I have romanticized and glamorized every fucking moment of it, and still am. When I rode the bus for one hour to get to work, I experienced it like a meditation. When I shared a room with my sister for 20 years, I made my wall the most “me” arrangement of ever-changing collages and worshipped it. I focused on this, not the twin bed with the sinking mattress, or the snoring sister, or the lack of privacy. When I lived in a living room, I made that shit look like a bohemian studio and photographed its finest corners, in a constant quest for compartmentalized beauty. When I could never afford a car, I romanticized my life as someone free of the LA hustle, free of the bounds of hunting for parking, free of the bounds of a giant, gas-guzzling object.
When I couldn’t go to college, I reminded myself of the broken system, the capitalistic nature of the USA, the new opportunities of the information age, the freedom of an artist…. and chose to stand in the light of the irony of being written about in a Harvard publication, or invited to speak at Lewis & Clarke college. The nightmares still come, though, or, the stress about when it’s a good time to reveal to my date, who has a masters, that I just… took a handful of classes at community college until my financial aid ran out. But, I’m like, good, still! I think. I guess we will see, right?
As I watched my parents live in constant fear - of rent being raised, of objects breaking, of getting sick, of getting in a car accident … and not because of the pain, but because of the money, I saw that their immense fear did not change the situation, but it did steal joy. I chose to step out of the fear, and even though it creeps in sometimes, it is not my default rhythm.
I have lead a life of life hacks, of illusions, of corners of beauty, of design. I have chosen to see the sheer creativity in limitation, and not just in art, but the creativity required to carry out a lifestyle. I have chosen this, I have chosen this, I have chosen this. Over and over again. And I still do, every single day.
With that being said, it is hard to live in a political climate that demands I curse the system that put myself and my family in these positions. When I look back, I don’t see a sob story, and yet, I am demanded to, especially when faced with someone challenging my identity. I don’t want to. I want to maintain the mindset that got me where I am now, the eager underdog that could make any corner sparkle with truth and a deep-seeded gratitude for every inch. A coping mechanism that turned into an entire lifestyle, an entire mission.
I don’t want to stop and look back and see the dark side. I don’t want to shake my fists at the sky. I don’t want to curse the rich. I don’t want to blame a system I don’t understand and don’t know how to fix. I don’t want to take stock of what I have and what someone else has.
I don’t want to recycle the narrative that makes me small again, to comfort someone who doesn’t understand why my spirit is so big.
The spirit does not need a marble floor and a safety net to rejoice. The spirit doesn’t need a pristine college education or healthcare to revel in the gorgeous mysteries of life. The spirit can worship even when the body has nothing. When you live in a physical reality that has no stability or excess, you fill a lot of that space with invisible treats. And you know what, I love it here.
And why does this all get to me?
Because to attack my intentions and hold a magnifying glass to my identity, is to ask - “What do you deserve?”
and this is a question I refuse to ask myself anymore.
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