Dad

When I was very young, there were six of us. My family lived in a small one bedroom apartment in a semi-pleasant suburban neighborhood somewhere Southeast of Los Angeles. My parents were in their early twenties raising four children and working odd, long hours. I remember my dad used to be an ambulance driver at one point and my mother worked the graveyard shift at a Coca-Cola warehouse in Downey counting bottles as they were loaded onto trucks. They were fucking struggling. And young. And considering I blow 50% off my paycheck on grub and alcohol at 26, I think putting food on a kid’s plate at 23 is a big fucking deal.

I hated Christmas growing up. Not just because I was incapable of being grateful for the gifts I had received, but it just all didn’t do it for me…(We didn’t have a chimney, so Santa came in through our window?, Santa never paid any attention to my list, we had to be at grandma’s house all damn day).

Then, age knocked sense into me and the ignorance of my youth has been replaced with a general sense of disillusionment. Now, I have come to hate the holidays for how inundated we are with all these fucking petty things and how it highlights how we our identities are so tied up with commodities. BUT what doesn’t, you know? Anyway, this year, I thought about something that probably would have never been clear to me had it not been for Christmas:

I remember my dad telling me that one year for Christmas, my parents were so broke and we (my siblings and I) kept asking him to buy us a tree. I remember visiting lots throughout the years, doing the same old ritual where you run around and choose the tallest, greenest fucking tree in the lot and then you argue with your siblings over why your choice is clearly the best. I remember being more aware of how close Christmas was the more and more I saw trees strapped to the roofs of the cars cruising down our neighborhood. To a child, it’s magical and it’s all just happening. But, now, in adult(ish)hood, I can see how pressing and pending the date would seem. Parents have to be the illusion-keepers. They have to render the veil of enchantment and hold it tightly. It is a huge weight.

Anyway, I remember my dad telling me that one year, they were so broke and he was so intent on giving us our Christmas that he got crafty. He saw a tree that some lot had just thrown out (because maybe it was too damaged or something), but he took it from the trash and he cut the bottom. Then he told us that he got us a brand new mini-Christmas tree. And I’m pretty positive (knowing us) that we maybe complained about the height or something. But ultimately, we were none the wiser.

Young parents do not have it easy, but greatness and goodness and love has nothing to with the size of your wallet. Fucking kudos to all the people out there who work really fucking hard to take care of your own. I’m probably not exactly who/what my dad wanted me to become and I know it’s not enough to realize how great some people really are, but given the way things are in the world right now and the fast approach of my least favorite time of the year, I’m putting things in perspective: hard times make great men greater, not smaller. Adversity does not equal defeat.

in Peace

It's always bothered me when people disturb the memory of the dead. I don't want to see a hologram of "Pac". I don't want a third party turning Aaliyah's tragedy into a few dollars. Watching the world kick Amy Winehouse's baggage around this time makes me feel no different.

In response to the recent hubbub about Amy and her documentary, Yasiin Bey has a few touching, choice words about others putting a yardstick to her life. Since he was a voice in my ear at nine-years-old, Mos has always dropped knowledge. Here he does more of the same.

lastimas

Breathe through, ride through, damn girl, I don't know.
Pilled up, filled up, damn girl, i'll be getting back to you for sure.

What if I picked you up from your house? We should roll and see how it goes. I saw potential in you from the go, you know that I did. I don't know if you know, but I know who you are.

Circle

Some chick committed suicide off the tracks of the train my friend Natalie was on. Natalie was celebrating a new chapter and this girl was closing one. This life is tough. Living ain't easy. I wish someone could have held you and told you that we all suffer and that life is never okay. That is normal...nothing is ever okay.

Friend:

You do not determine my worth. I'm not going to fall apart if you don't want to be in my life. I'm not going to beg you to stay or to see me for who I am or to give me respect. I should not have to do that. I will not compare myself to anyone. I will not let you put me in place I worked so hard to get out of. I am truly comfortable with you stepping out of my life. Believe that. I know who I am and you not digging it is fine with me.

My mother was fearless but she could not save me from myself

Even giants die a lonely death, falling into darkness, moving further from the sun. We all return to the core. All entropy moves in the same direction. All earthly things move into themselves.
Death is a process of falling in. The earth devours us all.
Even  as rock will eventually succumb to the licking tides, so must the ocean remain.
Endlessly inward.
Swallowing the giant and small alike.


**I wrote this in response to Miranda July's "Ten True Things." I don't know how to deal with my own depression and even though I always long for things to evoke something raw out of me, I am always scared of what poignant experiences will illicit. I will never be free from fear.

Belonging

"I realized that everything in the world was an interplay of identical particles comprising different kinds of consonance: the trees, the water, you...All was unified, equivalent, divine." from "Sounds" by  Vladimir Nabokov

The passage is something I wrote down from a short story I read two years ago. I am using the spare pages of a notebook from 2012 to write anecdotes now. 2012 was a shitty year. There is a lot of pain between pages and I am still swimming in a pool of those feelings now but I have not yet drowned.

Things like this save me.

Diving In:

Little by little, I am practicing the art of giving no fucks. No fucks about what others think about me or what I do or how I look. No fucks about the pace of things, where I am in life in comparison to those around me. I am always grateful but I need to be happy.

I am relinquishing all that latent bitterness, envy, insecurity. I am letting go of any borrowed sense of meaning. I'm going to do my thing with a sense of clarity and conviction.

Watch me.

Move

I asked my grandmother how should women move in the world? 

And she said …. head, torso, hips

she explained, Its our intelligence that make us aware of who we are in life and how society views us. Its our hearts that guide through the darkness and its our hips that give life, hypnotize and infatuate those around us. "Thats how a woman should move in this world" she said. 

I asked my mother, how should I move in this world? She said, "con duda y poder". Don’t trust a place where a woman has no face, where she is just a body on display. Be weary of a world that doesn’t recognize you, that leaves you, cheats on you while you raise their children. Don’t trust a world that has you chained to the bed as you give birth… while you wait to see your baby’s face. Move carefully but with strength.

I asked my tia how do i should I move in this world? She said, "dance como si eres muerta, libra y sin vergüenza". Know that you come from a long line of beautiful women who have fallen and gotten up, who fought back after being dragged and who left their homes to create a new life when no one appreciated them. Dance as if you were dead, free and without shame. 

I asked my sister how should I move in this world? She said "move without apology". Walk with your head up high and love in your heart. Speak truthfully and with authority. Have nothing command you but yourself. Know the space around you is self-held and self-felt. Mover 

I asked my brother how should I move in this world? He said, "move with pride, mija". Show others who fail to understand who you are, that you live in this world brown and beautiful in time where it is dangerous to do so. They feel threatened by your existence. Interrupt their reality and perception by shaking their hand and showing them  that you are human- even though its not your job to do so. Move with pride, mija.

I asked myself, how should I move in this world? "Move… just move," I said.  Move even though you have been left and cheated on. Move even though you have been sneered at with disgust as they said “mira esta morenita” with their nose up. Move even though a customer is yelling at you, saying you are less of an American because your family are immigrants- even though he is a chicano veteran. Move even though you have woken up without your clothes and no one is man enough to tell you what happened to your body. Move even though you had to let your first love go. Move when someone calls you “a lesbian” as an insult because my sexuality is none of their damn business. Move even though you feel alone when you really have an army at your side. Move when you have tears in your eyes. Move when you are broken and torn down. 

I said to myself .. move with that smile on your face because you know better.  Move with those eyes that show nothing may phase you. Move around those who wont walk with you. Move your head, torso and hips and dance as if you were dead, in world that doesn’t recognize you but your steps are without apology and you are proud of your brown identity. Move mija, move. 

And To my sisters who are in between- my gender queer queens,  androgynous,  transgender two spirited loves. Let you be seen in a darkness that make you worriers.  Move

lesser woman

   Some days, like today, my anxiety hits me like I am being pressed against a wall and the earth is spinning in the opposite direction. I find solace in physical comfort (a hug or hand-hold). Those are the times I feel like I need someone the most, like if I had one person who I could call and ask, "am I going to be okay?" They would always answer. They would want to do "nothing" with me. Just to be near me and do their thing. Those days, I feel truly dependent and I hate it. 

   But the fact that nothing is truly shared and that  I will never really belong to anyone scares me more than anything. 

   How elusive is this thing called life? We borrow a womb. We borrow our childhood home. We borrow beds and car rides and exchanges in dim-lit sticky party bars. But we can't ever really keep any of it, even before we are truly gone. Doesn't it scare you to know that no one anywhere will ever be able to live in the EXACT moment as the one you are living at any moment? There is no way to truly recreate or relive or share any experience. exactly as it was.

   The closest things we have are art and sex. Art is skewed and never really mimetic. Sex is so marred with emotions and hormones, there is no room to realize that you are IN it. 

   Nothing is completely shared and nothing is completely ours. 

   Most of the time, I am alone and I feel fine. Sometimes, I want someone to share living with. 

   Does that make me less of a woman?

Porcupine

I have strength
but I'm weak.
I have courage
but I'm afraid.
I am all of the victories
and mistakes I have made.


I don't like what I see when I close my eyes.
The problem just gets worse when I open them.
I don't know what I'm doing.
I can't stop being me.
All I can do is be better.

or does it explode?

Her half-eaten rack of ribs go in the trash with my basket of untouched biscuits, and we push a crate of dirty cups to the Mexicans running the dishwasher. As we attend to our own hands, I ask Megan how she's lasted seven years doing this shit. She laughs, soaping barbecue sauce off the diamond in her wedding ring. "I'm just here until I can find my career."

I tried to laugh too.

I mean, it's funny I guess. We bust our ass to maintain gas, groceries and a transient escape. Chicken scratch. Table scraps. The feeling that I'm being wronged is palatable. It's the bitter taste in my mouth as I drive home, emotionally fatigued. Rent is paid by i'm sorry thank you of course. They call it a tip. It feels like a handout.

I can't just spend life with these hands out, wondering why I haven't grabbed anything. Minimum wage is not a living wage. It just means they legally can't pay me any less. I'm a small financial inconvenience once every two weeks. They only care about their margins. I'm a digit in a Profit and Loss statement. They don't give a fuck about me.

I matter.

What are my dreams worth?
$9.00 an hour?

Licensed Madness

Right now I’m working retail part-time and going to school full-time. It’s kind of tiring, but as many people like to point out, apparently they have it “harder.” So I don’t complain. I have to do what I have to do, right? The rant that follows is just that. It’s my venting. Let me put this rant into context, so you know where I am coming from.

I am used to people making me feel like I “have it easy.” Ex’s, friends, family...they all at some point have reminded me that I have it “easy.” AND compared to most people, I do. HOWEVER, there are certain things that I had to deal with on my own recently that (with the help of only a few people) were still difficult things to endure. In the midst of dealing with this, I was taking exams and making decent grades. I was writing and reading. I was acting like I was “fine.” I’m proud of myself because, for the most part, I didn’t take out my stress on other people. I didn’t belittle others just because I felt like shit about my situation. I have it easy, but my life’s not perfect and I TOO have issues, real issues. Not boyfriend problems (even though that’s a distraction for all of us). Anyway, my point is that, I have problems but I recognize that other people are not the cause of those issues and that making others feel like shit NEVER makes me feel better. EVER. SO..

Working retail has afforded me great insight into this thing we call “the human condition.” It seems as though retail is one of those social settings that kind of skews the laws of human interaction. I don’t mind working in customer service because you can learn so much from people. It also has allowed me to see how far people move in the spectrum (from humane to inhumane) given the “license” to do so.

I say inhumane but maybe I could use disrespectful? I used "inhumane" because it takes a level of conscious dehumanization to operate the way some customers do. If you ever worked retail, you know that people can be so fucking rude and so fucking rotten and we “have” to endure it to some degree. Sometimes, we bite back, but for the most part, we put up with a lot of shit. Don’t you feel like there is something wrong with us a society? Like, why is this exchange normal and expected? Why does one avenue exist where we put on a uniform and people are rewarded or consoled when they behave in a manner that they normally would not amongst family or friends or neighbors?  It’s funny because we refer to these assholes as “customers” when we complain, but would it be much more affecting to call them “people.” If you say aloud: “Today, I was at work and some man became upset at me for having to impose something on him, so this person began to yell at me or say things to me that I did not necessarily mean to provoke.” My friend told me that a woman once threw purses at her. Isn’t that childlike? Children do shit like that. However, these people exercise some illusionary authority over other people who do not deserve it, and then they walk out of there and live out their lives acting like that experience has nothing to do with them in “real life.” It’s nuts. 

Sometimes there are people who like to talk to you like you are beneath them. A white woman uses her best vocabulary and addresses me a little less colloquially and seems real proud of her vernacular. I persist on using double negatives and saying “yeah” instead of “yes” or “good” and not “well” when asked how I am, (which “good” is fucking grammatically correct). I’m sorry but having your degree is sometimes circumstantial and in no way representative of true intelligence. Yes, you can condescend and be curt in your “formal” language to this short, brown Mexicamericana BUT that only reveals your own limitations and exactly how you are no exception, just a product of your middle class education. 

Anyway, I don’t want to go on and on about all of the rude things that people do when I put on my apron. I just want to say that: treating people less like people is just that. It’s not “customer service.” Why should we create an environment for people to act abusive solely because of money? It’s crass. I want to end my rant on a positive note. I see a lot of great people. Single parents who come and by carts of clothes for their kids and nothing for themselves. I see a lot of beautiful, unique young women who have such style and carry themselves with an air of confidence that makes you so proud to be female. I talk to many non-native speakers who are so open to my broken Spanish and laugh with me when I pronounce things like bumbling fool and manage to get by in a society that seems to treat multilingualism with such partial care.

People are people.

I've been set free and i've been bound

I am going to give you moments in my life that changed me (which I will list in such brevity that they will feel like little insignificant, disparate flickers of some pointless existence. the sad part is that you will never feel the weight that I felt when those moments occurred. isn’t tragic how so much feeling can elude us from grasping what is actually only just transience? isn’t it such a trick of heightened perception? how can we exist so deeply in such a finite wave of “happening” and carry its burden for so long after it’s actually gone? how can we dream so much about things that no longer exist? living is a perpetual wake.) I’m giving you moments because I can’t carry them anymore. I am giving you my bullshit because no matter what, i fear, i will never be understood (don’t worry, these were all beautiful things for me):

I remember when you called me in the middle of the night and told me “I think we have a good thing going.” even though you were drunk and we didn’t last and I was an asshole, thanks.

I remember when I sat in the patio of the house that I grew up in and I played Pedro Infante on the record player. I could see my grandma from where I sat, in between doorways. She stood at the kitchen sink and threw her head back as she washed the dishes and I could barely make out her singing. Even when she thinks she is alone, she acts like someone is watching.

I remember the time there was an earthquake when we were lying in bed and you reached out and grabbed my hand and we fell asleep with our hands still clutched together.

I remember the time we drove down the 110 FWY (my favorite freeway). It was late in the afternoon, the sun was low but it was not setting. We had the windows rolled down and food in our bellies and beer still masking the pink of our gums. And we drove southbound on that winding freeway and turned up Beirut or Arcade Fire. I don’t remember that part.

Remember when you made me laugh so hard I felt everything was going to be alright?

I remember the first time i really listened to VU for the first time. I was in an old friend's car with a 40oz between my legs. It was raining and the streetlights were obscured by the drops of rain. The heater was on and fuck that hot air felt good against my knees.

I remember when you picked me up from work and you cried about your grandma. I thought you were impenetrable and I just wanted to hold you but I didn’t.

I remember when we got high and drove to a bookstore. We laughed so hard about nothing for what felt like the duration of a few blocks. Then we sat in the basement of that store and talked about religion and politics and the future.

I remember when we traveled two hours just to drink ourselves into oblivion (so cliche right?) and watched movies in a shitty hotel room and ate pizza in bed.

I remember when we danced in a museum to Joy Division and our shadows on the walls were like a moving picture. and when we danced in alone in your bedroom. and when I danced with your sister drunkenly at 3am in the apartment of a person whose name I have no recollection of.

I remember when we walked around the arboretum and we talked so much in a way that we don't usually get along and the day was beautiful. I'm sorry I was pressing you to leave the house but I was feeling anxious and I had to be outside (it seems like everything I do is to ameliorate that feeling in my gut). But, just being with you outside in the sun was the greatest day.

I remember that before you died, you read to me in bed from a large picture book. It was green and it had some illustration on the front cover and a pattern etched onto the back. I remember that. and I remember your hands. I will never forget your stubby, rough, brown hands. I will never forget the feel of my hand in yours.

like something out of a Miranda July story

A peculiar woman came into my work the other day. I helped her as I would anybody else. I always remember kind people because there is something in their way that I wish to emulate. I want to exude that certainty: that fleeting promise of there being something good about things ultimately. I think some people give that vibe. Anyway, I helped her with whatever and we had a little conversation. I was genuinely kind to her because (even when I'm at work and I'm expected to be polite) I can't fake being kind or mean. Unfortunately, I am the type of person who wears their thoughts vividly. If I'm not happy with a situation, I may vocalize one thing, but my face is marred with discontent. I can't hide my emotions. Good or bad. But it is easy to be friendly at work or at school or on the bus or at the store or wherever, when someone puts him/herself out there and acts kind without pretense.  Anyway, then she asked me if she could take a photo of me. There I was in my work apron doing work things talking to people at work on an ordinary Tuesday, and this old sweet woman wants to take my photo. I did not understand. I became so flustered. I asked her why? what does she want do with it? She told me she "just takes pictures people who [she] thinks are nice," and anywhere, McDonald's, the supermarket. She told me she would give the photo to me the next time she saw me in the store but I told her she could keep it. I thought it was really fucking weird. It was really fucking strange. But I let her take my photo anyway. And she showed it to me. I looked visibly uncomfortable but I also looked incredibly happy. I thought about it and I realized that I'm just as weird for consenting to it and for feeling so good about meeting this person. And even though it made me uncomfortable, it was refreshing. Is being uncomfortable all that bad? Is being a little too close to strangers that detrimental? Why is it so hard to break out of those monotonous and mechanical and layered transactions between people? I mean, you see a lot of strange shit in retail. Ordinary people come in and treat you like a dog just because you get paid to stand behind a counter and collect their money. How is that normal? That people lose their sense of respect and courtesy and slightly look down upon other human beings given the opportunity. What does that say about us? I digress. Meeting Ms/Mrs/Señora Wood was a nice little interruption. Why are we so resistant to certain levels of intimacy between strangers but then why are we so able to do all of the other crazy/abnormal/way-too-expository shit that we do when we're drunk or on social media and so on? What was so fucking scary about letting a stranger take my picture? Why was that so hard?

¡Oye Loca!

Lately I’ve been having some interesting conversations with a few male acquaintances. Unintentionally, (or perhaps intentionally, I really don’t know) the topic of conversation gradually moves to previous romantic relationships. The subject never makes me uncomfortable. In fact, I catch myself saying a mouthful about past loves - both positive and negative. And of course, I mention my own imperfections that contributed their demise. It wouldn’t be fair to make myself seem like the perfect girlfriend that does no wrong. I’m far from it. 

We all know that having a perfect partner can be quite a fantasy. Yet, what strikes my attention is how loosely the term “crazy” is thrown around to describe one’s ex. And although I have heard this come from the mouths of both male, female and everything in between about a diverse group of genders and identities, I can’t help to feel that being a “crazy ex” is disproportionately used to describe female identified individuals or women. The conversation (as I have experienced it) goes a little something like this: 

Acquaintance: “Whooo! My ex was crazy!!” 

Me:  “Oh yeah? What made them so crazy?”

Acquaintance: “Well first of all, she used to flip out on me for no reason! When we broke up she blew up my phone, went to  all my shows and started to tell lies about me to all my friends” 

Me: “…. interesting” 

Acquaintance: “Hell yeah, we used to fight all the time. One day I got fed up and left her”

Me: “ I see, that must have been hard for you…” 

Okay, so obviously I cannot say whether this acquaintance’s ex is a liar, stalks him or has anger issues. Not my place to say. But is there really a crazed ex for every new straight male I meet? After the 5th time hearing virtually the same story from different people, I started to pick up on a pattern. She is angry, jealous. yells, and tries to communicate- a lot.  The first thing that’s always said after being asked to describe a “crazy ex’ is: “She gets mad for no reason.” Eventually I stopped believing the “no reason” part. Why? Because I started asking myself...

When did it become that “ Angry woman”  = “crazy” ?

Is being, and acting upset an automatic recipe for being labeled crazy because women dare to display human emotions. Perhaps, its communication that people refuse to hear. I would like to ask my fellow acquaintances the following question. 

Are we people? -A product of society that tells women that we should always be more beautiful then the next and that tells men they should think with their dick (as Elijah put it). If women are positioned in society to compete with one another and men are taught to always guide themselves sexually and physically. Tell me, how can we not be crazy? Gender norms in general are CRAZY but they affect us.

Are we broken if we distrust you? Are we ugly, if thats what we see in the mirror?  Do you hate us for looking through your phone? Are we crazy for being upset?  

Side Note: 

Now you might say, “But Abeni, what if my ex’s actions WERE unnecessary, over the top and down right …well.. crazy?” 

Its true that some people’s who act ‘crazy’ toward their partners can be controlling, obsessive and abusive. I am not defending people who mistreat their partners, that should never be acceptable. But the term “crazy” has the tendency to dismiss even most serious aspects of a relationship. If there is violence present whether it be physical, sexual, mental or verbal, it is important to seek rehabilitation for the abuser (meaning the abuser takes responsibility for their actions and takes steps toward rehabilitation to become a new and whole person) and support for the surviver. 

What I am trying to say is maybe we should look at these actions, these feelings and communication (or lack there of) as serious issue in every relationship. Especially romantic ones. Perhaps we should speak about our ex’s as people instead of writing them off as “crazy.” 

Fragments of experience

Below is a screenshot of something I wrote on my tumblr such a long time ago. I think I was trying to forget something personal. I don't know. I tend to disconnect from my uncomfortable experiences and it's been a long time since I have been intimate with someone who cares about me. It makes me feel weak to admit that I need real affection, but I deserve that.

Forever Fades Away

For the past two years I was so obsessed with my last relationship so when it ended it wasn't suprising but heartbreaking. People couldn't even say his name in front of me without me cringing or even crying. I replayed in my mind the past two years how it started from beginning to end where did it go wrong? Why didn't it work. So I start and I remember how funny,loving sweet and caring he was. How great it was he got a long with all my friends how i could just sit with him for hours watching random movies smoking bowls. How we where so fucking obsessed with batman and and just marvel/dc comic shit and would literally go to frank and sons every weekend and pick up new collectibles most importantly how it was so easy to speak to him about any random thought on my mind and yet still be so shy and timid at the same time because he made me feel that warmth inside I never did the feeling that he cared about me something no one ever had made me feel loved.

 But what was different? Why him? I don't know if I had settled at the time or why I choose him but I figured it out and he still questioned it. Why? He was a average looking guy with flaws he said. people I didn't even know would come up to me and ask why are you with him what's wrong with you are you blind? And of course that would make me upset because I never saw it that way I never saw those flaws I wasn't a shallow person.. all I saw was him so I knew I hadn't settled I loved him,and right their is where I immediately stop myself and remember all the bad... his self image of himself made him insecure and me having insecurities myself I wasn't trusting when it came to anything. I remember getting so upset if he didnt text me back within 5-8 min i would immediately assume the worst. so the fighting begins the lying the double standards the phone locking the name calling the breaking up getting back together the arguments where unbearable I started getting depressed. 

I knew it wouldn't last now,shit was getting old people want more then that in a relationship at least I did. So I began doing exactly what he was doing lying locking my phone arguing back ,the double standards where the worst. Apparently speaking to girls was ok and texting but for me it was a problem I remember he would text other girls even my girlfriends and that was ok. He would spend the night at one of his gf houses and would go out eat whatever. He was so use to me not ever doing anything talking to guys chilling out he got comfortable so when I finally decided to do all that he flipped apparently it was wrong for me to do it and obviously he didn't like it.

I remember getting threatened to be left If I went to a coworkers house to chill and just hang. It got so bad I locked my phone as well playing someone's game back . That's when I realized my relationship was getting so toxic i was so deep into it not realizing how bad it was getting I was afraid of every and any little move I made like walking on thin ice. Trying to do everything the right way so I stopped caring. The love just went away it wasn't fun anymore so I purposely did what I did to let my relationship go. 

I tried to work it out but it wasn't fixable anymore hurtful things where said and done no way to take it back and the fact that he never realized he was good enough was the thing that set me of the most to finally be like ok felisa you need to move on I think that's what screwed me up the most he couldn't just except it that I was their to stay and love him and I hate that. I had the biggest resentment because we had plans I loved him so much,expecting to have kids with that guy marry him move In together. Now he is nothing but a hello and goodbye. I know that he will eventually find someone he is not a bad person we where just not ready for a relationship at the time together I needed to love myself first more then anything. This is something I kept with me these past two years why now? Because I held on to these feelings for so long i could never talk about it and I'm finally in a place in my life where im happy and feel confident and whole as a woman and i dont need to hide who I am and express myself whenever I want "hago que me da la gana cuando me da la gana" because I know I am worth more.

 I'm now engaged happily I'm a very lucky woman finally found a person who doesn't "deal with my bullshit" who is with me for me it feels good to have change someone who understands and sees you for who you are and as I for him.I now know my self worth.

On Intimacy

I passed the front door. I was on the way to my car when she grabbed my hand to turn me toward her, seeking out my eyes like I sought out hers an hour before.

“Are you upset or something?”

The dirt on my bootlaces had never been more interesting.

“No. The party has dope but I'm tired so I'm going home. Work was long and ...”

“Don't give me that! I mean, what did you want me to do? I was giving you rhythm all night. If you made a move first, it would be YOU I was making out with in the kitchen! Dammit Elijah! You knew I was into you! Don't be mad at me because you didn't go for it! You totally could have had me! What is wrong with you?!"

What do I say? 

-----

We barely knew one another, but I was top of her. I earned her smile, name, and privacy all in the same week. We were quiet as we fogged up the truck windshield, but there was never much to say in the first place. Her body I could have, but her thoughts remained her own. I felt her up, clambered off, grinned goodbye, and drove home with the windows down and the radio silent. My stomach hurt, but I didn't eat anything.

What is wrong with me?

-----

She asked to go back to the car. I told her I wanted to be into her tomorrow too. She looked confused. What does the depth of her roots have to do with taking her panties off? We don't need to talk about growth to do the grown-up. We're not trying to build, we're just trying to bust. She told me not to worry about it. She really wasn't looking for attachment.

Okay.

What is wrong with me?

-----

Being young and Black in Whittier is alienating, so I keep my guard up and my cards close to my chest. Mom was 24 when she had me with a nigga she couldn't build with, and here I am, 24, with my own demons to deal with. I've had casual sex, but it's never been meaningless, and often times I walk away feeling diminished by the experience. Abeni is right. Sexuality is a private facet of our humanity, something we don't just show anyone. And as we are all supremely different individuals, I can only speak on what that facet means to me, from my limited perspective.
To me, intimacy is vulnerability, and since it takes a lot for this skin to soften, I want to value the rare occasions I'm supposed to be completely uninhibited. Genuine connections for me are hard to come by.

So honestly? Sex is cool, but I don't remember the last time I was intimate. And my experiences are causing me to lose sense of what intimate even means. After all, I'm told I should think with my dick, I should chase tail to validate my ego, I should conquer without regard to consequence; I shouldn't be apprehensive about giving someone more of me than even my family sees, I shouldn't care about a human connection, I shouldn't want more for myself. For you. For this.

So what is wrong with me?

Mi ama

In this kitchen, mi abuelita would travel back in time and recount our family's illustrious history while my cousins and I pounded and kneaded masa to make tortillas.

In this kitchen, mi abuelita prepared coffee with more sugar and creamer than actual coffee, so that we had something to sip on while she challenged us to a game of Dominoes. 

In this kitchen, mi abuelita would cook Chilaquiles that would leave everyone scraping their plates for more. But on May 29, 2009, this kitchen lost its spark. Back then it was full of energy and life, now it's just an ordinary kitchen.

some kinds of love: illusive or real?

Self-love and self-respect are essential if you want to be happy with someone else. I’ve come to realize that you can’t love another person truly until you love yourself. More importantly, as my Tia once put it, “you should be someone who thinks your shit don’t stink.”

I wanted to write about how long it took me to get over my last relationship. How I, pathetically, despite being starkly aware of the absence of the aforementioned qualities, held onto my feelings for a person for an unnaturally long time. I wanted to write about how I regretted not being able to express myself fully because I always had this fear of being rejected. Or how I feared so much that he would leave me for someone else. Or how he made feel like I was never “good enough” for him (and only because I had already felt that way all by myself). I wanted to write about how I would have done anything for a person who sometimes made me feel like I was just a pain in the ass. How I settled for this muted severance in place of the uninterrupted connection I want to experience with someone.

Instead, I want to say that at this point in my life, I feel whole. I don’t want to compare myself with anyone else. When I meet someone I really dig, I want him to see me for who I am. And if I accept someone with all his bullshit imperfections, I will only expect him to do the same for me. I am incredibly imperfect and that is okay. I would like to feel loved deeply, someday. And right now I am working on loving me so that maybe if I come across that kind of affection, I can let that in without feeling empty when that person is gone. Unrequited love was a bitch, but it made me a better woman.

Puta's creed

"Slut", "whore", "skank", "dirty", "easy"... That's just the beginning of the list of things thrown at girls and women who disregard sexual inhibitions. 

It's culturally and globally accepted for men to act in a promiscuous way or to be disloyal, but the moment a woman is in that same position, men, and even most other women, will shame her.

To speak personally; I've had my own share of promiscuity and hungover mornings waking up in an unfamiliar bed. I've been personally attacked for my freedom, my name has been dragged through the dirt by multiple groups of people (some that I know personally and some people that I've never even met or heard of).

Sometimes I feel full of regret for letting somebody who wasn't in my heart into my body. Other times I feel empowered that I took the reigns of my sexuallity and challenged what's acceptable behavior for women  compared to men. The constant feeling I do have about my past is that I wish people would get to know me better, then maybe they'd understand that one-night stands and friends with benefits don't even come close to defining me.

At the end of the day, I was only doing exactly what most guys I knew were doing, and if I crossed than hair-thin line between boys will be boys and slut, then fuck it. I don't care. Despite my regret, I will stubbornly scream at the top of my lungs that I regret nothing because I never want people to feel they have that power over me- to define what's an acceptable way to live my private sex-life, to make me regret something as simple as living in the moment.

"Slut", "whore", "skank", "dirty", "easy"... These words mean nothing to me. You can't make me ashamed of what I chose to do at a certain point in my life. And you can't permanently nail me to the cross of promiscuity because I've "been around". I let these people- most unworthy- have my body for a night, but I've always kept my soul and my heart pure. I don't think I would be the same person had I not gone through these trails of sexual experimentation. I've gained a lot of wisdom, figured out a lot about myself, and got all of these meaningless and purely physical acts out of my system. I've grown and gained focus on the things that I learned matter to me, and I feel relieved to be calm and where I am now.

I'm not who I've fucked, I'm not the number of people I've fucked, and I'm not how easy I was to fuck. I'm so much more than that, and my body is only the surface. 

The Rule of Three, At Least for Me

         I've never had “casual” sex with someone before. I have always wondered how I would feel about it. Would I like it? Would the other person think of me differently? Would he tell his friends? I often hear stories about how it never works out. My friends would warn me and say, "you will get attached and your heart broken or you will feel empty once its over.” I have to admit that these reasons (aside from STDs) are exactly why I never tried immersing myself that deeply in “hook up” culture. - I’m scared. I am aware that these things can easily happen to me and I could do without such problems. Consequently, I started making all these rules for myself. 

#1.Never have intercourse with someone who isn’t your boyfriend/partner. 

#2. Never date someone who has previously had sexual relations with a close friend. 

#3. You are allowed to make out with whoever you find foxy as long you are comfortable and enjoying yourself. 

#4. If things get too heated and you find yourself naked make sure to say “ooh look at the time” and point to the invisible watch that's on your wrist.

# 5. Make sure YOU are always making the decisions and that you are in charge.

I got quite good at these rules. So good that I’ve left some pretty frustrated and riled up potential lovers sitting in their car with jeans around their ankles and wood between their legs. Of course, I wanted have sex with them but I reframe from doing so as a form of protection. But I began to think, why do I need to go through such precautions anyways? 

I have concluded that our individualistic society has taught us to focus on our individual pleasure as a top priority. I don’t mean that every person is selfish in bed but we don’t lookout for each other enough. And in the most simplest ways. The mindset of responsibility prior to our decision to be with someone sexually seems to be lacking in the general public of U.S society. If we lived in a community based society then sex would always include honest communication, the acknowledgment of each other bodies (condoms and prior STD testing), respect (consent), and appreciation (never shaming the other person for their bodies, sexuality or the frequency of their sexual activity). Unfortunately, many people have had sexual encounters that lack at least one if not more of the previous listed attributes. 

       Is it radical to say that whether casual or not, sex is a type of intimacy? If I should share my intimacy, I would like it to be appreciated. This appreciation should be a genuine one… not a superficial one. My partner should always see me as a PERSON ---> a living, thinking and breathing human who has decided to share their body. In that decision, the other person gets to experience a facet of who I am. A part that not everyone is allowed to see. That experience is wonderful because my body is beautiful and so is my sexuality. Expressing yourself sexually is a good thing but there needs to be recognition of our personhood and humanity. This means consent, responsibility and respect. Both committed relationships and casual sexual encounters need to obtain all three. 

At least for me. 

On Happiness and Identity:

Happiness is a state of great priority to everyone, regardless of gender, socioeconomic circumstance, race, whatever the label may be. We all want to be happy and we want to be happy for as long as possible. It is such a long journey toward realizing what happiness means. The sooner you realize what makes you happy, the sooner you begin to formulate purpose. The less you become afraid of trying and failing while you pursue it. There is nothing worse than being “stuck.” It’s especially crucial for females to define for themselves what is true happiness and how to carve out meaning in a society where we are “beat into dank submission” (as Bukowski once wrote).

I’m writing about happiness because I am just beginning to realize what in life brings me the most satisfaction.The things that make me the most content are also the things that continually build upon my character and help me assert my own identity. Three things bring me sanity: nature, philanthropy, and expression.

As females, so much of our identity is thrust upon us by a variety of external forces. Growing up Catholic, I was either a virgin or a whore. Growing up with a misogynist father, I was force fed these unnatural ideas about how women are supposed to know how to cook and clean, be unoffensive and wear the weight of their family’s “good name” across their breasts. My father’s main concern was preserving my virginity.  (**I maintain [my father] is product of his upbringing. His intentions are good, but he just grasps so tightly to tradition). The women that I saw on television were revered for their looks or their ability to be enigmatic and elusive. Identity or purpose was always in relation to the opposite sex. So much of our identity is tactfully tied to our sexuality. Thus, substantial aspects of our existence that outline our true sense of purpose become peripheral or secondary. Our path toward happiness is deterred by all of these other stupid preoccupations and misconceptions.

We don’t all adhere to that. I actually believe we all struggle with silencing that malignant voice. As I mentioned earlier, the things that bring me a great deal of happiness are nature, philanthropy, and expression. All of which I TRY to incorporate into my life in some way.

I want to be successful and I want to be whole. Therefore, I express myself for the sake of expressing myself. I surround myself in natural, open environments because nature teaches us in ways that human beings cannot. I dig philanthropy because I am so “in my own head” sometimes that giving myself away feels so much more rewarding.

As I move toward happiness, I lose more and more of myself being into the things I am passionate about. Doing things for the sake of doing them. Nobody can strip me of that. Equally, no one else could gift that to me either.

The last thing that defines me is my sexuality. I need no validation from anyone based upon how I look or how many dicks I’ve sucked. I am not my father’s daughter. I am not my lover’s lover. I am not an ugly whore or a pretty prude or whatever the fuck they want us to call each other. I am a human being pushing forward, forming my identity, fucking whomever I please/whenever I please, and that does not degrade me. What is most important is my own happiness, nothing less. I will not let anyone else define that for me.

On Friendship: Weirdos.

Growing up, it was very difficult for me to make friends. I used to be made fun of for having a rolling backpack and for the fact that my big round glasses had straps. I used to wear combat boots and sing aloud on the playground. Because I had no friends in elementary, I would sit on a bench and write in a wide-ruled spiral bound. I loved Shel Silverstein so I would mimic his writing and make little rhymes about animals or characters or anything really. That was me.

I think over time I began to consciously tell myself to stop “being weird.” The less and less “weird” I tried to become, it was eventually a little easier to be “accepted.” Consequently, I let what others thought of me force me to put on this mask. This, “I don’t play with Polly Pockets or have a mock chemistry lab kit waiting for me in the garage when I get home” façade.
Instead of moving toward all of the weird shit that made me more of who I really was, I shed that and became nothing.

Honestly, it hurts to have people dislike you for being you, but the acceptance you feel when you aren’t being you is shallow and temporary.

After many lessons learned the hard way, I eventually learned to give less of a shit. Along the way, I met some amazing people and some not-so-amazing people, who taught me (through encounters/exchanges) that being “me” is a necessity. Being weird is a necessity.

Most importantly, I would have never reached this point in my life, if it weren’t for the friendships I formed along the way. My greatest friends approached me with honesty, warmth, unconditional acceptance. They SHOWED me how to find myself again. They SHOWED me through their own honesty and kindness, that it is OKAY to be as fucking weird as you need to be.

Friendship has shown me that the only thing you need to DO in order to obtain friendship is to give what you want to receive, but other than that, just come as you are. Jim Morrison once wrote, "A friend is someone who gives you total freedom to be yourself." I cannot be anybody else. I am who I am and the love I receive is truthfully given to me. I entrust my friends with my deepest insecurities, fears and I come without pretense.  My friends approach me unguarded and vulnerable; they allow me see them wholly. My friends are the type of women that I strive to be.

To me, living fully is having the courage to be yourself, despite all of the negativity that seems to deter us from living to the greatest extent. My deepest friendships enrich me. Friends keep me connected to myself so that I may experience life more purely. My truest friends give me the courage to be myself, when I THINK otherwise. I can only hope to be half as good to them as they have been with me.
-Valerie

You are my role model, I love you Abuelita.

Congratulations to my Abuelita who passed her citizenship test today!! She immigrated here in the early 1970's when my mother and tias were very young. My grandmother walked for days with three young girls by her side. It was because of her that much of my family arrived to this country safely. This is one of the strongest women I know and she helped raise multiple generations of children. Not even finishing the 4th grade, It is because of her (and many other family member's struggles) that I can benefit from a higher education, a roof over my head and food on my plate. And as many women make the same dangerous journey she did some 45 years ago, today its become even more life threatening to be an immigrant crossing borders. But people do it for their family, just like my grandmother did it for hers. I know fully well that I am daughter and granddaughter of immigrants. If it wasn't for them, it could be ME risking my life for the future of my family, trying to cross invisible lines that separate people. Invisible lines that determine how we are seen, viewed and treated. What a different life I would have if it wasn't for my difficult decisions of my family. Don't forget the struggles of your ancestors because without them, you could not be who you are.

You are my role model, I love you Abuelita.

Message to contributors:

Contributors:

Feel free to contribute stories, personal/fictional (short) narratives, experiences, anecdotes, photos, videos, music, etc. Anything creative that “says” something about who you are or what issue you are struggling with now.

I want to refrain from asking for a particular subject or theme for every week because I don’t want to cramp your creativity. I think the initial guideline for what you can post and when you should post is simply based upon specific moments or events or remembrances of things that you come across that day/week that remind you essentially of who you are as a woman.

I want to keep it as positive (but honest) as possible. It doesn’t have to be didactic, it can be raw and contradictory, even, but it should always keep in mind that you are contributing this for other women and that we are all defining/shaping/progressing toward the strong, beautiful, successful women that we are striving to be.

Think about something that you saw in the news or a conversation that you participated in that made you extremely cognizant of who you are as a woman. Share that. Open up a dialogue. Write about your mothers, grandmothers, sisters, friends, lovers, etc., so long as you keep in mind that this is a space that provokes progression, kindness, and self-worth.

Welcome!!!

Dear Friends,

I have for a long time struggled with self-esteem issues and body image issues. For some people, it may not seem as though these issues are severe or detrimental, but when you get to a point where you don’t feel like you are “good enough” so you don’t try, it becomes completely invasive toward all other aspects of your life. Everyone should feel beautiful and strong, and sometimes, for some of us (me), it does not come naturally. I have to actively reinforce the fact that I am worthy of the things I worked hard to achieve and the things that I have accomplished (though I am not anywhere close to where I need to be) are “good enough.”

Let me get to my point: the times when I feel most enlightened, more in touch with who I am, and strong, are the days when I have had the opportunity to encounter other women who face adversity with dignity, a positive attitude, and the courage to be themselves no matter what. The days I am filled with a lot of love for myself are days when I exchange words with other women who exude love: for life, for living, for others, for themselves. When I meet women who don’t put other women down or don’t buy into patriarchal ideologies, it makes me feel stronger. I cannot put it any other way. It’s organic.

So, I want to start a weekly blog, where we can submit essays on issues or concerns or things that afflict us personally daily, and we can start a little dialogue, or something. We can give each other strength and fill each other with positivity. If you want to participate, I will email you with a bit more detail or structure. But say yes.

Thanks,

Valerie