for me outside the store. Sky Vodka bottle hidden in my oversized sweatshirt.

Alcohol poisoning at age 14- emergency trip by ambulance to the nearest hospital after mom finds me passed out outside in the middle of the night.

Multiple blackouts ever since. My dad and I agreed - we drink to pass out, nothing less.

I drink less now. But I still crave a drink after a long day of work and it’s hard for me to turn away a drink with someone, even when I know I’m bad at stopping once I get started.

I know my drink limit, but I can’t always stick to it. That next drink is always way too tempting. And once I’ve passed my limit, there is little rescue from the drinks to follow.

But I know better now. I can recognize alcoholism runs in my family and that una peda doesn’t alleviate the problems I’m going through. Earlier this year for the first time I refused to get fucked up with my dad. I drank up to my limit and went to bed. I used to love proving myself to my dad by drinking too much. I used to look up to him for being able to drink so much. It is no longer exciting to share our love for drinking too much. Maybe because I’ve fallen out of love with drinking too much.

Alcoholism has brought a lot of pain to my family, particularly to my mom before the divorce. It also brought my dad and I closer when thousands of miles separated us and drunk phone calls paved the way to our reconciliation. I am still coming to terms with alcohol. I have gone periods of time without it. And there are still times I drink in excess. My dad is still drinking a lot.

Sometimes I wonder if in order to heal I need to give up drinking all together. But then I drink a beer with friends and it’s just that- a beer. Not the screams of my sick parents who didn’t know how to help one another out of alcoholism and depression.

[proudxicanaatwork]

Hola abuelito!

August 23, 2016

Time stood still as I lay on the bedroom floor in the fetal position. The world spun around me and I slept more than I was awake for days.

I received a call from my dad. I was visiting my family in Bakersfield, California for the Holidays. It was New Year’s Eve 2010 and we were having a blast running around chasing each other at the park. I remember laughing uncontrollably as I missed the hoop in my attempt to win at the game of HORSE (I never win).

My mom came up to me, there was a phone call for me. Strange. It was my dad.

 “Hi dad, cómo estás?”

 “Your grandpa passed away.”

 “Cómo- no, no es cierto. It’s not true. That can’t be possible I just spoke to him-“

“He had a heart attack last night. Falleció.”

I felt the earth vanish beneath me. I remember the sun retreating and a huge dark shadow cover the park. I remember the sensation of joy and laughter leaving my body with the sunlight. I dropped to the floor and sobbed. The next thing I remember is a dark room and coming in and out of consciousness. Every time I awoke and came to the realization that mi abuelito was gone and it hadn’t been a nightmare to learn about his passing sent me back into tears. I cried myself to sleep more times than I can remember.

 Mi abuelito. “Hola abuelito.” He loved it when I said that.

I grew up as his princess. The first grandchild. The first granddaughter. I owned over 100 Barbies because he gifted each and every one.

The confidence I have in all my abilities is the result of his encouragement. “You are an intellectual.” “You are so beautiful.” “You will achieve so much and get so far.” Constant affirmations that shaped my childhood and in many ways my life today.

 We spent 8 years apart after I turned nine because life happens and borders suck. But we had just begun to build on an abruptly halted relationship. After years of separation I had spent an entire summer in Mexico con mis abuelitos, and we got to do many of the things you planned to do with me since the day I was born. Fuimos a la Opera. You recommended books for me to read and we discussed them. We sat in silence and watched your favorite television series. We joked and laughed echoing and vanishing years of silence between us.

 I called you often. “Hola abuelito.” We would talk about all kinds of things. And you never stopped encouraging me. You didn’t fully understand my interests but supported me nonetheless.

And just like that you were gone.

I want to be grateful for the reconnecting we did. But there isn’t a day I don’t miss you. There isn’t a day I don’t want to share my accomplishments with you and remind you how much I love you.  

[proudxicanaatwork]

This is not how it was supposed to be.

August 22 2016

This is not how it was supposed to be. I grew up watching Disney movies and playing with Barbies. There was always a princess and there was always a charming prince or Ken. The stories I watched and the stories I formulated with my Barbies formed my idea of what a relationship should be. A relationship must be fulfilling. My partner should fill every hole of insecurity and help me through every problem. When I’m sad, I can expect my partner to be there for me. When I’m happy, my partner should be the first person I share with.

This was then reinforced in my psyche as the stream of romantic comedies rolled into my life. Always a prince charming, always a happy ending. It is no surprise that when I entered my first serious relationship my expectations were very high. Here was this human being who would fix all my problems.

A few weeks ago, as I was reproaching my partner of 3+ years now for not showing up for me in all these ways he finally confessed. He confessed that he could not be or do all the things I was asking of him. He confessed to me that he was so depressed he could barely get out of bed and so any and all requests I had of him were beyond his control.

And I was devastated. I had a detailed way to explain how he was letting me down, but I had no response to this vulnerable confession.

I started to cry. I wasn’t angry at him because I understand depression. My mom is bipolar so I cannot even pretend that mental health issues are not real. I cried and cried. I cried away all my expectations. And when I looked up from my tears I could see a whole safety net of support around me, and I fell on it. Close friends who were always there for me help me ease the pain.  

I realized I had been wanting to fly above my support system with a prince charming that didn’t exist.

I realized that I didn’t actually need my partner to be there when I was sad or angry because I had so many other people to share the dismay and joy with. I realized that the moment I let go of all these illusive expectations I was happy.

Here I had been for years molding my partner into the prince charming I watched on TV as a young girl, and when I thought I was really close my prince went up in smokes. And the world didn’t end.

I have emotional/physical/romantic/etc. needs and it’s taken me all this time to understand I don’t need them all met by one person. In fact, this has never been the case and I don’t see how it could be humanly possible for one person to fulfill me in all these ways.

I struggle some days. I remember the plot of the latest romantic comedy I watched and I cry of longing. But it passes. I remember there are many people who support me. My partner and I are working to reconstruct our relationship in ways not mirrored after fairytales.

[proudxicanaatwork]

My needs

April 23, 2016

I have been struggling with this thing. With this relationship.

Communication. My needs.

I have very specific needs, or do I? Am I looking for reasons to call this relationship not enough in order to pursue being open?

I want my partner to ask me about my day or how my work is going and to not be satisfied if I give a one-word answer.

I want my partner to prepare a romantic surprise once in a while.

I want my partner to tell me I’m beautiful. To tell me I look nice today. And to actually believe it.

I want my partner to communicate when they need space or when they know they are about to be distant for a few days because they have so much going on.

I want my partner to acknowledge when they haven’t been doing their best in our relationship but promise to do better - and keep that promise.

I want my partner to plan our dates once in a while.

I want my partner to come up for air from a busy semester to tell me they love me and wish they could dedicate more time to us.

I want my partner to be invested in my successes at work.

I want my partner to tell me how he feels about me every once in a while.

I want my partner to try new things in our relationship because they see value in it rather than because I asked them to.

I want my partner to be vulnerable and honest with me.

I want my partner to admit when they mess up. Period.

I want my partner to treat me with love and respect. Always.

I want my partner to never stop trying. To never settle in a routine that might wilt our love for one another.

I want my partner to never take me or my love for granted.

I want my partner to express gratitude towards me.

I want my partner to love me without shame and without holding back.

I want to be able to communicate my feelings to my partner without fear of how they will react.

I have all these doubts about how much you love me. And it’s because you keep me in the dark all the time.

[proudxicanaatwork]

Accepting the color of my skin

Jan 26, 2016

I remember the moment clearly. It was the middle of summer and a family member called me out for the darkness of my skin. Something along the lines of ‘mira que prieta te pusiste’. And I recognized this wasn’t a compliment. The color of my skin was darker and this was a negative thing.

I was reminded of all the times I’ve been told to stay out of the sun or use sunblock to prevent my skin from becoming one shade darker.

For years I would buy SPF 100 and apply concealer one shade lighter on my face. I would dread summer because I knew I couldn’t avoid getting a tan.

In my youth I would aspire to whiteness in more ways than one. And it didn’t just come from living in the US- my Mexican family carried colorism despite the blackness of my grandfather or the dark skin of my great-grandfather. I was tasked with finding a white blue eyed man to mate with ‘para mejorar la raza’.

I continue to challenge the standards of beauty I’ve adopted based on classist and racist beliefs. Like damn people with colored eyes OMG.. COLONIALISM. Or damn light hair.. COLONIALISM.

Colorism is real as fuck and it stems from classism and racism. It stems from colonialism and all the ways in which we associate indigeneity and blackness with lesser than.      

[proudxicanaatwork]

Learning to be alone

Feb 26, 2016

Learning to be alone is freaking hard. But it’s an important piece of developing emotional intelligence. As human beings we become co-dependent on the relationships in our lives, and this co-dependency is not healthy. It doesn’t allow us to become intimate with ourselves. If I can’t be alone with myself and fully enjoy the experience, this means I have things to work through that I haven’t dealt with.

What does it mean that I crave wanting to be in the presence of other people? What about being alone makes me so uncomfortable. There are plenty of activities I can engage in by myself. I can read, write, clean, watch a movie. Why do I want another warm body in the room validating the way I choose to spend my time? Why do I crave numbing myself by watching a movie with my partner? What am I not working on that makes me want to occupy my time so much that I don’t get to it? When do I spend time in self-reflection? How can I assess how all of my relationships are progressing when I don’t give myself the opportunity to distance myself from them. This includes my friendships and the time I spend surrounded by others. It isn’t just my romantic relationship I have become co-dependent on.

As I move to grow as a person, as an individual in a long-term romantic/emotional/physical relationship, we both need to carve out space and time for ourselves outside of our relationship. If we are constantly seeking each other’s validation or mark our routines by the time we get to spend together, we are doing a disservice to our growth as partners.

We need to be able to grow outside of the confines of our relationship. And our relationship shouldn’t bleed over into all areas of our life. The work we do, the things we are passionate about, the plans we make with friends and family should be able to not only live but thrive outside of our relationship. We shouldn’t for one second assume or live our lives with our relationship as a precondition. We are not and should not defined by our relationship.

What does this look like? How do we set boundaries between the way we relate to one another and the ways we relate to the world?

Some important practices for us: • Don’t make plans with each other every week. Allow intervals of time when we either don’t see each other or don’t explicitly hang out. Ie. We can be in the same house but doing our own thing. • Catch myself wanting to spend time with babe really badly- is it that you miss him or that you are avoiding working on something internally? Do you want to numb yourself because you are insecure about an area of your life and don’t want to allow yourself time to really explore that? • Build a feedback loop- check in periodically to see how each of us are feeling in the relationship- particularly as it relates to how much time we are spending together o It might be helpful to keep track of the time we spend together • My partner brought up the concern of spending long periods of time alone at the house not seeing other people o How do we work on this? o How do we foster the friendships that we have outside the relationship? Can we make this a priority this year? Identify who those friends are and carve out time to spend with them alone not as a couple

Long term: • Explore being in an open relationship o We already relate to others to capacities, what would it look like to allow each other to relate to others sexually/romantically as well?

[proudxicanaatwork]

Body hair

Jan 26, 2016

I am hairy. I have a hairy back, hairy arms, a moustache when I don’t wax it, hairy legs when I don’t shave. Every hair on my body should be a treasure. But instead I am made to feel insecure about it because of how it affects my status as ‘feminine’. Because ‘hairyness’ is associated with masculinity. Fuck that shit.

I should be able to flaunt my hairy arms in the face of your racist definition of womanhood. Because it’s not just that I’m hairy- the problem is that I’m hairy and a woman of color. White women with their invisible or lacking body hair do not impress me.

[proudxicanaatwork]

Relationships are messy

Dec 30, 2015

I don’t know what or how to feel right now. Just finished trying to have a conversation with my partner about some feelings regarding our gift exchange this holiday season. I am still trying to figure out if I was right/wrong or somewhere in between and whether or not that matters. I am currently trying to convince myself that even if the premise of our convo was erroneous, the process was worth the ugly outcome. I keep trying to tell myself that this is what it takes to make a relationship strong, one has to be willing to have tough conversations that will have you feeling all type of ways during and want to put you in a fetal position at the end of them. That is how I feel right now. I wish I could go into a corner and cry- but obvi that’s not possible because I already know that would only escalate the situation. Kinda hard to have a relationship when you only have access to one room in the house- note to self for future living situations.

I am reminded of the advice I give others. Stand your ground- state your needs, don’t let your partner tell you that what you want is out of reach. You are not asking for too much. #gaslighting

But here I am drowned in doubt, wishing I hadn’t brought up the conversation at all. Wishing I had swallowed my feelings or at least sat on them for a while longer.

What should one do with so many feelings? Was I wrong to bring it up?

Next time I should walk through the entire conversation rather than just what I plan to say. Because this sure as hell did not go as I hoped.

My partner doesn’t seem to be ready to listen and take accountability for his actions. He sees every criticism I have of our relationship as a stab wound. I am not trying to make him bleed, I just want him to listen. I want him to take in what I have to say and act on it- do better if necessary and correct me if I’m wrong. But all that happens is he tries to make me feel like I shouldn’t have said anything and that my “bitching” is the worst thing ever.

He claims I ask for too much. That I don’t take into account all he does for me and my family/friends. This is simply untrue. Am I not capable of accounting for this form of expressing love and providing critiques in other areas? Do I not work my ass off trying to do better in this relationship myself? And I think that’s where the crux of the problem is. I feel that I am investing a lot of energy and time into improving for us, and I don’t feel my partner is doing the same. This may stem from the fact that I have compromised in several areas, starting with the fact we are monogamous.

This holiday season I felt like he didn’t put time into my gifts. And from our convo it seems I was wrong, but I still feel like there is something to be said about his lack of effort this year. It probably has to do with the fact he’s going to school full time and is broke so adjusting to giving meaningful gifts that are also cheap.

I should be giving him a break. But it was eating away at me and it just burst out.

I don’t regret it because I think I made some good points about what I expect when we have a conversation about an issue I bring up. The unfair part is I am really good at taking feedback and working to improve. So he has a lot to live up to.

I guess that’s another big crux of the matter. I am a fucking awesome partner. I communicate well, I attend to my partner’s needs, I listen & pay attention. And I am very intentional in the way I show up for my partner. So when I don’t sense the same type of investment from my partner, I flip the fuck out. Because if I do it, why don’t they? If I can sacrifice and work my ass off for this relationship- why can’t they? And I know this is the wrong attitude. I encountered myself having this same attitude at an earlier stage of our relationship only to realize it is unfair to stage these comparisons. My partner shouldn’t be compared to anyone but himself. The judge of how well he is doing should be [INSERT RIGHT ANSWER BECAUSE I HAVE NO FUCKING CLUE]. I have no clue.  I am totally clueless.

It’s not happiness because I am the only one responsible for my own happiness. It’s not me or other people because everyone is different. Maybe there should be no judge. Or the judge should be how I feel. Wait no that’s also my responsibility. I guess I should just take it one step at a time. Own my feelings more. Continue to work on communication. Keep my expectations high but not static. Be willing to adjust as necessary when I realize I have unfair expectations.

My feelings are real & true- they are not made up and they are not something I can swallow. What I really need is to find a better way to express them. And to be okay with a really strong/negative reaction if that’s what it takes to get my point across. I should not hold back based on fear of how my parner will react or what he will say. Sometimes I’ll be right, others I’ll be wrong, but being able to have these conversations without feeling unheard and defeated should be the goal.

[proudxicanaatwork]

This is personal

How do I tell my classmates that today's theoretical and political discussion is personal for me? That the theories they are dissecting for one hour in class today speak to experiences I have grappled with my whole life. Como les explico that my interest in the subject is not an academic exercise for me but a desire to understand what my family is going though right now? 

I sit here, as one of the only brown faces in the room, half trying to bring voice to my entire community, half trying to articulate all my feelings into words you'll understand and actually listen to. What is the balance between telling you about my experience as a low-income person of color and my desire to talk about the structural systems that perpetuate the violence? 

I know for a fact that no example or recollection of my experience will do justice to the voice of the marginalized communities we 'other' in this conversation. I know that you might never be able to empathize with the struggle of navigating multiple worlds, only one of which is valued, none of which feel like home. 

And yet I will try. And if I have to write down all of my thoughts and put them into beautiful sentences so that I can speak in terms you can swallow, I will do that. 

[proudxicanaatwork]

'Falling through the cracks'

Feb 2015

What is this rhetoric of 'falling through the cracks'? The rhetoric of 'falling through the cracks,' which many use to describe the way minority and/or low-income students interact with the educational system, implies that poor academic achievement happens accidentally. That nobody is there to warn students that cracks and exist, and therefore many 'fall' through. This rhetoric fails to capture the true nature of the experience. Public school systems are designed for certain students to fail. There are not enough spots in colleges and universities for all students, nor are there enough jobs that require a college-level education to go around for the school system to successfully push everyone through. This therefore requires that some students, in the case of the US- those failing to assimilate to whiteness, are tracked away from higher education. Nobody is falling through the cracks- poor students are being pushed aside to make room for those in power. 

[proudxicanaatwork]

White men

October 2014

It’s taken me a week to process my experience at the career fair last week. Of a pseudo interview that made me feel some type of way (as do most of my interactions with white men).

You asked me how I got into Stanford. I would like to think you ask everyone this question, and didn’t just ask because of my brown skin. But my first response was, “is that a serious question?” Not seeing through my fuchi face, you asked me again- as if I hadn’t heard you the first time. (I guess you’re not used to being questioned.) How did I get into Stanford? “I applied.” You laughed. I didn’t laugh with you because I wasn’t joking. You proceeded by telling me I must be ‘really smart’.

I wanted to tell you I didn’t get into Stanford because I’m ‘really smart’. That I got into Stanford because I learned how to play by your rules (a violent experience since at the time I didn’t know it was a game). I got into Stanford because I shredded my Spanish and spat out a foreign language. I erroneously believed I was ‘really smart’ because I could bubble in scantrons and demonstrate obedience. I got into Stanford because I played into your colonial myth of meritocracy. And I am here thanks to affirmative action- small restitution for the cultural genocide of millions who have set foot on this land.

I doubted that’s what you wanted to hear, so instead I shrugged off your ignorance and gave you a polite smile taught to me by an education system modeled after you.

‪#‎fearthedayIgiveupmypoliteness‬

[proudxicanaatwork]

Commute

But when will I have time? Will I ever be able to walk around and document the world and just sit and imagine something different? Because this same capitalist machine keeps my mind and body occupied so many minutes of every hour that I never have enough time to plot. I don’t have enough time to come up with a plan for how to unlearn the violence. Because my mind has been colonized and continues to be colonized every day I live in a society that devalues human life for profit.

September 2014

There are days when I just want to write. I want to spend an entire day being able to stop and capture the words and poems I form in my head as I walk down the street. My daily commute creates this gap of time I get to spend in the corners of my imagination both contemplating a cold world and inventing different modes of contact between peoples.

I walk past cars in the mornings. I wonder who parks there. Are they commuters? Do they live across the street? What type of work do they do? Wait is that a BMW? Nice car.

And what’s behind that fence on my right hand side? Why do plants cover up every inch making it impossible to see what lies beyond?

I hit the Bart and oh womyn. So many human beings. All looking so different all going different places. I look around. Wait no, what if they think I’m staring. I think about how much better my commute would be if I could stare as much as I pleased, and with my gaze decipher the stories. The stories of real working class people that pay a ridiculous amount of money to commute to work every day. People who take pride in their work.

I don’t pity them. I pity us. I pity the fact we stand side by side, yet miles away in understanding. The shared color of our skin does nothing to bridge the trenches carved between us by decades of violence in our communities. Violence by a state that never loved us.

This is Oakland. But this is San Jose. And this is San Francisco. And this is Chicago. And New York.

Where Brown bodies ride the same train every morning and every afternoon but don’t speak to one another. What would our ancestors think if they saw us today. Because we stand so close we can feel each other breathe but we don’t say a word to each other.

I wonder if everyone else is as anxious as I am. Or maybe I haven’t been doing this long enough to have become numb to the experience.

I still stand there, stealing peeks at every passenger on the train trying to decipher what they do for a living. Try to figure out who is exploiting their labor power, and who depends on their income. I wonder who considers themselves middle class. Who considers themselves comfortable. I wonder about people’s politics.

I see the loss of cross-generational knowledge as young bodies stand next to older wise bodies without acknowledgment. I will never know the struggle of the señoras chismeando in the seats behind mine. But oh it feels so good to hear people speak to one another. I take off the earphones and I listen. I listen with my imagination on at full blast. Que dicen? And with their words I piece together stories so ridiculous they can only exist in my mind.

I ask questions. Unanswered questions that haunt my mind until the next person makes a noise worthy of my exploration.

And then the ride ends and I imagine a scenario in which I miss the exit because I became so caught up in the untold stories. But it hasn’t happened yet.

I think of us as cars moving forward when the light turns green. We might as well have all that steel separating us from the nearest human with the amount of quality interaction that takes place. We even create traffic as we move up the stairs to the exit of the Bart station.

Sometimes there is an old man singing for cash. I wonder about his story but I don’t have enough time to reflect as I rush up the stairs into a hectic world of extended human-contact avoidance. But why does he have to sing? What a fucked up world we live in where anyone has to beg for money. Shut it off - shut it off- you have to go to class- no time for anti-capitalist rant.

But then I walk past the construction site. Every day it stares me in the face. As a ‘civil engineer’ I first looked on in amazement. Wow what an interesting structure… But it didn’t take too long before I began to see the workers behind the concrete and rebar. The workers that make this world run while the elite sit behind a desk reeling in the profits. This is hard work. The type of work that can leave your body aching  for generations. But I never learned about it this way. I learn about these workers in terms of monetary values. I learn about this job site in terms of efficiency and budgets and regulations. But never about the people that make this possible, and the history of exploitation in an empire built on the backs of people I share more history with than the white men lecturing me every morning.

And my blood boils. And I shake my head, breathe deep and carry on. Because I don’t have time for another anti-capitalist rant.

[proudxicanaatwork]

Next Steps

It’s like no matter how aware of this fucked up society I am- I still fall prey to its dilusions.

09/30/14

I don’t even know where to start. I have for a while been coming to the realization that I’ve spent the last 4 years numbing myself. That I threw myself into a cult of busy only to cope with the pain of coming into my true self and realizing I will never, not for one minute, be able to lead a “normal” life. I will never be able to accept a job that isn’t actively fighting the hierarchies that keep Black and Brown bodies oppressed. And if I ever do accept this job, I will be miserable every minute of it and will not last long doing so.

I don’t know how many times a day I have an awful realization that the world we live in is a nightmare. It is a normalized nightmare that I can no longer wake up from. But I manage. I manage so well. I move from day 1 to day 2, from one class to the other. I work on assignments I don’t find interesting. I cringe all of the time. Sometimes I hear the violent words that come out of people’s mouths and wish with all my strength they would take them back. I am in so much pain. All of the time. I can’t spend an afternoon doing nothing because it would force me to face a reality all too cruel. It would force me to realize I am comfortable. I am in the very place I wished never to be. Getting by. Working and living to pay the rent and buy food.