Mexico City: A Transfronteriza’s Last Days

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“Tengo nostalgia de un país que no existe todavía en el mapa.” Chinatown, Downtown Mexico City.

I’m sitting at Muebles Sullivan surrounded by a few bags stuffed with clothes and toiletries, my dry cleaning, and an incredible lightness of being. As usual, the coffee is delicious and life passing me by beyond the lemon trees brings me a subtle sense of satisfaction. A lemon scented, caffeinated gratitude for Mexico City.

My journey continues and the time has come to lug my clothes and emotions back home. Before this moment I feel I had wandered around burdened by the heavy weight of suffering, anxiety, and the overwhelming desire to live, stubborn and strictly, in Mexico City. I fought for it. Unceasingly, I fought my family, the world, and myself for this moment of fulfillment and sense of completeness.

I will journey back to my family in about ten days. The map of my retreat forward is as follows: I will walk through the National Mall in about two weeks, saunter down the streets of Jackson Heights and Bushwick in about three, sleep in my childhood room in five, roll round La Cita’s dance-floor in six, lay out in Rosarito’s beaches in ten, and move all of my hopes and dreams to New York City in seventeen.

Even from here, it all seem so far away from Mexico City. The retreat forward is decided on and the start of graduate studies at New York University is imminent. It’s wondrous and I’m thankful. Especially to this city. For the inspiration and conviction it inspired in me to try ceaselessly to be here. To explore then destroy my fears, doubts, and anxieties. To tap into my intuition and prioritize self-love.

It taught me to be flexible, to flow, and embrace my condition as a transfronteriza. To push my own limits, extend myself across all the borders that had asphyxiated me since birth. It subjected me to deep suffering, an experience that threw me into depression in senior year of college but one that eventually became the catalyst for my self-sufficiency and independence.  And it taught me to navigate the sometimes volatile, sometimes deeply deeply magical terrain of my own emotions. I explored my spirit and self fully and deeply these past five years because Mexico City enlivened an inexorable hunger and inspiration to live, to feel, to be.

I was heavy with all of these experiences. I held on to that truth, to Mexico City, to the possibility of fully and beautifully being. Because it is such a beautiful lesson and experience to have. And I think it was necessary, to feel the weight of being–to feel how it physically and emotionally imposes itself, reminds us we are alive, and inspires us to navigate the world aware of ourselves, our life, and our creative promise.

Now, I feel light with that lesson. I feel grateful for that weight. I feel happy because this city deeply shook me, woke me, and loved me. It inhabits me and will continue to inform who I am to become. I will be bound to it as long as I remain committed to letting it go, to exploring myself, as I propel myself forward.

Mexico City taught me to be, my beloved teacher and companion in these perpetual journeys as a transfronteriza.

Forever grateful, and in love.

Decirte que te extraño

 

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Mexico City-Los Angeles (Let’s Meet in the Middle) by Susan Logoreci

 

To confess that I miss you is to admit that we are bound.

To recognize that the 1,548 miles between us
are threads that traverse mountains and plains and tether us together
pulling us close in a tight embrace

It’s to temporarily suspend time and space to acknowledge a closeness that distance doesn’t permit

To keep you alive within me
An immediacy that keeps my skin sensitive to your warmth
to your vanilla scent
the smoothness of your shoulders
and caresses

I miss you
the way i love early mornings and late nights in Centro Histórico
the way I love the coolness of advancing dusk on my skin
the way I love the smell of lemon trees in my hair
the dancing
the music
all that is
life

When I say I miss you I suddenly become aware
that what I am really saying is that I love you
That I wish happiness and presence upon you

To encourage you to love and celebrate where you are
To remind myself to be grateful and alive where I am

Far apart and still thriving
Displaced but rooted
Separate and fully alive

Decir te extraño
es decir te pienso
te quiero

Es decir que me quiero a mi misma
reconocer que me alimentas
mi haces más viva

Es reconocer que en cuanto más te extraño
más siento amor por la vida
por mi entorno
y lo que esta en mi

I miss you
because I love myself

Mexico City: Exhaustion

Cansada. The traffic jams have become knots on my back.  But then, looking back, I wrote  seven articles, twenty-six blog posts, and nine magazine submissions. I wrote the most, wrote what I wanted inspired by the city I had to be in, in my entire life.

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Contours of chaos, a view from above (1972).

Three months after beginning this blog post, I’m inspired to begin, experience, and complete this post on how hard it has been to thrive and succeed in my decision and commitment to writing. In a commitment to a city. In commitment.

It’s been exhausting. Working full-time within the journalism world has kicked my ass. Working full-time and secluded in Mexico City’s deep south has been fatiguing. The toll of stress: anxiety of falling short, of being inadequate to begin with, of overcoming the fear of actually and really being brilliant. Urban inspired exhaustion: traveling 1.5 hours just to have a latte at my favorite cafe with its perfect view of city life, of asshole taxi drivers annoyed that they had to drive me to my place in Tepepan, a colonia just north of Xochimilco and a community a friend and I jokingly coined “the country.” Of the stress of car horns, traffic, and anxious and impatient masses filling metro cars.

I grew impatient. With challenge came great expectations and my flexibility, fluidity, love, and ability to discern  beauty and poetry in my surroundings and even life shrunk to a minimal tolerance. It’s as if my high-stress life suddenly blinded me from seeing that I was doing exactly what I wanted, exactly where I wanted.  Recalling and re-reading earlier prose and odes to the city, I was reminded that I appreciated the chaos of it all, its impatience, lust, and possibility. I was enthralled and even propelled by it. But in a state of unhappiness and stress, it became too much.

What finally allowed me to reflect on all of this was the space, calm and contemplation I had denied myself previously. Assigning blame to the city that has always inspired me, its noise, its chaos, its defiance to grant me one single moment of repose and silence to calm my reeling, anxious, impatient mind. The city and I seemed to be competing to see which would self-destruct quickest. And my love and patience for it during those long metro rides home, the love and gratitude for the immediacy and inspiration of an unapologetically and painfully alive city, fell victim.

Because exhaustion and short-sightedness is impairing and fatalistic. Because poor and neglected rituals of self-love make drowning in despair all the more probable. Because I sometimes may want to run away from a place I love so deeply and thoroughly I have defied everything just to feel myself embraced by its nights and mornings. Because nothing is permanent, finite, and unchanging. Because loving and learning means understanding that the process of loving and learning can be difficult, challenging, and exhausting.

That the poetry and beauty I discern on tired and drowsy faces of Mexico City’s poor denizens that I forget about once I reach my destination doesn’t end there. That deciding and choosing to be a writer and journalist isn’t the final published product alone. That traveling south, with all of my belongings, anxieties, hesitations, dreams, inspiration, and love isn’t easy. That not everything is grand or fantastic, doom or death.

Codex and Give Up The Ghost, the only two songs on my phone, on repeat non-stop on the MetroBus ride home, from Alvaro Obregon to Camineros. To feel, be present, and muster appreciation and gratitude for the city lights and life that zooms past me at the end of another day fully living and thriving in the city. For a pasajera en trance in the face of her dreams, this is the enduring commitment and gift from the beloved city that inspires and gives to me fully and to exhaustion.

Mexico City: Reservoirs of Magic

Francisco Mata Rosas captures a reservoir of magic,
Francisco Mata Rosas captures a reservoir of magic, “La muerte saliendo del metro.”

“It’s astounding to walk into a pristine library and realize that it is a reservoir of magic, almost sacred, where books are worshipped and treated with solemnity. But to get there, I cross a city that almost ignores the voice and words of the flesh, the suffering, where voices are hierarchized, silenced, and left unread.”

Today I spent the afternoon at the Zocalo tracing my fingertips across the back of hardcovers and strolling between endless rows of literature. Although I spotted and even purchased a few treasures (Francisco Mata Rosas, I love you..), as I strolled through the International Book Fair recently inaugurated on the main plaza,  I became more intrigued with observing other bibliophiles as they adored their paperbacks, hardcovers, zines, and magazines.

It was entrancing: hundreds of people engrossed in the ritual of seeking rare editions, bargain buys, new releases, and obscure authors. It is a deeply intimate but overwhelming collective desire to experience the wonder of books.  When the search culminates in an exclamation of joy and surprise, like it so often (and awkwardly) happens to me, bibliophiles throughout the world rejoice, because they deeply respect and cherish the value of those desperately necessary  literary journeys.

Like every year, I attend the book fair looking to purchase one or two new titles. I arrived today just in time to listen to a blues band fill a sun drenched Zocalo with its music. Although I initially began browsing the shelves of books organized beneath huge white tents, engrossed and oblivious to those around me, my sight was pulled upward by the energy and bustle of hundreds of people doing just the same all around me. As if snapped out of a daze, I became more intrigued with browsing faces rather than book covers.

It was with pure adoration and joy, solemnity and respect, that people interacted with books. But in the measure that this reaffirmed my own love for them, and hxstory’s adoration of books and everything they represent, I also began to observe how people respect books more than they do each other.

Just outside of the forty-seven thousand meter square plaza, bustling with an inspiring love for knowledge, millions of people live unversed in the language of empathy and curiosity, not so much for art, but for each other. Not because they are “illiterate”, “uneducated”, or “uncultured” but because they are unable to read the eyes of those who in agony or despair, cry out desperately, intensely. Millions of us  lack the inspiration to read what we all have to say, to express, to share.  The magic or perhaps tragedy that fills our being, emanates from our spirit, informs our gait and our silence.

Within the main square, I observed that our love for each other pales in comparison to our love for books, even though it is we who write them.  I walked from tent to tent determined to learn personalities and characters, memorize side-eyed glances and enjoy smiles. As the national flag wavered in the sunlight and the sweetness of the chiapaneco coffee tickled my palate, I walked over to the tent projecting the groovy sound of the blues band and was wrapped in the guitar’s melody, en trance.

I bookmarked the moment when the wind gave away the hiding place of the little girl leaned against the huge speaker and hidden underneath the event poster, the wind brushing a smile onto her face, her surprise and laughter synched with mine.

I was just trying to be a little more alive. To read and be in this world the way I inhabit and live in the worlds written in my favorite pages. To look and understand our world, even when it is unwritten, even if it’s hard to decipher and digest, with the same love and devotion we have done in those beautifully smelling pages. We are all reservoirs of magic.

Mexico City: Metro Meditations

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Andre Roman Medina Photography

Twenty-five months living in Mexico City can do something to one’s sense of empathy, compassion and sensibility to the suffering and violence of city life.

When I first moved here I went into a sort of physical, emotional and spiritual shock. Meanwhile I completely fell in love with the city for its grandness and sublime beauty, discerning the smallest details and a specialness that set it a apart from any other city I had ever visited, I was overwhelmed by its class divisions, extreme poverty, discrimination against indigenous peoples, love for the foreign but disdain for otherness (rooted in a love for eurocentrism), and blatant arrogance of many of its denizens. This I discerned in every pocket of public space and in an endless array of social settings.

I remember joining all of my study abroad friends in nighttime outings to posh neighborhoods and witnessing-and participating in-a culture that completely ignored and looked down on the sleepy-eyed vendors who sold gum packs and cigarets. For many people the indigenous mother sitting on the sidewalk with her children blended into the building wall she leaned against: invisible only until you had the urge to take a drag from a Marlboro. I also recall sitting in a cab or squeezed into a city bus parked on a major intersection and playing spectator to children and adolescents performing as jugglers, fire eaters, clowns and mimes.  And the language one speaks here is riddled with sexisms, classisms, and racisms. Even in the marches-at this point I’ve attended so many, from #YoSoy132 to the year anniversary of Ayotzinapa-are vehemently misogynist and anti-gay.

All of these nuances and realities were so fresh and thus so shocking that they bombarded my senses, overwhelmed me emotionally, and deeply angered and confused me.  Unfamiliar with this social and culture way of being, I learned to navigate the city, adapting what I admired and needed, challenged and tried to ignore what I didn’t.

These first few months were overwhelming yet in a sense also exhilarating. Experiencing everything the first few times was incredible, and twenty-five months later, I still love riding the metro, still love peseros for what they are-an affordable tour of overpopulated D.F.-and I still love this city for the unforgiving beast it is.  But it was just a few days ago, coming out of a film in Cineteca Nacional, that I realized that the city has physically and emotionally exhausted me.

This realization was probably inspired by the film: seven brothers detail the joys and anxieties of living enclosed in a New York City apartment for eighteen years.  It was a light-hearted look into the lives they constructed within the four walls of the apartment, the 5,000 films they’ve watched and recreated,  from entire films like Reservoir Dogs to recreating Halloween seances, burning effigies and enjoying and ultimately questioning the liberty of seclusion.  Entering that space heightened my sensitivity to life outside once I left the theater. Thoughts on how despite the endless promise of creativity, love, and connection, many of us engage in unfeeling, self-centered and uncreative lives.

Once sitting in the Metro car, wedged between two drowsy darling viejitas, I closed my eyes and listened to the murmurs of those around me, the life, the laughter, and the deep and heavy drowsiness cradled by the rumble of the train. I saw that many people, including myself, refused to exchange a glance, a smile, a hello.  The Metro, has and will always be a perfect metaphor for Mexico City.  It is an overwhelming and extreme example of over-population, frustration, noise, alienation and humanity.

In the past few days I have been more observant, more receptive, and intuitive to what people and the city have to express to me.  Today, on my way to my favorite cafe in Downtown, I was again reminded why the Metro is a perfectly furious and intense expression of life in the city.

As the train zoomed northward toward Cuatro Caminos, the rain hit the window and the bright cloudy sky illuminated the faces of the row of people sitting across from me. Today, on a Monday morning, everyone was alert, eyes dashed from right to left, following each vendor as they hollered their sales pitch and made their way down each train car.

As I peered above a man’s head and watched the cityscape zoom past me I could hear the vendor with a stereo strapped to his back approach my car. His selection today: 100 MP3s of classic rock n’ roll. As David Bowie faded away the vendor skipped three tracks and there the sweet guitar of George Harrison’s My Sweet Lord began to fill our car. My heart rejoiced because it happened to be one of my favorite songs from one of my favorite albums. Overwhelmed with this happiness that fell like a kiss, I closed my eyes to take it in, smiled and felt grateful to enjoy such a sweet song on such a sweet day. I fluttered my eyes open and saw the man across from me smiling as well.  This mobile melodic morsel lasted a few seconds as the vendor made his way across and disappeared into the next car.

A few seconds later  the next vendor came bustling in.  His performance: backflipping onto shards of glass arranged on a piece of cloth. As soon as people saw him approach they winced in disgust, uncomfortable, and avoided eye contact even with each other. A mother hurried her children to the other end of the car. Instead of running down one extreme of the car and onto the glass he begged passengers to give him change, appealing to our repulsion and disdain. He walked past us, his elbows torn and bruised from a previous work day, and made his way onward after not receiving any change.

Mexico City is this. It’s ugly, it’s painful, it’s beautiful and human. It’s deep deep apathy and indifference. It’s a struggle for survival. It’s moments of pure performative poetry-both painful and uplifting.

I don’t think I can ever become completely desensitized to this. Because the city finds ways to remind me of these struggles for survival while allowing me to experience moments of pure poetry. Moments that sweetly and brutally remind me that I am here, and that I’m painfully alive.

9.10.15

Is the calendar notification that I woke up to this morning. The much anticipated date that was supposed to mark my triumphant move to Mexico City. We bought the ticket early April, my friend and I, dos almas errantes filled with wanderlust, nostalgia, and an overwhelming desire to party through a night of post-punk and mezcal.

Forward five months and instead of boarding a flight in Tijuana, I lounge in my southern Mexico City apartment (cottage, really), while my friend awaits the date she moves in November. So, how to make sense of these five months? Of spur of the moment decisions, of unexpected and even life changing circumstances, of distance, of the unplanned, of the  unwanted-of the necessary chain of events that conduces the way our lives are to unravel.

Fear, really, of having made a wrong decision, of moving too fast.  Of changing how the plan was supposed to unfold, of not letting it develop the way it was discussed and meditated. Of retreating forward and retreating rapidly-skipping all together certain discussions with family and friends, of missing out on the procrastination, of checking off each item down the list of things I needed to do for the most important and damn liberating move of my life.

The last few days I have felt the pangs of nostalgia for Los Angeles and even my body, my bones, are suddenly alert to each kilometer that marks the distance between here and there. Thoughts on how I moved too fast, fear and doubt begin to blemish what really is a performance and act of survival, for happiness, and self-love.

Liberation, really, to choose who you want to be and become, and act upon it. It’s simple but still so challenging, so overwhelming, and somehow so unrealistic for many of us. And when we do it, when I have moved and have made a decision to satiate this hunger for life, this necessity to create, to tune into my dreams and love nurtured by a magnificent city, at least for some moments, some months, some years of my peculiarly short life, all becomes complicated by self doubt, fear, and hate. Emotions that we constantly share among each other and feed ourselves like poison.

To retreat forward and disobey every premeditation, agreement, and plan. Diverging from what at one moment you thought was  best but life-and your beautiful power to destroy, decide, and create- determined you needed otherwise.

Why choose fear when you have already decided to live for love and with courage.  Why subject yourself to suffering when there is post-punk and mezcal. To tune into the desires, hopes, and affirmations deeply buried under all the fear, anxiety, and doubt.

Abi, I’m waiting for you.  Five months and looking forward.

End of a season and the continuation of renewed cycles, my journey to Mexico City

It’s about that time of year here in Boyle Heights when the jacaranda trees shed the last of their beautiful lilac flowers. And as the last of its sweet petals frame our view of the early summer sky, I prepare to once again head south for Mexico City.

The jacaranda tree, magnificent and populously planted all over Boyle Heights, has perhaps been my favorite companion in these last few Spring months. Be it enjoying the sight of them through the train window coming home from yoga on the metro gold line or walking beneath them on especially gloomy and overcast days, their presence has been a personal source of happiness and inspiration.

And just like the many beings I continue to meet on my journey, I feel grateful for the jacaranda and what it has taught me about presence, resiliency, and the cyclical nature of our days, lives, opportunities, and worlds.

Well, it was only very recently that I received an offer to work as the Managing Director for the Center of International Policy’s Americas Program in Mexico City, an organization I’ve worked as an intern and journalist for the last three years.

I was surprised and deeply grateful regarding the timeliness of this amazing offer, considering that my plans for a Fulbright didn’t come into fruition this past April and in light of my overwhelming desire to make a more permanent move to DF. Considering that for over two years, I have made two unsuccessful attempts at graduate admissions at UNAM, countless unfruitful job applications to Mexican organizations, and an endless amount of sent emails and withheld sighs and depressions experienced in the process. Simply put, this offer is basically a dream come true for this transbarrio writer and nepantlera.

Yet after the conversation with my friend and would be boss, I have walked around my neighborhood, contemplating the increasingly bare branches of the jacaranda, and it was during these barrio saunters that I sincerely felt a sadness about leaving and embarking south. Of leaving during a time I have felt I have become more intimate and familiar with Boyle Heights.

In an instant I felt conflicted whether to stay in Boyle Heights and explore and deepen the possibilities of my happiness here or to heed this opportunity to embark on a career in journalism in Mexico City, a destination I have sought to arrive to so desperately, so insanely, so intensely for so long.

And in considering this sudden and unexpected opportunity not only to travel and live in the city of my dreams, but work in the field of journalism, and to be physically and creatively closer to a life of writing and living splendidly, I feel compelled to take a cue from my favorite trees that in their cycles and essence have taught me an important lesson about blooming and letting go.

For over three years, I have struggled with transitions. Refusing to be present and struggling with accepting and letting go of new spiritual, personal, and emotional seasons. These have included the spiritually debilitating experience of transitioning back into the often alienating culture and politics of the US. Of the institutional violence inflicted upon young people of color not only seeking to survive the job market, but living and existing in US society. Of my own intolerance and violence toward myself, the way I have adopted criteria and judgment toward myself, and my ability and capacity to achieve, create, and exist. Meanwhile these many forms of violence are products of both tangible and metaphysical legacies of injustice and inequality, one of the biggest challenges has been recognizing that I have always been where I needed to be, both physically and emotionally.

What I now realize is that meanwhile it has been so in the past, transitions do not necessarily have to be painful. That cycles end only to begin different and more necessary journeys. That in searching for affirmations and inspiration, we must take cues from the universe and the worlds around us, from the beauty of the changing branches of the jacaranda tree to the boundless and limitlessness of earth and peoples despite borders, of the grandeur of existence.

What is wonderful and what I am so unbelievably grateful for is that I owe the beginning of this cycle to hard work, serendipity, and coincidence. It is recognizing that it is a result of my work and effort over three years and that it is also a product of a phone call and an alignment of both well wishes and a genuine search for support. And it has perhaps even come in a time when I’ve needed it most: it is a ripple of cycles that came before, many that even began before I came to exist in this present form.

I am open to embarking on this cycle and I recognize that I must bloom and let go as the seasons require. That my potential and power to regenerate, reinvent, and heal is limitless. And that I am so incredibly excited for what lies ahead. And that I am strong and ready to transition and flow and relish in it.

I recognize and affirm that Boyle Heights and my gente and these trees are resilient and are within me as much as I stay and live within them. That I am headed to where I need to be only to return to continue what many of us began for ourselves and together.

And just like the jacaranda tree bears its beautiful branches regardless of the season, I am grateful and love my life both in times of splendor and simplicity, triumph and challenge, growth and stillness.

Como pasajera en trance y repose, I look forward to the transitions and renewed seasons that await.

amor intergaláctico

como el golden record del voyager que viaja por el espacio interestelar con las melodias dulces de rock n’ roll, así yo navego por el espacio profundo del amor y la vida

como pasajera en trance le doy vueltas al universo de mi espíritu, del amor, y de mis deseos

ligera, resistente, y llena de esperanzas de comunicar y aprender, al girar por esta hermosa existencia pierdo todo sentido de tiempo, guiándome solo por la maravilla pura

girando a toda velocidad hacia una reunión que me espera a unos años luz

un reencuentro de unos segundos, que durará una infinidad

la recuperación de un amor intergaláctico
un amor sin comienzo ni fin

Gabriel Garcia Márquez and Solitude: A Viajera’s Musings on her Love of Writing

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Today is the one-year anniversary of the passing of Gabriel Garcia Márquez, my favorite writer and journalist. It was as a frizzy haired teenage girl, nose buried in Love in The Time of Cholera, that I was first introduced to exactly how fantastic and profound love can be. Many years later and upon picking up One Hundred Years of Solitude, I became irreparably enamored with his ability to express quotidian and magical moments, the poetry of Mauricio Babilonio and his yellow butterflies, the clairvoyance of the Aurelianos, the never ending solitude of a small town and of the Buendía lineage.

I came across Márquez’s work much like I have come across many of my favorite books, by luck. All of my life I have been surrounded by books. Over the years, my father, an autodidactic musician, singer, and avid reader, has amassed an impressive library that takes up most of our living room. His love for books and knowledge has spilled over to the rest of the house and family, as both my older sister and myself each have compiled an eclectic personal library now too extensive for the bookshelves built by our carpenter father. He built mine when, at eleven years old, I decided I needed more space for my books on paleontology, Harry Potter, and history. Since our youth, and as college graduates, our libraries have become a beautiful collection of history and economic textbooks, Latin American political theory, philosophy, and Spanish and Latin American literature.

It was on one particular afternoon during my formative angsty middle-school years, while browsing my college-aged sister’s bookshelf, that I came across the cursive titles and vibrant floral patterns that grace the covers of Marquez’s books. Those discoveries, made possible by my father’s love for knowledge and our insatiable appetite for journey and adventure, inspired my love for books, for words. And this is a love that now inspires each poem, article, personal essay that I write.

As I begin a new journey and chapter in my life as a writer and journalist, I find myself reflecting on my relationship with words. And it is precisely during this time that I deeply explore my family and communities’ history of illiteracy, fear, and inaccessibility to both the Spanish and English language. I go back to these stories in order to contextualize this solitude with my own proximity and access to words.

I am a child and granddaughter of incredibly intelligent people who have built their lives from strenuous physical labor. My grandfather Pablo knew to read the skies and clouds to decipher when it was best to prepare his maize crops for the pending rain. During the fifty years he tended to his apple orchards, bean, and chile crops, he was so in tune with the cycle of the seasons that he harvested successfully fifty times. And when visiting him in Durango as a young girl, I remember sitting with him and relishing in his storytelling. I would listen to the deep sound of this voice that, with a Spanish wholly his own, would describe the adventures of his youth, his experience as a migrant farmworker in the US, his love for freshly churned ice cream.

My grandfather is barely literate and although his knowledge of the campo and his beautiful stories are what I cherish most in this world, he has been ridiculed for this lack of mastery of the Spanish language. In one instance, while testifying in a court hearing contesting in defense of his land rights, a lawyer chuckled and openly mocked his use of words that only make sense to people of el campo, people who were unable to formally study because they needed to work, because they had no choice, no opportunity to entertain the experience of learning words, of learning a language “correctly.”

Meanwhile my grandfather struggled to express himself in a perfect and acceptable Spanish, after thirty-seven years in the US, my mother still is embarrassed because she lacks English fluency. During her first years in the US she would juggle adult English classes with her full time job at a box factory. However, after the years went by, and because of her responsibility to raise and economically provide for two daughters, she was no longer able to attend classes. There are still some days when she looks at me and pleads me not to be ashamed of her because she doesn’t fully “know” English.

Language represents the opportunity to express, defend, and protest. When I reflect on my love for writing and its capacity to articulate all of my sentiments, critiques, silences, and poetry, I feel grateful to possess this ability but contemplate the solitude of those who have been denied this tool and medium of expression. A solitude determined by social and class inequality, a solitude of exclusion, a solitude of misunderstanding and ridicule. When contemplating this solitude, I can’t help but be struck by the irony of aspiring to become a person engaged in writing books, articles, stories, a composer of words, a writer.

Yet this is a solitude that has precisley driven me to desperately articulate all of these experiences. Today, as I remember and cherish the impact Márquez has had on me as a reader, writer, and human being, I also acknowledge and reaffirm why I must write. Writing represents my creative agency to literally write back, to express the silence of my grandparents and my mother’s struggle to learn English. To acknowledge and speak to the solitude that was imposed on them. Solitude, in the form of the millennial silence of my family and my history, is both my muse and enemy.

In his acceptance of the Nobel Peace Prize, Márquez alludes to the historical weight of this duality in his usual poetic and solemn manner. In his speech he details his literary and journalistic attempt to capture the absurdity, magic, and tragedy that informs the solitude of Latin America and of its people. In a world of increasingly accelerated death and destruction, Márquez says, we, the inventors of tales, who will believe anything, feel entitled to believe that it is not yet too late to engage in the creation of the opposite utopia, the utopia of life, the utopia of new beginnings. I take from that speech, and from his entire body of work, the lesson that we as writers must articulate the solitude of the Buendías, the solitude of my family, all of which remains our own enveloping, deep, suffocating solitude. It is an uncompromising and irreversible composition of a necessary story.

We write and we create because loneliness and silence cannot last forever, not even a hundred years: “Faced with oppression, pillage, and abandonment, our response is life… It is a new and splendid utopia of life, where no one can decide for others how they will die, where love will be certain and happiness possible, and where those condemned to a hundred years of solitude find, finally and forever, a second chance on this earth.”

Ella Está Embarcando: The Retreat Forward

The soft lavender hue of my notepad makes writing this a pleasant visual experience. A compliment to these feelings of tranquility and peace affirmed by the music and conversation of the last few hours, of the last few days. Everything that surrounds me at this precise, building, fleeting moment encourages me to retreat ahead in the construction and expression of my creative desires. A shift, a recalibration, a decision. A choice in the direction to do what I have always wanted to do in the places I have always wanted to be.

It has been a long and agonizing accumulation of pain and heartbreak, this life and becoming. As I’ve probably expressed in my writing and in conversation and in silence, I am who I continue to become because of Mexico City and the traversing of physical, spiritual, emotional, creative terrain that it has entailed.

Navigating the intersections of these has challenged and strengthened every inch of my spiritual and physical body. It has broken me down and built me up a hundred times over. Destroyed and inspired an identity faithful to the emancipation from a spiritually, culturally, physically, creatively bordered existence. And the embracement of it. I am a child and inhabitant of the borderlands. They have birthed and destroyed me. Crossing them and inhabiting each edge, each crevice, has strengthened me.

Four years ago, at twenty years old and during my first return to Mexico City, I crossed the physical terrain in search for the affirmation of an authenticity of the self. I returned to Mexico, a symbolic and deeply spiritual journey masked as a study abroad opportunity, to demystify what it meant to live and be and perform as a Mexican from within its political and ephemeral borders. I sought the authenticity and approval that I never received. Because of my language, skin, lived experiences and condition as child of both the diaspora and the transbarrio, I experienced the violence inspired by nationalism and cultural and social distance. I wasn’t Mexican but Pocha, not Spanish but Spanglish, not authentic but foreign. I suffered but eventually relished in it all. I began to look for the unique and non-conforming in Mexico City and I found it at every corner, found that I belonged there because of my love and passion, because of my difference. I learned there that that is precisely what this world depends on.

I fell in love with that city and during my second and third returns, I began to more comfortably occupy this new and different position and perspective, felt the opportunities to reflect and discard, better understand and build anew. The liberty and opportunity of traveling to a new place unfamiliar with your past and who you have been before. A place that attracts people in search of this opportunity. Here I studied, I researched, I worked, and I became.

My fourth return was pure and exhilarating escape. I proved that DF has always been mine, it has always been within my grasp, just a plane ticket, a phone call, an email, a decision away.

This realization was a long time coming. For four years, I felt deep pain when for different circumstances, I have had to leave DF behind for the US. It is when I have felt furthest away from these feelings and visions I mention inspired by the city, from the superior passional quality of absolutely every detail of rising to live another day, from the prospect of recreating this just one more time, that I have retreated into depression and pain. A physical pain inflicted by denial, negation, and distance. My own negation and the impossibility of finding the encouragement and affirmation from my surroundings.

Yet meanwhile this suffering may very well have been self inflicted, it was my reaction to this sudden shift and recalibration into a different terrain, one that I felt and knew was hostile to everything that I had loved so deeply in Mexico City. Being in the US, I felt frustrated and oppressed with the apathy and alienation that inspires people to prefer material well being versus poetry. How this preference informed social interactions, a hug, a kiss, a glance was drained of the desire to truly connect and acknowledge – two exercises I learned to do while living in the city of my dreams. Social and public distance charted out my navigation of space and I hated it so deeply. I made the resolve that my only escape was back to Mexico. And I saw it as an escape in the direction of the fulfillment of my happiness.

This dream that still holds true and that is perhaps more mature with experience and steadfast with conviction, is one that has made many people uncomfortable and has solicited critique, and even spiritual violence, from people I deeply love and have surrounded me all my life. This violence was me denying this for myself. Retreating backward to nostalgia.

Yet everything that surrounds me at this precise, building, fleeting moment affirms that if I continue to obey an environment so unfamiliar with what i love and propels me forward, I will probably never transcend any challenge and pain. Never create of it, use my vision and love to express this experience. This life.

All of this movement and migration has liberated my spirit in such an irreparable way: it can never be undone. I can never retreat backward.

The only option, my only opportunity to continue to live and love, is to move forward. Yet, what I have recently learned is that the pain and suffering that has characterized my life for four years must now be what propels me forward.

In my past, I had refused to accept that I had to expand and deepen and express myself and my vision, to be and use what I had lived to create, to understand that this was another way of living, that it wasn’t anyone else’s say but my own, and that I had to faithfully inwardly listen to this truth. Pain because I couldn’t and was not ready to decide for myself. Pain because we are constantly told to follow the path of obedience. Because to choose sometimes means to challenge those who so desperately seek to preserve the integrity of their decisions, choosing differently means breaking away, building anew.

I will use this pain and life and ultimately love and inspiration to propel myself forward and not to oppress my decision and vision. There is only one way left to escape alienation of present day society, to retreat ahead of it. Wherever the retreat forward takes me.