Diary of a Hungry, Angry, Fat, Gay Mexican — Day 4 — “Resist”

Diary of a Hungry, Angry, Fat, Gay Mexican — Day 4 — “Resist”

Day 4

End of Protein Days

257.7 lbs.

Glucose Reading: 199

Despite booking first class, luxury passage on the Love Train yesterday, I was a bit reluctant to get out of bed this morning. Maybe it is the fear of knowing what democratic pillar #President Babyhands was going to decimate next. Perhaps it is the effects of four protein days messing with my head. I wanted to write some pithy little riff on how Lindora protein days are a privileged, overfed person’s descent into hell, but I lost the desire. Instead, I’ll let this little clip of an otter happily chowing down take its place. That’s going to be me tomorrow when I get to switch back to a regular menu of poultry, fish, vegetables and fruits again.

The notion of living in a parallel universe is starting to grow in my brain. I have these moments where the only thing I can do is shake my head. I joke to myself that all those years of reading post-apocalyptic fiction, watching nuclear war films and those dystopian epicsof yore like “Logan’s Run” and “Soylent Green” are actually going to pay off! I’m ready for whatever happens next! Then this fear grows in the pit of my slowly shrinking stomach. I have to remain and fight back the fear of letting it spread  further so I don’t just lock the door and never leave the house again. .

Today, #PresidentBabyhands basically unleashed a round of “Mextortion,” proposing a 20% tax on all Mexican imports. Comedian that I am, one thought that flashed in my mind was, “Since I am in the process of losing weight, this could be a very good thing!” But really, it is not. Crushing an economy because they won’t fund your windmill from hell, Don Quixote, is tyranny at its worst.

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Political cartoonist Lalo Alcaraz (of “La Cucaracha” fame) posted this image promoting a “California Resistance,” which is the lead photo of the diary entry. “Resist” is a powerful word for us all right now. It has taken root in my mind, from resisting the urges to consume things that can hurt me to resisting the urge to go full Howard Beale in public with rage. I can tell you this. I am losing one battle and it isn’t with food.

Restraint has never been a word I’ve been able to incorporate into my lexicon for living. Not as a kid, even less so as an adult. I am finally aware that “more” can kill. As we try to process the events of this week, more challenges will be brought to the American public in a way that will divide us and conquer other principles that must be defended to the bitter end. So, what does any of this have to do with a diet diary, you may ask? Plenty.

We are what we eat, people. And I am not going to subsist on a steady diet of lies and tyrannical chaos just because so many Americans hated having a black president for eight years. You ingest in trash food, you get toxic refuse that leaves your body in shock and prone to diseases that can kill you. The same applies to the Democratic process. We are what our elected officials represent. It is no coincidence that President Babyhands is an orange-colored menace. Cheetos are just as bad for me, too. Neither requires my attention to be healthy and strong, all the better to fight back.

#resist

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“Of spare parts and DREAM acts…” — #lavidarobot

“Of spare parts and DREAM acts…” — #lavidarobot

— With the real Oscar Vazquez and his wife Karla on the New Mexico set of “Spare Parts” in November 2013. Carlos and Alexa PenaVega portray the couple in the film, now playing.

In 2005, writer Joshua Davis penned an extraordinary article for Wired Magazine chronicling the lives of four undocumented teen boys from Arizona. What made them unique? They bested universities such as MIT and Harvard to win a robotics prize at UC Santa Barbara. Titled “La Vida Robot,” Davis’ meticulously written story of Cristian Arcega, Lorenzo Santillan, Luis Aranda and Oscar Vazquez’s journey to victory was truly the stuff of Hollywood films. A decade later, that film has arrived.

“Spare Parts” benefits from the momentum of this DREAM Act era, where the Latino voice has never been more urgent in terms of the national narrative. While the film relies on the “feel good” tropes of the underdog story, it doesn’t shy away from the fact that these “illegals” are not the enemy in this paranoid era of fear mongering and reactionary politics.

I had the privilege of meeting Davis and the real boys of Carl Hayden High, interviewing them and their cinematic counterparts for Pantelion Films. Along with producer and star George Lopez, they expressed the importance of the Latino imprint in terms of mainstream films. Not only does the film entertain, it illuminates an area still unfamiliar to many Americans.

“Spare Parts” opens in theaters this weekend, so I hope you give it a chance. In the meantime, take a moment to watch the featurette produced by Monkey Deux, Inc., edited by Steve Schmidt and Drew Friedman, for Pantelion Films.

#ICanIDid #spareparts #lavidarobot

“Yo soy más que un aparador…”

“Yo soy más que un aparador…”

Dicen que la envidia es admiración al revés.
Soy lo que soy, soy lo que ves.
Especial y único de la cabeza a los pies.
Fluyo como un pez, me sobra lucidez…

…Yo soy más que un aparador.

“Vivir con miedo es cómo vivir a medias” (Cuentos de la vida real 2)

“Vivir con miedo es cómo vivir a medias” (Cuentos de la vida real 2)

 

En ver las imágenes desde Mexico últimamente, siento una tristeza muy profunda. Se ve miedo, rabia, caos y desesperación. Ha llegado el momento de enfrentar la corrupción y violencia que ha deteriorado la imagen del país.

Vivir con miedo es inaceptable en un mundo moderno. Pero donde hay miedo si se puede encontrar esperanza y el deseo de rechazar lo que nos agobia. No pretendo comparar mis propios miedos con los que se vive en México hoy. Pero si recuerdo el poder que se realiza cuando pierdes el miedo y empiezas usar una voz alta y clara. Es lo básico de nuestro ser.

Era el año 1977 y ese verano fue el momento que terminé mi primera decada como Jorge Carreón Jr. Durante casi 10 años, me quedé con la determinación de vivir al lado izquierda del centro. Solo pensé en cultivar los intereses que eran cualquier cosa menos lo que era normal en Pico Rivera. No tenía muchos amigos, pero eso no me importaba. Quería perderme en todos los libros y películas que podía procesar antes de regresar a la primaria en el otoño. La mayoría de los niños tenían ganas de ir al parque, tomar clases de natación o tener días lánguidos en la playa. Yo quería saber más del artista moderno Andy Warhol y leer mis libros de Nancy Drew. Pero mis planes se quedaron en supsenso cuando mi papá me dijo que yo iba con él y mi hermana a visitar a su familia en el D.F.

Era como si el pusiera un alfiler en el globo de mi sueño de verano.

Así que fui, inocente al siniestro plan que mis padres habían inventado sin mí. Papá sólo tenía dos semanas de vacaciones de la fábrica. Eso significaba que junto con mi hermana, quien mantuvo la primera de una vida de secretos, tendríamos que quedarnos con nuestros familiares durante todo el verano. ¿Y cuándo llego el momento que me enteré de eso? El día que mi papá se regresó a Los Angeles sin nosotros.

Me dio una rabia feroz. Le grité. Lloré. Lo seguí a la puerta de la casa de mi tía en la mejor manera que aprendí de las telenovelas: “¡No me dejes!” Nunca se dio la vuelta. Caminó con buen paso a la puerta sin decir otra palabra más. Nunca me sentí tan lejos de mi vida real en California. Fue demasiado. Casi no hablaba el idioma. Ne dejaba de pensar: “Yo no soy mexicano. ¡Soy americano!” Pero todo mis gritos cayeron en el vacío. Estuve en esta casa sin esperanza para el resto del verano.

Pensando en este momento, me doy cuenta que no sabía ese verano con mi familia mexicana sería un regalo. ¿Cómo podría saberlo? Yo era sólo un niño. No pude ver mucho con mis ojos llenos de lágrimas. Tenía miedo de lo nuevo, de enfrentar la fuente verdadera de mi identidad: México. Nunca paramos de enfrentar lo “nuevo”. Gente, ciudades, costumbres, situaciones, todo lo que nos une como la raza humana. Fue el primero de muchos miedos que tendría que conquistar en mi vida, pero sí los conquisté.

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Tenían que pasar 37 años para entender que la vida es demasiado corta para cualquier sentido de temor. Nacer latino es obstáculo suficiente en un mundo que valora la vainilla sobre el picante. Como ya he madurado, me emociona y me preocupa ver como nuestra narrativa nacional se conforma con la comunidad hispana. Espero contribuir a esta narrativa, para que refleje lo que realmente es ser un american en 2014. No tengo mucho espacio para el miedo con el fin de lograr ese objetivo. El miedo casi me dejo mudo durante todo un verano. Pero yo tomé ese paso que me llevó a un grupo muy especial en este mundo. Me convertí en un americano bilingüe, realizando el sueño de existir dentro de dos mundos que he llegado a representar con orgullo.

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Miércoles, 24 de noviembre. Escrito y subido desde Wayne Avenue Manor en South Pasadena, CA

 

“Las hermanas coraje” or “The novela that is my life” (War is…Family, Part 2)

“Las hermanas coraje” or “The novela that is my life” (War is…Family, Part 2)

They are known as Las Hermanas Coraje, two sisters who share one wicked heart. They are a perfect storm, fueled by malice, lies and unmitigated rage. So pure is their misery, they will destroy everything in their wake, especially if it involves your being  — gasp! — happy!

The younger sister lived in her spacious, made to order home in a land known for its arid, beige privacy. She took flight to this hamlet, putting as much distance as she could between her carefully composed life and her secret shame. She didn’t want anyone to know that she came from a world of immigrants parents, homeboy relatives and an iron maiden grandmother who spoke no English.

She wasn’t “nacida corriente.” She was the Girl with Olive Skin, almost Mediterranean, if you will. She had to have the right schools, the right friends, the right life she felt was her true birthright at any cost. Her family’s economic and social status be damned. She refused the middle class nightmare sustained by a coarse but charming father who ran a carpeting business, one he ran into the ground. She’d be damned if she ever let the evils of shag carpet ruin her destiny of blond wood floors and golf trips.

She would heed the lessons of a cold, embittered mother and rise above her station in life to marry a blue-eyed savior. She would fight to wear reversible down vests, ones that could repel any signs of a past she buried.  She would never dare to love her husband or anyone else for that matter. How could she? That would require a heart. And she would never risk having a forgiving or open heart because that would make her vulnerable to the world. And vulnerable meant weak.

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The older sister was a professional spinster, a tender heart since corrupted by the toxic build up of failed relationships, duplicitous men and dreams unrealized. She just wanted to be loved, to hold the attention of those in her presence, terrified of being forgotten.

She turned to the fantasy of acting because she needed an escape from an unfeeling mother who made her feel like she was less than of a woman, but more a misguided girl. She wanted to shine in the eyes of someone as her own derisive father would joke she was better off being a nun. It was her piety that gave her strength to create the greatest role of her life after running away from the confines of a crumbling family unit.

She would see the world through a camera lens, documenting world history by joining the military. But when she came home, she discovered that she still couldn’t stand center stage. She remained a bit player, despite her many accomplishments.  She was still being overshadowed by most members of her family. How ironic that she would foster a career of bit parts that mirrored aspects of her real life.

She had become a punchline for late night television, walking on as a maid, a role her own mother took on after the family hit a financial skid. The older sister couldn’t overcome being part the background, toiling as a glorified extra on daytime soap operas, always hungry for a chance to be on the other side of a camera. She created the illusion of honing her craft. Yet, what she was really doing was stewing in the juices of bubbling discontent, waiting for the moment to unleash her most God-less self against a world that refused to acknowledge she existed.

INTO THE WOODS

Caught in between these desperate women was the older brother who strived to be a duplicate of the man whose name he carried. He existed as a text book case of arrested development. He may have inherited his father’s desire to tell a story, yet he did so with none of the macho swagger and charm that made Dad a legend within the family.

Despite his broad build, he swayed under the weight of his father’s legacy. He dreamed of a house by the sea, of an idealized singleton life and national media attention. Yet despite his being humbled by the racial politics of his career, he settled for an idealized, yet ultimately carbon copy of his parents’ life. The house by the sea was decidedly inland and he was marooned by his own inability to mature. Even cats called him a pussy. This was a man who chose being kept by his mother and sisters from evolving into manhood in the name of protecting the peace.. and his own sanity. They carried his balls in their sensible bags and he did nothing to get them back.

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These are the major players. These are the central roles in a drama that unfolds with increasing venom and selfishness. Am I embellishing any of this? That’s for me to know. But I have no interest in protecting the innocent as they are anything but deserving of protection at this point. I have been struggling to find a way to unburden myself of how I feel about my family of late. Not my immediate family, my extended family. Tough times are being experienced by the people I care about. We have reached an age where we are losing people closest to us. Cancer. Alzheimer’s. Age. Mothers. Fathers. Brothers. Sisters. Uncles. Aunts. Cousins. Everyone I love. Life and death are happening to all of us and these assholes are actually fighting for screen time?

I’ve stopped and started this blog post so many times. I was just too angry to write and I never intended to turn this into a burn book. But, I hate having to reaffirm the reality that people genuinely suck. And nothing feels worse than having that validated by the people you call your “family.” Some of these people are just cartoon characters to me, variations of the wicked stepsisters or, more appropriately, the screeching viragos found in the Mexican telenovela.

If I close my eyes hard enough, I can see the humor of what we are living out these days. I see the wicked machinations of a Robin Wright in “House of Cards” or a Joan Collins in “Dynasty.” I have always praised such calculated deviousness as the best in high art or Nolan Miller-dressed camp. But when it is happening in real life to people you know, suddenly having a Lady Macbeth or a Soraya Montenegro in your midst is both sad, enraging and mystifying all at once.

In this week’s episodes, las hermanas y hermano Coraje wanted to make sure they aren’t lost in the swell of emotion as their aunt bravely fights cancer. One marriage is in trouble and they have taken to broadcasting their malice in the most extraordinary way. Hermano C, who during a brief visit to see his dying tia, makes sure to tell his grief-stricken tio that he’s disappointed she’s chosen the side of his soon-to-be estranged wife?

Really.

It isn’t that any of us is choosing sides. It is our reaction to his actually pulling focus away from the gravity of our aunt’s situation. What is appalling and what is so disappointing is: 1) the manner in which he’s chosen to handle his failing marriage, and, 2) the fact that he thinks this is the time to issue ultimatums on family loyalty. What. The. Fuck!

Meanwhile, las hermanas are in the background, stirring the pot like the witches that appear at the opening of Shakespeare’s Macbeth. They have sprung from a special hell to unload the same message of enforced distancing to their nieces, who are also their goddaughters. All I can do is shake my head over their recent phone calls, peppered with such overripe novela dialogue as, “I choose to have only positive energy around me now!” or “I’m cutting out the negative people in my life!”  Again, how is it you can make such calls, which were supposedly made in the name of support, only to turn the entire conversation around to focus on you and your needs? All while your nieces’ mother is fighting for her life in the next room?!?

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But the worst part of this? The B plot, where las hermanas Coraje maneuver and plot the destruction of their brother’s marriage. This is where my cousin in-law needs to take a page from the Katie Holmes Playbook. Lord knows La Prima Coraje has been trying to repair whatever damage has been caused by her union with the Ball Less Wonder. But with the sisters Grimm making sure every avenue is razed, La Prima Coraje is running out of reasons to stay. Don’t miss this episode recap, where the younger Hermana Coraje (with her frigid husband in tow) take Hermano C to a divorce lawyer without his wife’s knowledge! Oh, and you’ll thrill to the cameo appearance of the elder Hermana Coraje, who makes sure to phone in to this pow wow so she can contribute her thoughts via speaker! (And, wait until you see the scenes for next week, when las hermanas counsel their hermano to, yes, text his ex-girlfriends.

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As one side of my family prepares itself for the loss of a parent, the other side of the same family is enduring the loss of their compassion and sanity. Somewhere in all of this, my immediate family is in the middle. Apparently they are dwelling on how everyone is choosing sides now, a state of affairs the saddens me to no end. Because it didn’t have to turn into this. From the conversations that I’ve had with my younger cousins, who are also my goddaughters, it appears we are part of the problem for being “negative people.”

I have run all of this information in my mind without pause. And I think I understand why Los Coraje feel the way they do. It isn’t the negative that they want to excise. It is the fact that we represent the truth about who they are, of their humble, complex origins. They are terrified that we will expose them. As if we would dare to pull the curtain on their Oz-like fantasy. Don’t they realize we don’t care about the positions they hold in this world? If they stopped to think about it, we are actually proud over how they took negative circumstances and turned them into positives. But they are hell bent in keeping up appearances, surrounding themselves with people who only feed their delusion. Syncophants, yes people, minions who do their bidding because that’s the way they’ve always lived their tragic, small, human lives.

I know we can be a very meddlesome unit. I don’t know how it is in your family, but mine can be a smidge overwhelming. Everyone has an opinion and it doesn’t matter the topic, either. From the outside, it can appear that we are rather antagonistic. Plenty of button pushing goes on this group, but there’s never any malicious intent. I like to think my parents created a tribe of too many chiefs and not enough indians, but that’s another story.

We are not always acting at fever pitch, screaming, “Sergio! Sueltame! Esta es mi hacienda!” or “Largase de aqui, babosa!” or “Vieja zorra! Te voy a dar una paliza que nunca vas a olvidar!” We have never resorted to pulling hair, slapping each other silly or plotting to destroy the Carrington family once and for all. Apparently, some of us do see the world in such terms. But my extended family has turned what should have been a defining moment into something that trivializes their humanity in the process. Here the sins of their parents have been internalized and manifested into something beyond cruel and narcissistic.

We will never know the truth behind any one family’s dysfunction. But I know enough of their complicated family history to postulate my own hypothesis. They are the perfect Orwellian family in that they have perfected their abilities to maintain a revisionist history. They have invested so much of their emotional energy in keeping up appearances, they really can’t discern between truth and lies anymore.

Is it my place to put all of this down in black and white? No, but I’m doing it anyway. I have always been the one to defend them, to not let the animosity boil over, to try and meet them halfway. But I can’t do it anymore. When you say the word “family” in the Latino context, it encompasses a large number of people. Several of my white friends have to remind themselves of that whenever I start a sentence, “My family is…” I still see them as my family, even with this line drawn across the sand.

They can declare that we are all just jealous and envious of their material lives. Yet, they can’t ignore the facts. My father helped them when their father needed assistance. My uncle took them in when they had nowhere else to go, offering shelter at great sacrifice to his own family. We were there when their father died without fail or judgment. We were there when their grandmother died, a woman who either ignored us or kept us at arm’s length when we were children. I delivered her eulogy, even though my own heart was conflicted. Why would we as jealous or envious people EVER take such steps to help them? Yet, the damage is done. All that self-editing has taken a personal angle. We are being erased, too.

I can list so much more, but I won’t. It doesn’t matter. They’d deny it anyway. I have already validated their perceptions of being negative at this point. We’ve lost them, probably for good this time. But I don’t want any of us to forget what made this entire family split in two, especially them. All we can do now is accept the terms of the dissolution, move on and stop these ridiculous confrontations. No one is going to win. There are no spoils to reap. We are going to lose something that is going to matter in the end. The question is who will be the ones strong enough to stand in the middle again because you know how life can be. Sooner or later, they will need us. And I am certain some, not all, will be there to lend them a hand.

We all need a moment to step and back see the big picture. We are losing one of our own in the most awful way as cancer doesn’t give a shit if the family is fighting. We were supposed to be better than this. Better than our parents. Better than the dominant culture that has warped our basic values and morals. Just better, period. Instead we have turned ourselves into something so shameful.

Being part of a strong family is such a gift. I couldn’t survive this world without my family, here and in Mexico. They are my reason to live. Because that is how I have been raised. My siblings and I may have our moments, but we’ve never plotted against each other.  But let’s just say, we may need to do some rewrites, too.

In the meantime, I am going to ponder how these days will affect the next generations. That’s going to be interesting, how the children of the Corajes will grow up after witnessing their parents’ own sizzling narratives. I already have my bag of popcorn ready, because you know it’s going to be good.

“Los hijos de los hermanos coraje,” coming soon.

Written, produced and posted from Wayne Ave. Manor in South Pasadena, CA

War is…family.

War is…family.

All happy families are alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.

— Leo Tolstoy

I am writing out of pure emotion right now. I may have reason to regret the public airing of my own state, so I won’t mention names. Nor will I draw attention to specific details. I just don’t want to feel this anger anymore.

It is not acceptable to say, “I don’t care” or “Fuck them.”  But I am pissed. So pissed. Angry over how family history is repeating itself. Furious that the middle generation of cousins and siblings have let a situation escalate to a crisis point. Now we have factions. Now we have “sides.”

It wasn’t supposed to be this way. As children, we saw what happened when pride and spite created a divide large enough we didn’t see each other for years.

Bearing a grudge is such low hanging fruit to me. But amazing how it nourished some of our kin with its attractive pettiness. We gained nothing from this period. We only lost something that could have been so wonderful. Was it a misunderstanding? Was it jealousy? I just remember hearing the anger pour forth from people that we loved and supposedly loved us back. I was under our dining room table, scared and surprised over what was happening. A door slammed that day, one that didn’t open again until I was in high school.

Now, I realize the long term effects of that horrible day. Not only did we gain the knowledge on how to stir the pot, we learned how to scorch the entire set. And I worry there is no repair this time. That pride and spite have returned in worse forms. Even more, I can’t help but think that the increasing visibility of our anger is paving the way for the grandchildren to take up the cause.

“Family quarrels are bitter things. They don’t go according to any rules. They’re not like aches or wounds, they’re more like splits in the skin that won’t heal because there’s not enough material.”– F. Scott Fitzgerald

Do we even know what “the fight” is about anymore? If we have a conflict without context, then who really “wins?” We are aware multiple perspectives and truths are required to create a complete narrative. I know a lot of information is missing here. I have so many questions, yet I know I may never get the answers in return. How can one person’s rage be held so long? Why would anyone desire to create misery? To assuage their own guilt? To remedy what they feel has been denied them?

If all of this adds up to them saying, “Fuck you! I want nothing to do with you anymore,” then say so. I would respect that. At least it is a declarative sentence. It is the resolution of this ridiculous conflict and we can all move on with our lives. But as long as it remains a game of chess, of moves and countermoves driven by smugness then the silences, it will only add further layers of confusion and emotion. Or, as in my case, a chance to remedy it by finally speaking up.

People know I can’t leave things alone. I need a resolution. I firmly believe in the innate good that exists in us all, especially within a family. If we let any one member walk away without a fight, we stand to lose so much, especially when we are dealing with only wounded pride. That’s what fuels this entire conflict. Hurt feelings and what appears to be misplaced blame. Guess what? We are ALL to blame here.

What is saddening me even more is how this toxic cloud of shit has spread into other areas of the family.

No family member should ever wield enough power to become a horseman of the apocalypse against their own sibling. No one parent should allow their children to hurl brutal recriminations for sport. It’s like a deep rooted scab that’s been pulled because there was nothing else to do that day. Is it possible that we confuse ripping each other apart as being a sign that we truly do care about each other?

I realize that families aren’t perfect. I’ve joked that I like stories that put the “fun” in “dysfunction.” And maybe, there is an element of my own frustrated writer at play here, though some think I am overreacting. I know I’m the last one to even give a shit. And phrases like mosquita muerta or la cara de yo no fue are not funny to me anymore.

What motivated this rant is knowing we are losing one of our most treasured family members to cancer. Fucking cancer! That’s real life and death at its purest and most enraging. How can we allow for any family wars when we are already faced with a casualty? And believe me, there will be consequences to this loss. And there isn’t time to get in those last power plays to make a point, either.

Since I first started to read, no other narrative has resonated with me more than that of the family. From novels to novelas, you can be cradled and nurtured in its bosom or you can wither under its fire-breathing rage. It should be so harmonious, this grouping of genetics. Most of us are brought into this world to represent a legacy of good. It is not just the end result of procreation. It is the want to leave something better behind, to make up for whatever didn’t go right when our parents were young.

Maybe I’m still a child in wanting things to better, naive to think that any of this sound and fury will go heeded. Is it a written tantrum? Perhaps. But there is so much air to clear now. No one has bothered to sit down and try to reconcile, negotiate a truce, remedy the hurt. No one.

I didn’t grow up with grandparents. But I grew up with a history, one that embraces two cultures. Ours is a narrative that understands loss and hardship, like so many other families through the ages. Our hurt is not the first to be felt, nor will it be the last. But I have always taken solace that I am part of something so powerful and ageless. Dammit, I know we weren’t put on this Earth to destroy! So many of us have opted for lives where we can create, whether by having children or simply maintaining a blog as a record of who we were in this life.

Now, life is claiming those we love and need so much of late. Once all the members of the group give up, can anything ever go back to “normal?” I don’t want “normal,” that wouldn’t be “us.” I just want to know we will endure, that we will emerge united and stronger than ever. That we broke this horrible cycle once and for all.

I don’t give a shit if the world implodes on itself. I only care that we will stand together, as a family, when it does.

“Call it a clan, call it a network, call it a tribe, call it a family: Whatever you call it, whoever you are, you need one.”– Jane Howard

Tuesday, September 23. Written and posted from Wayne Avenue Manor in South Pasadena. CA

“Finalmente, el MediaJor sí tiene quien le escriba” — (Dias 30 y 31)

“Finalmente, el MediaJor sí tiene quien le escriba” — (Dias 30 y 31)

“Muchas veces las crisis se ven como algo muy negativo, y con mucho miedo. Y al final, la palabra crisis es sinónimo de cambio, de transformación, de limpieza, de quitar telarañas, de quitar vicios adquiridos, y reformular, reconstruir.¨ — Pucho, Vetusta Morla

Desde la noche de la ultima parranda en Salamanca, tengo días de estar tragando cada pedazo de comida como si fuera limosna. De Salamanca a Barcelona y el regreso, desde Madrid hasta Nueva York y Los Angeles comía mis sentimientos para aliviar el remordimiento de salirme de España. Pero todo tiene su final, como el tema de este serie de blogs. Por fin ha llegado el momento de escribir el ultimo capitulo de mi aventura en Salamanca – y lo tenia que escribirlo en español.
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Puede ser el “jet lag” esta jugando un poco con mis sentimientos. Dure como 15 minutos en mi escala en JFK cuando la ansiedad me pego bien fuerte. Estuve de nuevo en el pecho mi país maternal y me sentí como el hijo recién llegado de un conflicto. Pero la experiencia de Salamanca y el resto de España no era conflicto. Era un reencuentro con cosas que valoro con tanto de mi ser. Pienso en detalles de la vida real, cosas tan substantivas son como el pan fresco que Manoli nos daba con cada comida.

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Se que tengo que vivir estos próximo días en una manera muy tranquila y no romantizar lo que me ocurrió en España. Pero como puedo regresar a mi vida normal cuando pienso en:

  • Los comentarios de Manoli cuando comimos todos juntos, incluso los de Brianna y Krystal porque fuimos una familia
  • Los dichos de Manoli como: “Lo que escupes al aire te va caer y lo tragaras”
  • Los opiniones de estrellas del cine americana: “Julia Roberts tiene una boca como la Plaza de Toros
  • Sus sopas de alubias, lentejas y su preocupación con la frescura de la fruta que compraba de la vecina.
  • ¡La tortilla española!
  • La voces claras y dulces de sus nietos
  • Escuchando las risas autenticas de Krystal y Brianna cada día sobre nuestras experiencias y vidas
  • La mujer en El Corte Inglés quien sacó su móvil de su sujetador cuando pagaba el saldo.
  • El taxista de Barcelona que soñaba en visitar Los Angeles.
  • Cenando en Chueca y charlando con Montse, una noche tan divertida que perdí el tren.
  • Las mañanas caminando por la Plaza Mayor en Salamanca.
  • Mis cafecitos en la cafetería de la Pontificia.
  • Las manías de mis profesores con “Los chinos” en la Pontificia. (Y no en una manera negativa.)
  • Las diferencias entre el castellano y el español de Latino América. Como dijo Palmira, el futuro de español no esta en España. El desarrollo del idioma será controlado por el oeste, los Latinoamericanos.
  • Los sentidos de humor y respeto que encontré con Palmira, quien realizo un ambiente segura y autentica durante nuestras charlas reveladoras en la clase de conversación.
  • El amor intenso de Dr. María José Boyero cuando hablaba de gramática y literatura que me dio animo para vivir de nuevo.
  • Samuel, la sorpresa y, al final, el regalo de España.

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No es cuestión de visitar un país para conocer su gente. Tienes que vivirlo con ellos. Tienes que vivir sus tradiciones, compartir su comida como su cultura. Así puedes sentir el apego que existe cuando entiendes que eres parte de cosas tan cuotidianas, se sienten como si siempre eran parte de tu vida desde el principio.

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Creo que las consecuencias de este viaje a España tendrán efectos no voy a reconocer inmediatamente. Pueden llegar hasta el fin de esta semana. Puede ser al final del año o nunca. Tengo tantas emociones que quiero expresar en este momento. Siente como una corriente eléctrica sin rumbo. No puedo salir de este país tan bello sin decir algo. Este mes era dedicada al estudio de gramática y literatura. Sería una tontería en no ofrecer un “blog” escrito en español. Yo sé que voy a cometer muchos errores. Solo te pido disculpa. (¡Te juro que mis calificaciones de ser “sobresaliente” no fue broma!) Como mis razones en tener esta aventura tan inolvidable y transformativa, pienso la sinceridad de esta nota será bastante. Como las lunas escritas por el autor mexicano Juan Rulfo, tú eres mi lector y testigo a una vida singular.

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Soy americano, de primera generación. No nací como hispanohablante, me convertí durante mi colegiatura. Sentía una pena tan enorme, a veces soñaba de una vida diferente donde el mundo me llamaba ¨George” y no ¨Jorge.¨ Que falta de respeto porque llevo el nombre de mi padre. Pero el disgusto que sentía por dentro era como un purgatorio. Mi identidad era falsa, manipulada por la cultura dominante de los Estados Unidos. Este rechazo de mis raíces mexicanas no era algo tan raro. La fuerza de la cultura americana contiene elementos que no son basadas en la naturaleza. Sino son algo de ciencia ficción, realizadas en un laboratorio oscuro e insidiosa. Pienso en el doctor Frankenstein, revolcado por una locura en dominar todo el mundo sin pensar en las consecuencias.

Muchos compran lo que está vendiendo los Frankensteins de los medios, la publicidad, el gobierno, todos. No juzgo los que no pueden rechazar la mentira de valorar el sueño americano. No juzgo los que confunden ignorancia con nacionalismo. Solo juzgo los que piensan que no importa mantener dos identidades. Lo que se gana en ser bilingüe, esta mezcla cultural sobresale saber otra idioma. Es mantener lo bueno de ser humano. Es la ingrediente especial que realiza una receta tan poderosa y incomparable a lo resto.

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“Well, we wish we were happier, thinner and fitter,

We wish we weren’t losers and liars and quitters

We want something more not just nasty and bitter

We want something real not just hash tags and Twitter

It’s the meaning of life and it’s streamed live on YouTube

But I bet Gangnam Style will still get more views

We’re scared of drowning, flying and shooters

But we’re all slowly dying in front of fucking computers…”

From “Scare Away the Dark” by Passgener (Michael David Rosenberg)

Como me han sorprendido mis amigos – mis lectores — por su apoyo y sus reacciones a las Confesiones de este mes. Mis observaciones han llevado a algunos comentarios interesantes, añadiendo más leña al fuego de mi deseo de liberarme de las redes sociales. La ironía es que ninguno de estos Confesiones habría alcanzado a nadie si no fuera por Facebook. Un dilema, ¿no?

Al final, no importa cómo se registraron mis pequeños terremotos del alma. Lo que sí sé con certeza es que expresé lo que tenía que expresar sobre este viaje. Para aquellos que leyeron todo y también ofrecieron un comentado con interés, te doy las gracias por la creación de un diálogo. Eso es lo que significa ser una comunidad, compartiendo ideas y teniendo en cuenta el discurso para darles forma a algo profundo y útil.

Esta conexión era real. No creo si no evolucionamos, nos convertiremos extinta porque no somos relevantes si no tenemos “followers” o un mogollón de “likes.” No necesito la validación que proviene de un botón, porque quiero que me lo dices en persona. Ya que son palabras de apoyo o un “cállate la boca”, se trasladaron a sentir algo tan fuerte seria una pena no hablar.

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Esto puede ser una generación que piensa el iCloud esta llena de lo importante, pero tengo noticias para ellos. Imagínense un momento cuando todas las luces se apagan y no se puede subir cada imagen de tu narcisismo. ¿Dejaras de existir? Sócrates tenía muchos seguidores, sin necesidad de Twitter y dio forma al mundo en los siglos venideros. Así lo hizo Jesucristo. Ellos no tienen que cargar sus teorías o ideologías. Ellos sabían cómo hablar con la gente, cara a cara, y la gente escuchaba.

Eso es todo lo que necesitamos hacer. No temer a nuestra propia voz o la reacción. Lo importante es hablar y cuestionar y compartir. Para poner una cara a todo. Es curioso, yo no pensé que tenía que ir al otro lado del Atlántico para conectarme con personas totalmente desconocidas y sentirse parte de la raza humana de nuevo. Pero lo que es una maravilla para sentarme y hablar con la gente que vive con ganas de ser escuchados. Qué sensación es el privilegio de sentarse en un aula y tener conversaciones reales, compartir ideas y experiencias. Y en un idioma diferente, joder!

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Temo que mantener este impulso será duro de nuevo en Los Ángeles, al igual que los muchos planes de dieta que he luchado para mantener durante años. ¿Es justo decir que tengo un cerebro sin grasa? ¿Que si soy capaz de derramé de todo el exceso de peso provocada por años de ser parte de la cultura de consumo de la Nación de comida chatarra y información de relámpago y conjetura?

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Lo que he perdido no tengo ninguna razón para encontrar o querer otra vez. Lo que he ganado es todo lo que necesito en saber como afrontar el futuro. Tengo mi maleta y mi pasaporte listo para ir, por si acaso. Gracias España. No puedo esperar para ver a dónde voy a ir después. Tengo México en mi sangre porque mi familia Mexicana es algo que me da fuerza y valor en este mundo. Pero España siempre estará en mi corazón porque ahora representa esperanza, amor…y vida.

Hasta luego.

Martes, 29 de julio. Escrito en Barcelona, Salamanca, Madrid y South Pasadena. Subido desde Wayne Avenue Manor.