Mexico City: Metro Meditations

unnamed-2
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.

Advertisements

Tláloc destroys Mexico City

qqqq

Las lluvias fuertes que nos enviaba Tláloc finalmente lograron derrubar el piso de pierda volcánica.

El gigante hueco, que en algún momento fue el Zócalo se expande cada vez más, devorando la corrupción, arrogancia, el racismo, y todas esas estúpidas sucursales Starbucks. Se borra sobre la faz de esta ciudad la banalidad que le impuso el neoliberalismo, se aniquila la estratificación de clases en la urbe, y se elimina la desigualdad por que Tlalóc de una ves por todas elimina la ciudad.

Ni queda el lecho del lago, la pierda volcánica, solo vacío. Al final, solo así logramos deshacernos de una violenta desigualdad de nuestra propia creación. Valió la pena rogarle tanto a Tláloc, a ver si podemos empezar de nuevo, a ver si no la cagamos.

Todo aquello me lo imagino mientras voy sentada en un Metrobus que ha estado inmóvil en el cruce de Insurgentes y Baja California por diez minutos. Diez minutos.

Cuando llueve así de fuerte como llovió hace dos horas todo se vuelve una mierda. A mi me encanta la lluvia tanto como me asusta, ver como azota contra sombrillas con una violencia milenaria, haciéndome pensar que Tlalóc  esta disgustado (quien no, con un mundo donde los Trumps y Peña Nietos son dueños del poder mediático y político).

Me encanta la lluvia, y a pesar de que mis jellies queden empapados y la sombrilla rota, estoy agradecida con Tlalóc por que nos bendice con caos, que es vida. Y me pongo a contemplar si algún día la naturaleza ejerce todo su poder de destrucción contra nosotros, contra esta ciudad monstruosa, qué sucediera.

¿Por dónde volveríamos a empezar? ¿Construiríamos lo mismo? Nunca me arrastraría del cráter si eso significaba vivir en un mundo lleno de Starbucks.

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.

Mexico City: Mujer, amante del punk y delirio

no-hay-que-olvidar-a-las-mujeres-del-punk-britanico-que-le-abrieron-paso-a-riot-grrrl-body-image-1429206252

Alistándonos para salir de fiesta, tomando mezcal, The Cramps resonando por todo el depa. A dies minutos para la media noche, la ciudad nos apresura, le damos fondo a nuestras bebidas mágicas y vamos rumbo a alcanzar el último metro que nos llevará a las pistas ultravioletas infundidas de punk.

Ser jóven y amante del punk y todos sus derivados, de querer y poder bailar sin importarte en lo minimo quien o que te rodea — hombre, muxer, chavx, fresa, goth y todo lo que cabe en medio: bailamos. Entrega completa al fuzz de la guitarra y hondura del bajo, a la desesperación de las batacas y el delirio colectivo de cuerpos aplastando, empujando, moviéndose.

Ser mujer, amante del punk y delirio, y vivir en el DF. Las desveladas, los slams, lxs amigxs nuevos y las pistas de baile, innumerables como las botellas vacías de jumex y tequila. Memorias derramadas y esfumadas en calles sin nombre. Nada se compara a los slams de surf y garage punk de mis favoritas bandas rápidas frenéticas y chilangas. A los círculos de chavos banda chocándose enérgicamente en el corazón de Iztapalapa. A bailar rodeada de gente que dicta su movimiento colectivo a una música subversiva y alucinante.

Fui chavita, amante de punk por primera vez en la secundaria. Los CDs de The Clash de mi hermana y mi primer novio, que me dio la credibilidad necesaria para asistir a tokines en el barrio de Los Ángeles, me iniciaron en un viaje irreversible.

Avanzamos ocho años, surgiendo del metro Niños Heroes, cruzando Jardin Pushkin y reviviendo mi amor por el delirio musicalizado en la pista del MultiForo Alicia. Al llegar, agotó mi energía bailando al compas del caos. Y cuando los efectos de mi última chela se desvanece de mi cuerpo, bailo totalmente sobria, alentada por una energía inagotable, espíritu agitándose, ojos entrecerrados, cuerpo y alma libre.

Mandar a un chavo dos veces mi tamaño volando a través del slam. Pierdo los aretes, rompo mi reloj, me tumban me revuelco me levantan del suelo, delineador y pelo hecho desmadre.

Amante del caos, del desmadre, bailar, perder y encontrarme en el centro de la pista de baile, soltarlo todo.

El punk en la ciudad de México me hace mujer libre, loca, y delirante. La mujer combativa que siempre he sido.

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.

Mexico City: Añoranza

10703910_10205035336065891_8511841651445369502_o

¿Como nombrar este sentimiento que me paraliza de tristeza al contemplar sus amaneceres desde la memoria? ¿Qué es esto que me agobia de desesperanza de cerrar los ojos para abrirlos y encontrarme parada a la altura de uno de sus innumerables cerros, a la altura de todo su caos? ¿Qué es esto lo que siento, qué es esto que me a afligido por cuatro largos, hermosos, increíbles, dolorosos años?

¿Como y porqué nombrarlo?

Este amor, este sufrimiento, es el principio y fin de mucha poesía, mucho silencio, mucho mal entendimiento. Fuente inagotable de inspiración y principal tema de debate. Con el fin de racionalizar la poesía, de teorizar acerca del laberinto que es el corazón, me entorpezco con sentimiento, con nostalgia, con añoranza.

Lo que sufro, siento y no pienso, es la poesía encarnada y sollozada. Evidencia de que he sentido un amor inigualable. Que por haber partido por primera vez hace cuatro años, estoy conectada eterna e ineludiblemente con la ciudad. La partida, la ruptura en pleno amor, justo en los más intensos y hermosos momentos, cuando duele más. Cuando es imposible regresar.

Si me hubiera quedado…si hubiera vivido, amado, habitado la ciudad ininterrumpidamente, ¿hubiera bastado el tiempo? ¿me hubiera sentido plena de amor, satisfecha de sentir?

Pero me fui. Y siento. añoro. amo.

Nunca dejare de extrañarla. Nunca dejaré de pensar en ella cuando me encuentre muy lejos. Pese a una felicidad distinta inspirada por otros lugares, pese a la tranquilidad meditada, pese a la sabiduría de los tropiezos, de las distancias, del amor. Nunca.

Siempre me va a doler no estar allí. Siempre me va a doler aunque regrese. Siempre.