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Sandra Cisneros, Pixar's Coco, and Latinx representation

 Let’s talk about representation, but first, navigation. As in, I have only ever navigated and existed in this world as a women of color (WoC), more specifically, as a Latina. And everything within this identity that I have come to view as a blessing was once its own set of wounds, inherited or otherwise. When I say “inherited wounds”, I mean that women of color either know or come to know that this world was not built for us to thrive in (see racism, sexism, and all of it’s intersections) . And this knowledge is passed down or born into us. It is inherited. And then becomes a truth you cannot separate us from. You cannot separate me from my struggle without erasing a vital part of who I am. But that is understood by those I allow into my life. Now, if you do not know me too well, then here are the basics: 

I am a Latina WoC. I am an artist. I have big dreams. Many goals. No blueprint. And very little representation in the fields I wish to break into. All of these smaller truths have molded my bigger, more personal one which is that - 

I have had to carve out and fight for the space I occupy. I have had to dig deep and coach my now booming voice out of its body. I have had to seek out my own mentors, role-models, and inspirations who looked like me and navigated the world in a similar way. And mostly, I have grown up impatient and starving for representation. 

One way I actively heal and seek out representation is by consciously consuming and surrounding myself with art, films, media, literature, podcasts, and all content produced by women, PoC, and mostly Latinxs. This month it has looked like this: 

I’m not sure why Sandra Cisneros didn’t come into my life sooner being that she is one of the most prominent Latinx writers of our time, but I’m glad I was able to sit down with her words. There is an indescribably comforting feeling that comes with knowing that someone who shares the same name as your mother, has a father with a voice like yours, shares part of your history, can love in the same two languages you can, can easily pass for one of your tia’s, and dreams the way you do, has already accomplished so much. And it’s not that you ever need permission to be great, but reading her books felt like a silent permission. 

These books provided a mirror and a temporary home for me. An excerpt from A House of My Own illustrates why perfectly. Cisneros writes, "We find ourselves at home, or homing, in books that allow us to become more ourselves. Home 'is not just the place where you were born,' as the traveler Pico Iyer once noted. 'It's the place where you become yourself.'"

part 2 in this month’s healing looked like this:

Before going to see Pixar’s newest box-office hit “Coco”, I was warned not to wear my signature winged eye-liner to the theater. Two on-screen duets and several wet tissues later, I was glad I had adhered to that advice.

If after my previous spiel about representation and navigating the world as a Latina/WoC you are still wondering what warranted such a teary-eyed response (besides the fact that Pixar endlessly loves to pluck at the heart strings of their audience) I want you to picture this:

A young Latina woman with the goal of one day becoming a successful actress goes to the cinema and for the first time in her twenty-two years of living is watching an animated film in which the characters look like her uncles, and cousins, and aunts. For the first time she can point to the screen and say, “that is me”, “that is us”. And in this way, watching “Coco” felt like coming home; like walking into a room full of the people I love and belong to, but who are rarely ever celebrated - especially in such a public way.

I went to see this movie with my boyfriend and nine-year-old sister. Being able to take her to see this film was another victory in itself (on par with being able to take her to see Wonder Woman). I had to wait twenty-two years to see this kind of representation in film; one that is both authentic and empowering. But my sister is still in the midst of her childhood; still being molded and shaped into the person she will become later in life, and I hope that holding these mirrors up to her this early on in her development will prevent her from inheriting the wounds I have had to fight daily to heal myself from.

And so, in the midst of all the tears, the melancholic sounds of guitar strings strong enough to conjure my grandfather’s face, and holding the hands of my younger sister- a silent way of saying, “can you believe it, Sofie? He (the protagonist) has our last name?” a part of my younger, more broken self was healed and for that I am endlessly grateful.

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I have no interest in voluntarily partaking in anything that does not consider me. I don’t want to read books that do not consider me. I don’t want to watch films or tv shows that do not consider me. I don’t want to listen to podcasts or go to see plays that do not consider me. 

I want only this: to see myself reflected everywhere. To look up from a book and see the faces of my aunts in strangers, then look back down and hear their booming laughter rising from the ink. I want to go to the cinema and watch my sister fall in love on-screen and not have her be wearing a skimpy red dress while doing it. I want to hear our stories on NPR. The bad and good ones, too; the stories of neighborhoods gone, but not forgotten because they are burned into the memories of our uncles, and cousins, and women who look like our mothers but aren’t. Women who sing songs in Spanish and always find a window to look out of. I want to learn of the battle cries, of the blood shed, of all the men and women with brown and glistening skin - not just of the sound of my own howl; the way it rushes to empty me of my sadness. The way it begs the moon for all our buried names. 

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some selfies from the first ever FEMSlam in Cambridge, MA this past weekend. Our team Femmeyc made it to finals!

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October 11, 2017 B, I had to write. Nostalgia is cradling me in her arms like a child again, pressing me against the cavity in her chest and offering a crisp autumn morning to hold onto. Don’t worry, I know to pause; to consider the kind of  injury only memory allows; to consider if today, I am whole enough to handle it. ̃ B, I want to cry. I reach for October like a warm coat and do not sink from the weight of it. I let the wind ruffle my hair and my feet stay planted firmly on the earth. B, did you ever imagine us so graceful? Did you ever picture the skies without their ghosts, and nothing splitting you open? B, I want so badly for you to watch the earth from here. The sun has been setting for years now. It knows my laugh and plays it back to me, and I do not become a breathing wound. I follow the light into summer unscathed; watch the neighbor’s pigeons make the same circle in the sky a hundredth time. I see my grandfather’s face, the worn out navy Yankee cap he wears. I picture the thin tubes allowing him breath only if I want to; I cry only if I want to.

Letters to B | Rebecca Rivera

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Dear B,      I cried yesterday morning. I’m especially angry at myself because I was with R, and he was the reason for the crying, and you know how I hate to let a boy ever see me cry. We were laying in his bed, our limbs intertwined the way they are on my favorite mornings. I forget what words we let fall recklessly out of our mouths as we laughed and the sun trickled in through the windows of his bedroom. Being with R feels good in the way that I am comfortable enough to speak freely without wondering what words he is hanging onto and waiting to dissect me with later. He lives very much in the moment and I like that. But I guess sometimes I allow myself to get too comfortable, because he made a statement I found incredibly silly to make (a story for another time) and I reached over and lightly slapped him on the head.  This wasn’t the first time I had done this, so he reactively scolded me with a yell that felt more like a punch in my chest. “I told you I don’t like it when you touch my face,” he snapped. “I asked you not to do that. You play too much!” This was the moment I began to scold myself as well, not only for the light slap, which I promptly apologized for anyway - but for the sinking feeling that was blooming inside of me and the shrinking that followed. I turned to lay on my side in order to face away from him. I didn’t want him to see me become only a fraction of the woman he knew me to be. Normally, I do not care if I cry. I think it healthy and necessary for maintaining emotional stability. But for a man to make me cry? And worse in front of him?      At first, I didn’t understand why I reacted so dramatically in the first place. It has become quite difficult for any man to move me these days. Once I decided I would not let fickle men play God with my emotions, I began to see my skin grow thick as a shield; one only I could voluntarily choose to let down. But this reaction was not voluntary, and as he began to curl his arms around my waist after noticing the damage his brief anger had caused, I quickly examined my sadness.        I don’t know if you know this, but I pride myself on my self-awareness and high level of emotional intelligence. Sometimes I worry it is arrogant, as I presume many people have this same skill. But the worry turns to wonder and the wonder quickly fades into indifference once I realize that it doesn’t make it any less true. And besides, this self-awareness used to be a major source of anxiety before I was able to get a grip on it by channeling my energy into consistent and positive action; all which took many years to be able to do, so whatever, I’ll allow myself pleasure in this small skill- even if it is a little arrogant. If you want to know, I imagine myself an emotional  hunter of sorts. I can spot an emotion in the most dimly-lit, hard-to-reach places, grab it before it turns to hide, and give you a full taxonomical analyses. Example: the primary emotions identified here are: fear and sadness, preceding feelings of  nervousness and shame - the secondary emotions. Origin: childhood. Source of fear: Men. Trigger: loud yelling. And so as R continued to pull me closer and attempted to guiltily wipe away the tears staining my face, I turned to him, my eyes flowering with recognition and said, “You reminded me of my father just now. You made me feel like a kid again.”      Upon reflection, maybe it wasn’t so bad that I cried. After all, R wasn’t the direct source of the cry more than he was a soft ripple up the side of a dormant volcano. He may have caused a reactionary shift inside me, but he is not the original wound.

Letters to B | Rebecca Rivera

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Writing, blogging, and commitment issues .

Hey there, whoever you are. Good news! kind of? I think I’m going to start sharing more of my thoughts on here. Lately, I’ve been getting messages from people asking if I have a website up, or if I have a book available for purchase so they can read more of the work I primarily share aloud and in person (because then you can’t go back and pick my mind and judge meeee, and also because i am a perfectionist who wants whatever I share with world to be um, PERFECT? (the internet is permanent y’all.). Obviously, perfection is impossible, okay? I know that. And anyway, blogging or journaling or whatever it’s called is a good way to keep me accountable to writing consistently. And also, sharing your thoughts with people is COOL. We may or may not know each other, yet here you are, inside of my brain. Alternate scenario: you are most likely scrolling through your Tumblr and thinking “do I really want to dedicate two minutes of my life reading this block of writing that may or may not impact me in any way, shape, or form?” Whatever the case, here we are, in this relationship - and head’s up, I’ve recently realized I have some level of commitment issues, so this relationship will be mostly one-sided. Maybe that is selfish, but it is all what I like to call “my ambitious little heart” can handle right now hehehe. So I will be selfish and talk about my thoughts, and dreams, and feelings and hope that someone will care enough to read my posts and maybe like, cry with me every once in a while. Cool. Until next time. *cue indie-rock music* 

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“ There is constant disorder in this place no rhythm or rhyme or room for logic there is only a feeling always fleeting always searching for the next heartbeat brave enough to make sense of it ”

 --deciphering the moment

Photo by: Mary Gomez. IG: @beelzebubmg

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But we are just lonely humans, wanting so badly to hurt a little less; to know we are not the only ones who hurt this way. And so we ache, to find someone with similar traumas to ours, with potentially better coping mechanisms than our own, who can function more efficiently despite it all. Despite the constant breaking. The hurting. The loneliness. We ache to find someone who feels like healing. And mending. And wholeness. And that is beautiful, but also tragic, because I want to be whole on my own. And I try to be, I really do. It’s just that some days, I ache more than others.

Journal excerpts | Rebecca Rivera