Neither jet lagged nor content

My friend's grandfather passed away on Oct 14th. His name was Fernando. He turned one hundred this past summer and wore a magenta bow tie for his birthday party. My friend took a picture of him and posted it on Facebook. She got 45 likes, including one from me. Fernando and my friend Kim are from The Philippines, a country that even though it's practically across the world from Venezuela, they still share many traditions and language. Hell, we even share curse words. Colonization, huh?

The minute Kim heard about her grandfather, she booked a ticket and was home by lunchtime the next day. In the Philippines (similar to Venezuela), it is customary to mourn a loved one for seven days after burying him. The family gets together, prays, celebrates the life of their deceased and finally says goodbye in a ceremony with a family priest. My friend came back exactly a week after, jet lagged but content.

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My grandmother passed away on Nov. 5th, a little over two weeks after Fernando. She was 73 and suffered from Progressive Supranuclear Palsy syndrome, a degenerative disease that little by little killed parts of her brain.

I remember my grandmother being (well, the way I've decided to remember her) a stern, stubborn, independent single mother who raised two kids. She was a stern, stubborn grandmother as well, who adored me, even if I often miss it. Miss Julieta was a middle school teacher who worked for 20 something years until retirement. She divorced my grandfather and never remarried. She followed and threw rocks at my grandfather new wife's car, when she first heard of "that whore" (her words, not mine). She used to cook deliciously and knit like a pro. She was impecable, always cleaning after everyone, to the point of foolishness. She loved gardening: she took care of her plants with the tender only a grandmother could have. A loyal customer to the beauty salon she visited once a week, every week.

Even though we fought constantly, she was the only one willing to pick me up for years every damn day from school to swimming practice. She would stay, sitting down reading the newspaper, knitting or simply thinking, making sure I had a dry towel to warm me after my late night practices. She always hold my changing room, albeit my towel, while I put my clothes on in the common area along with everybody else. I acquired a great sense of balance during those years. As soon as my body started to get awkward, I decided I was old enough to change in the bathrooms and use my towel only for drying purposes, just as the older girls did. That very day, I slipped and hit my forehead with the edge of the toilet. I ran towards her, wet her clothes, and probably permanently stained them as I crawled to her arms, scared from the blood coming from my left eyebrow. I got two stitches from the doctor and a lollipop from her.

She lived in a four bedroom, three bathroom apartment, perfectly sized for her. One of the bedrooms was dedicated for her sewing and knitting. She hand-made my First Communion dress in that very room. It took her no less than three months to finish it. My mom has always been on a budget and my religious grandmother was pleased with the idea of making my dress. It worked out perfectly: my mom saved a few bucks and my grandmother had a project to work on. It all worked out, except for me of course. I remember I hated the dress. It didn't look as pretty as my other friends' dresses. It looked sloppy and unfinished. The love and dedication invested in that dress don't count when I am next to my friends taking pictures - they don't count at all, I muttered, in response to my mom's "be grateful." She would have made my graduation dress if it weren't for my teenage stubbornness. I made my case and persuade her to go to a professional. I turned to a Portuguese lady whom I never trusted. Not that I needed to trust her, but I just never did. The final dress looked sloppy and unfinished as well, only that this time there was no love or dedication to excuse it.

She also baked most of my birthday cakes. It's probably her fault that I only like homemade cakes, cookies and such. Bakery ones taste like plastic and frozen berries. She had recipes for every occasion and she was the one in charge of preparing our typical Venezuelan Christmas food. Our Hallacas are so intricate that there's usually only one member in the family who learns how to make them. The chosen one is in charge of passing on the recipe and skill to the next generation chosen one. The rest, well, we do whatever we are put to do. I usually brushed the end product with an oily orange substance and called it a day. I'm pretty sure now that my grandmother added that last step for my own personal liking.

During the weekends she called to my house constantly - twice, one around 10AM and then another around 6PM. I usually let it rang. I knew it was her, but I didn't want to pick up. She always asked the same questions: how was your day, did you eat well, brush your teeth (that last one was more of a command than a question). She didn't understand I would always have the same three answers: it went well, I ate okay, I did that already. So, she often talked to Guigui, my nanny, my mom's nanny and my grandmother's best friend, and Guigui passed the message along: your grandmother asked how was your day, if you ate well and to brush your teeth.

She was the one who made my mom and  I go to church every other Sunday. Neither of us liked it and both of us got bored during the liturgies of the word. Glory to you, Lord, yeah. I stopped going when my grandmother finally decided to give up (I was 14). Whenever we went to her place, I turned on the TV in her room and turned it off only when we were leaving. Did nothing else, cared about nothing else.

Gosh, I'm a terrible person.

-----------

Her Progressive Supranuclear Palsy syndrome was diagnosed a couple of months before I came to the United States. When I was 15 she was mistakenly diagnosed with Parkinson disease. She had two symptoms: her right hand trembled sometimes and her cervical was remarkably tense. Apparently, that was enough to medicate her with extremely invasive drugs. For two years nobody cared to get a second opinion or anything. I guess she liked the sound of it: "I have Parkinson disease, so excuse me," she would say in order to cut the line in the bank. It was until my mom got us into a new insurance program, that the diagnosis was questioned. But don't panic. According to the new (better qualified) doctor, her body was so damn strong that her nervous system was able to resist most of the invasive treatment. However, the little that got through... got through well.

---------

I was not able to go home last Christmas, meaning I didn't get to see her for an entire year, during which time her condition took away the sternness, stubbornness and independence she was known for. Last summer I came back and saw her for the first time in 365 days. I felt as if a tiny, invisible-to-everyone-else bomb went off inside me, exactly in between my two lungs. I felt like a volcano about to erupt tears, breakfast, guilt, panic, my entire stomach and digestive system. Have you ever seen Requiem For A Dream? It's one of those movies that make you progressively get into a fetal position and make you rethink life. Humans adapt to a fetal position whenever they want to prevent further trauma. The director carefully filmed the entire movie without showing any type of ceilings, sky or space to look for air. He wanted to make his viewers feel trapped, and oh boy he did. My grandmother looked like the addicted to diet pills version of Sara Goldfarb, right before being forced to go under treatment in a psychiatric facility. Miss Julieta looked fragile and incapable of doing the tiniest things, like smile or hold a glass of water.

Has it been only one year?

My first communion photos were under a layer of dust and oblivion.
The kitchen was barely in use.
The plants were gone.
The sewing, knitting room became an office for my uncle.
The woman that did her hair once week, every week called to the house asking if she had changed salons. Where is Mrs. Julieta?

Where was she, Doris, I don't know.

------

During Kim's grandfather funeral, the priest asked everyone to look at Fernando's plaque and find the most significant part. His name? His birth year? The place where the ceremony was taking place?

The priest, Fernando's dear friend, explained that the dash in between the year 1913 and 2013, that little punctuation mark we use to denote a break in a sentence or simply to indicate differentiation, was the most significant part, as it represented his lifetime. What he loved, dreamt, thought, did, laughed, shared during a CENTURY was bundle up in that single little dash.

---------

My grandmother died in the dawn of November 5th, 2013.
My mom Skype called me that morning, but I was asleep. She sent me a text message, thing that only happens when she gets worried I'm not answering her calls (she then proceeds to call Clark University, my advisor, my students account person, my friend Dominique and my ex boyfriend Diego). I didn't call her after waking up, I wanted to work out. But something about her text, no exclamation point peeking worrisome, no dot hinting anger made me called her... right after my workout of course.

She was cremated the very next day, even though I'm pretty sure she would have hated being cremated. I wasn't able to book a ticket to go say bye; I had no time to plan or money to afford the ticket. I didn't teared down, like Kim did. I didn't feel a tiny invisible-to-everyone-else bomb going off in between my two lungs, as I did months ago. Maybe I was relieved, glad that she's no longer here to witness the decay of her apartment, of herself. Maybe I'm glad she's no longer here for reasons I'm not prepared to discuss, much less admit. Maybe later. Maybe never.

All I know is that, unlike Fernando, Miss Julieta doesn't have a dash to signify her lifetime but a vase sitting in our living room. All I know is that I will have to turn to the Portuguese lady again to make my wedding dress and that there's no one in my family that knows the secret behind her famous Hallacas. All I know is that, unlike Kim, I'm neither jet lagged nor content.

2013, Part I: Iced-Chai Latte

2013 was the year I discovered Chai. Masala chai is a flavored tea made by brewing black tea with other Indian spices and herbs. Although the combination of those spices and herbs varies across borders, its smell is mostly exactly the same. I first tried it against my will at one of those bagel places that become popular over night. The guys (my boyfriend at the time and his friends) made plans to go on a Sunday morning and so we went. I ordered a salmon and cream cheese sesame seeds bagel after spending an unnecessary amount of time talking to the inexperienced cashier about menu options. Pressured by the line behind me, I was rushed into an order I wasn’t quite comfortable with. Ergo, the small iced chai latte. Having an accent and trouble speaking in public, I often find myself ordering food I don’t want. After taking onions and peppers off my salmon & cream cheese only sesame seeds bagel, I wasn’t impressed by neither the food or by whatever the guys were talking about. Someone did something during yesterday’s four-hour session, I heard. It was apparently a big deal in Berklee’s music world.

As I drifted away from the conversation and into wondering where did the girl sitting next to us buy the crop top she was wearing, the iced chai latte met my heart. The sweet and cinnamony flavor activated the taste buds numbed by that awful bagel. The cool touch of the ice against the hot tea created the perfect feel to enjoy of that light-breezed Sunday morning. And so the obsession began. After ordering it at Starbucks and getting highly disappointed by whatever they gave me, the quest to find the best chai latte started. 

After months of looking and digging I still haven’t found a better chai than the one in the coffee shop next to my school. Java’s is known for being expensive, even more expensive than Starbucks, but damn good, unlike Starbucks. They serve Julia Organic’s Brewed Tea so I like to assume it's good tea, the best one around. Their tea is curiously in powder form, which makes the tea not only able to mix perfectly with the milk, but able to mingle in angelical creaminess. The owner, or whom I believe to own the place for his barista expertise, leaves little crumbs of tea in my latte purposely to emphasize the flavor. Mmm, totally worth $4.49.

After my boyfriend and I broke up, an iced-chai latte became the designated comfort drink anyone would need during those awkward transitions. Well that, and a Merlot. It was the only thing I digested in the two weeks of not being able to digest the idea of not having him. The breakup didn’t catch me by surprise, nor was I entirely crushed, but one thing is to know it and another one is to eat, smile or sleep. What did catch me by surprise, however, was by how much I enjoy the little crumbs David leaves in my tea. 

I stop by the coffee shop next to my school almost every day around 4pm. I became a regular without trying. Within a week, I knew who prepared the best iced chai latte and who prepared the worst. I knew that the table next to the window gets chilly every time the door opens and that the table in front of the cashier has a hidden outlet. I know that the books in the Non-Fiction section are not non-fiction but literary criticism, which annoys me till this day. I know that they combine whole milk with fat free milk to make 2%, that they spend an extra 30 seconds to make the foam perfectly dense, and that they only add the ice when everything else is ready. That’s their trick: the ice in an iced chai latte is not a key ingredient, but an inescapable commitment - much like a mother in law in an awkward looking family portrait. Starbucks could learn a thing or two from them.

My search for chai (and life purpose) was always accompanied by Wild Child, a band from Austin, Texas that my friend from Austin, Texas recommended. Well, she really likes Austin but she is actually from El Paso, or something. Wild Child released its second album The Runaround exactly one month after my breakup. It was handed to me in a silver plate, perfectly addressing many issues I couldn’t put into words. And still fully can’t, so I just sing along. The album is about leaving, coming back, regretting, forgiving, confusion, you know, the usual when the stiches are still fresh.

It became a routine of mine to walk with my headphones on blasting Crazy Bird while having chai latte, a combination that did not only make me oblivious of my surroundings, but unable to answer to people’s hi’s and how are you's. 

Perfect.

I avoided people so well that three weeks into the semester, the stranger I had to call roommate, moved out of the room and into a single, perhaps sensing my dislike towards human beings –and her.

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Today, I find myself digesting every kind of foods, apart from the chai, of course. El Salvadorian cheese pupusas, home made nutella cookies, vodka and chasers, crunchy Cheetos, among many many others. The iced part of my regular chai latte had to refrain itself due to weather conditions, but I still go everyday to the coffee shop around 4pm. The Runaround is no longer about stiches, but about moving on. Today I bother to say hi first, even to my old roommate.

Sad or in peace?

Toco-Toco, Hoolz, Jules, Guns, Corazón de Melocotón, Mami, Pacho Agua, Titina*

I got my perky ears from my grandpa

My soft hands from my grandma

My neurotic nose from a cousin whose plastic surgeon hands glue back together six broken bones

My self-consciousness from my Guigui; whose refusal to leave the house pushed me out of it

My little off tooth from my stubbornness. I'm done with braces mom - age 12

My awkward sense of humor from my dad, who can only relax after a few drinks

My coquetry from my step-mom (former step-mom). Fortunately, I learned how to be a lady from my Belkis/mother

My will and commitment to excellency from her too, a person who does not doubt my own abilities, not one bit, but constantly questions hers

My internal clock to know when to shut up from my sociology teacher, who shook me out of my spoiled self in five minutes

My appetite for writing from my 4th grade poetry teacher

My sassiness from my other grandmother. She's 72 and there's no stopping her

My courage from the same person who taught me how to build a fruitful relationship without ever having one as an example

My ambitiousness from an ex who lacks an emergency stop button

My patience from Guigui's son, whose heart is bigger than his reading abilities

My stubbornness from an uncle who I refuse to call an uncle

My athleticism from a body that loves food and a self-esteem vulnerable to western expectations

My fear for animals from the darkness that invaded my room every night

My love for love from my own naiveté.


*My nicknames, from special people.

Shiverin'

The combination between my love for Spoken Word and the palpability in Sy Stokes and The Black Bruins' facts made me fucking shiver.

El Caraqué?

La última gota que derramó el vaso ese 27 de febrero de 1989 fue la subidita de precio del transporte público en tiempos de Carlos Andrés.

Cual será la que derramará este?

The Runaround

"No hay nada más especial que disfrutar de aquellos que pueden. De aquellos que sí quieren, que saben que pueden. De esas mentes inspiradas que lo logran. Inspiración profunda' euforia infinita que te llena por dentro. Ser testigo de algo así te sube y te amarra a un futuro bonito."

Abril, 2010.

Poco sabía yo que ese dharma no me incluía.

The Verstehen Approach

There are three definite situations in which neither party can ever agree on:

One. A roommate disagreement.
Two. Drivers in the highway
Three. A breakup

(you should know the only reason why I am writing this is because I want to talk about disagreeable situation number three).

The thing about breakups is that you get over them with friends who always nod warmly, keep count of your drinks and repeat on and on that your ex is a fucker, or something. They never actually help you.

What is there to do in such disruptive moments?

There's rebounds, parties, alcohol, the possibility of starting fresh.

No thanks, my bed is more comfy, my laptop more reliable.

His Facebook? I know it as if it was mine. I've been all up on that shit.
Movies? No thank you, I particularly don't want to cry watching Jennifer Aniston fall in love, or gross up my keyboard with melted ice cream.

I will turn to google instead.

How to get over your ex? Boom, 752.000.000 results in 0,38 seconds.

So I begin on reading, because my pizza is not here yet and I don't have a boyfriend no more.

Recipes of 10 steps, 7 steps, 18 steps of "how to"s. Anything from getting drunk and acting libidinous, to God knows best.

I did some of them. I erased him from my room, hardware, and Facebook. Ok good, what else? I dressed up pretty and called a boy for attention. Ok good, what else? I led myself cry the fuck out and scared my next door neighbor in the process.

Nothing.


I'm not about to make myself believe that "I know it was for the best" because I simply had a precious relationship that I don't and won't regret. Or that I am a  newborn feminist that needs no man. No No. No, because I know that being alone is not what I came to do in this earth. I know that alone I  (no one) can't accomplish everything. Because behind a great man there's always a great woman (and viceversa).

(I now close Google)

Since none of those answers did it to me, I've decided to make one myself by applying stuff I learned in class to my life. The Verstehen Approach. Geertz, the guy who developed this theory of Think Description, is one of the biggest Anthropologists of all time that didn't believe in cultural evolutionism or relativism. He simply believed that a good ethnographer would merely write down a story, freezing it in time. No analysis, no judgement. He said that if you don't understand a culture, it's your god damn problem, not theirs.

(pause)

This is me, trying to step into his drum set and follow his Verstehen Approach,  Bring it Geertz.


Having a girlfriend is impeding me from really stepping up my game and becoming an accomplished drummer. I just can't make commitments without feeling bad about not seeing her, visiting her, being a boyfriend to her. I just don't have the dedication and attention she deserves. Might as well end it here and take advantage of the time I have left in the place where I'm supposed to be. It will be hard, but I know that one day I'll go back and think to myself "yeah, good move dude."

My friends agree with me, so it must not be crazy. Whenever I tell them this is something I need to do they nod warmly. My dad  also thinks this is the time to explore and play as much as I can (and she always said how wise and smart my dad is). Might as well listen to him. My mom is worried about paying for my education: maybe I can use the time I spend with her, working and getting paid...

You know what: F*ck Geertz.


Dude, you feel trapped not because of me, but because you don't feel you are doing enough. You have always being a confident person. Now you wander around seeing what everyone else is doing. You are relying on friends that will hardly question your decision (because they don't fucking know you). I mean, what you are saying is completely normal: "this is my time," "I have to do this." What are they supposed to say? Those are the most clichéd excuses in the world. Everybody does that. It's so normal, but so stupid. Since when are you average?

I won't allow You to make ME your excuse.

Your parents are fucking with you, sorry but they are. Your dad went through a hard relationship that made him really cautious about who to rely on (the answer: no one). For him, relationships are constricting, far from empowering, nutritious, or useful. They are only distractions. This eventually has gotten under your skin. Your mom? You know very well she can be a little too melodramatic. She doesn't trust your father, she doesn't want to rely on your father. Of course she is going to insist on you working, on doing this or that to make things work. She is sending a message to your dad, through you: she can do it without his help.


You feel trapped, claustrophobic, which is completely normal. You are in a small school where all your accomplishments must be public and advertised. What choice do you have but fill your life up with shit you don't care about, only to feel and look busy. What choice do you have but pretend you're fine, because (you think) you are running out of time. What choice do you have if people are telling you you'd be ok.

I sincerely tell you to let yourself feel your thoughts. I'm sorry to break your heart, but I am not the reason why you feel the way you do. I am sorry to tell you that you will do ok with or without me. That you are going to be the person you were born to be without this pressure on your back. You are more than a musician, don't you dare forget that. You will never be a failure. You long passed that. Take an American chill pill (as Barney once said). Just don't make me responsible. Don't let your drums break you down.

Be true to yourself.

Anyways, my pizza is here.

La Rebelión de los Náufragos, porque Montréal no queda en Francia.

Mi mamá trabaja con una señora, y le digo señora, sólo porque es mayor que yo. Esta señora pensaba que tenía que despertarse a las tres de la mañana para atender a una llamada telefónica de Montreal.

"!Pero si Montréal queda en Canadá!"

Ante esto mi mamá corre a la librería más cercana, y me compra La Rebelión de los Náufragos.

Me dice: tú tienes que saber que Montréal no queda en Francia, y que la Venezuela que conoces no es obra del único Presidente del que tienes memoria.

Mi Prof. me sugirió que me lo tomara con Soda, y con soda me lo tomé por dos meses.

De las 439 páginas que tiene mi edición de Mirtha Rivero, estas son las enseñanzas que quiero recordar:

1. Los militares se creen los dueños de Venezuela. Cuando no están en el poder, conspiran.

2. El pueblo Venezolano es novelero, amante de las tendencias y las apariencias. Es por esto que cuando los medios de comunicación y Los Notables comenzaron todo este cuento de la antipolítica y las acusaciones... qué se puso de moda? Pues precisamente La Antipolítica y Las Acusasiones. Después del golpe del 4-F, y con el discurso de Caldera, los Venezolanos comenzaron a confiar más en un militar encarcelado con el lema de "hasta ahora", que en aquellos luchando contra sus propios demonios.

3. El Venezolano siempre ha sido muy cómodo. Empresarios de instituciones privadas  han usado los recursos a su alcance para mantener sus influencias en el mercado. Y esto no sería un problema si en el camino no se olvidaran de su responsabilidad social. With great power, comes great responsibility, de pana. Si Por Estas Calles no diera ranking; si escándalos de corrupción (innecesarios y exagerados) no vendieran periódicos; si un mercado sin trade barriers no amenazara chequeras, la democracia y el programa de Pérez no hubiera terminado como terminó.

4. Por más carismático que un Presidente pueda ser, por más inteligente y preparado que su equipo logre estar, si no se explica aquello que tratas de cambiar o imponer, si no se toma el tiempo de simplificar lo complicado y de ser político para el pueblo, nadie te va a apoyar. Nadie va aplaudir esos cambios bruscos y perjudiciales (pero beneficiosos a largo plazo) que sabes pueden dar frutos.

5. Rumor que sabe y escucha todo el mundo, ya no es rumor, es un hecho.

6. Las personas son al fin y al cabo, instintivas. Todos quieren conservar su estilo de vida, y seguir haciendo lo que más o menos les ha funcionado. CAP cambió los Ministerios, descentralizó el poder adeco, pretendió liberar lo nacionalizado (valiéndose de su carisma y poder presidencial). Eso a la AD, no le gustó, no lo apoyó. Lamentablemente, tratando -instintivamente, alego yo- de mantener su poder e influencia, la AD terminó perdiendo el sistema de gobierno que los trajo al poder.

7. El Caracazo no resultó de una crisis económica. El pueblo venezolano dejó de confiar en sus mandatarios. No es que sólo se alzaron contra Pérez, a Pérez le tocó lidiar con la "última gota que derramó el vaso", que se fue incubando en tiempos de Lusinchi and beyond. Rivero escribe que fue una crisis política, pero yo digo que fue social. Venezuela tenía un desencanto general y masivo a su estilo de vida, a que hubieran tantas discrepancias en la calidad de vida, en el salario. Le echa la culpa a los políticos, claro está. Y como políticos, son ellos los responsables de mantener a su pueblo feliz. Qué impresionante cómo la rutina política, y el "eso es mejor que nada" son suficientes, de repente. Esa fue una crisis social a la que no le pararon bolas.

8. Los pueblos tienen visión de corto plazo. Los líderes, los líderes de verdad, luchan por alargarla.

9. "Cuida a tu partido, que la continuidad del sistema está en el partido... no en el gobierno".

10. Insisto: los que tenían la influencia, dinero y conocimiento suficientes como para hacer un cambio, no reconocieron o no le pararon a su responsabilidad social del momento. Yisus


Gracias mami.

Today, I am in an identity crisis led by conflicting, contradicting and opposing ideologies. I feel like a teenager choosing to either fight or join the mean girls club in high school. I am as divided as Korea, but without the borders, war threats, or much international intervention. Democracy and socialism are fighting to win my heart. But, who’s stronger? Who’s better? Both sides blame each other for the critical situation we are in today. The high levels of insecurity, assaults, food shortages are allegedly no one’s fault. I am half deaf, half blind, half mute; I’m sometimes harassed and sometimes venerated.  I am deeply confused by the media, political discourse, and rival realities. I cannot longer distinguish between authoritarianism and revolution or even decide between red and blue, as they’ve become accomplices of an ideology; they are no longer colors. 

Like Crazy

A veces me estreso tanto de perder lo que tengo que sueño pesadillas como las de ayer. 

Tuiteado el día de hoy por la mañana, al despertarme de un sueño pesado y amargo, que tenía como protagonista un corazón roto.

Y es que me da miedo que lo perfecto se acabe. Que se termine antes del "para siempre". Todo a mi alrededor me afirma y reafirma que ya disfruté lo que había que disfrutar. Callensee. Déjenme ser feliz y no pensar en cómo André y Jessica terminaron por cansancio. En como Dominique y Bo terminaron por distancia. No tengo que pensar qué pasa cuando él se gradúe y yo me regrese. O que pasa si nos superamos mutuamente; si nos damos cuenta un día que no nos necesitamos después de todo.

Culpo a esta cultura inconformista de estas preocupaciones imaginarias.

Sólo espero que mis miedos dejen disfrutar lo que tengo, y que las pesadillas se queden en mi subconsciente.

Fight for your man/girl while you can and listen to your heart. 

Punto.

How To Get Over A Broken Heart

I wrote this a couple months ago. I was actually planning on sending this, along with a copy of Songs About Jane to "Merengue." Then, I realized he wouldn't care, he's mulish like that. Even though I would like to change some words, some thoughts, I feel I would be cheating on past-me. 

Written with love. 

Guns Carrasquel
Creative NonFiction
Mr. Brosenbeck
May 15th, 2012


Dear Merengue,

Broken heart may not be the best word to describe what you are feeling. It's not manly enough. "We, boys, we don't get our hearts broken." I know, I know.

However, it is the best way I have to describe how I felt not so long ago. I was 16 back then. I felt envy, hate and love all at the same time. I gained easily 100 pounds out of pure stress. After all the drama, the desire, the emotions, the patience, the waiting (the waiting!), it all ended before we could ever started. He had a girlfriend and he was not planning on leaving her. I felt powerless. Although, I almost starve to death, and almost forgot how to put makeup on, I learned a bit more about myself. It made me tougher, sourer, and happier in a way.

Let me introduce you to G.I Joe, A.K.A the guy responsible for all this mess. He was far from being my prince charming, but he has this perfect tan, perfect strong hands, and piercing eyes that made me sight and stutter. At the time, I let my heart lead the army, not my brain. Foolish girl.

When GI Joe broke (trashed) my heart, I didn't know how to react. My ego went down straight to China and my thrust issues up to the moon. I couldn't talk to my friends as I thought I could. They were, of course, on my side, but as much as thy wanted me feel better, they couldn't.

Yes, I know, he is an idiot and he doesn't deserve me.

Blah, blah, blah.

They made me feel okay for about an hour or so. Then, my pillow, the darkness in my room, and my "I want to die" playlist flipped me upside down every single night. It was not until I discovered Songs About Jane (and a few months to process it) that I could listen to Kriptonite without aching. Maroon 5 were the ones to save me from the love plank. Jane, who broke Maroon 5's heart, made me get over GI Joe, and she would help you get over me. This CD is my guideline to cure whatever is that you are feeling.

Please read.


Step #1: Hope for GI Joe to come back.
Song: Shiver (Track 3)


He just needed time. Time to miss me and stop caring about his girlfriend. Although he built me up, and knocked me down (more than once), I was still waiting for Cupid to do his damn job.

I guess I'd better find a way to your heart. Right, GI Joe?


Step #2: Made GI Joe Mad
Song: Must Get Out (Track 7)


Waiting for him to realize how magical and special I was, was taking too long. He didn't miss me enough to make him text me, call me. Or something. I decided I was going to make GI Joe so mad, so mad, he wouldn't be able to control himself from being apart of me. I was going to be the hottest, most outgoing, sociable person in the whole wide world. I started going to the gym. I was impeccable every day. I started to cook (he loves homemade food). I would go out with my friends with the sole intention of taking cute pictures, and upload them to Facebook right away. I was going to be his timeline. He was going to explode out of jealousy.

Ha.

I forgot to tell you: GI Joe is the son of one of my dad's closest friends. He was doomed to see me every other week, and I was lucky enough to have a couple of chances to show him how perfect I was.

It was my grandmother's birthday party, and he, of course, was invited. I remembered listening to Must Get Out probably 7 times before getting to that barbecue. Sunday Mornings was not an option, as I didn't need to start crying all over him. No, no. This was proud Julia time (alleged proud, at least.)

For my misfortune, he was doing a better job than I was. He was ignoring the hell out of me. Texting, probably to his girlfriend.

"Didn't you put enough perfume on?" Yes you did Julia, I thought to myself later. He is just a big jerk.

I didn't succeed as I was hoping for. He didn't suffer or beg, as I wanted. I did realize, however, how desperate and stupid I was acting.

You may feel like that, as I am not paying attention to your timeline, pictures, hook-ups, or angry Tweets. It won't work. But, you are going to doing anyways, like I did. Step #2 is more about faith than self-respect.

Step #3: Frick you, GI Joe.
Song: Not Coming Home (Track 11)

I've known GI Joe my entire life. He was like an annoying older cousin. However, what triggered Cupid's arrow was not a romantic, electric moment (or the like), but a microwave.

A microwave? Yes, a microwave.

We were in my dad's house, in a little Sunday gathering. The usual. My dad has been com paining about the microwave not heating up his oatmeal as it used to. GI Joe offered himself to fix it, as he was planning to study engineering next year. I went to the living room, played dominos with my uncles for like two rounds, and came back to check on him. The oatmeal was already heated up and my dad had a huge smile in his face. I found it interesting. I could not set the time in the thing, but he could fix it in less than 15 minutes and with only one screwdriver! That showed some ability, and Julia likes agility. From them on, it all came down as a snowball rolling down hill. The songs he plays on his guitar that I was so used to listening suddenly perplexed me. His multiple victories when he played Call of Duty fascinated me. His avatar looked so cute killing terrorists. I liked how he was so fast; nobody could ever catch him in tag. I fell in love with dumb details. And all thanks to that microwave.

I don't use microwaves now. I don't heat the oatmeal enymore. I cook. Popcorn? I make them as my grandmother did: on a casserole.

Frick the microwave and his girlfriend. The hell with his guitar and his awesome voice. I did not need his agility, I needed a mechanic. Screw his hands, his tan, his everything! Go and show off your Call of Duty abilities to someone that care GI Joe.

I don't.

Carrying out my evil plan for GI Joe to reedem himself became too much work. It was too much energy going to waste. The energy I spent on hating him, however, seemed a much better investment. I hated his very soul. And his girlfriend's.

So go ahead. Hate my perky ears, my off-line tooth, my uneven balance, my clumsiness, my boyfriend. Hate my boyfriend, that son of a bitch.


Step #4: Morn GI Joe.
Song: The Sun (Track 6)


You known what sucks? I'm not sure if I love going to the beach for the actual sun, sand and breeze, or because of GI Joe. I remember how, when I was little, I hated watching, much less being in the sea for too long. I kept thinking about the thousands of sharks that probably would be swimming next to me.

GI Joe and I once had a great vacation under the sun. We made castles and drawings over the sand. We did the banana boat (several time), we got piña coladas, we had fun. It's a deep breath translated into a place. I am now the family member who plans the trips to Margarita, which is my favorite island. I make the reservations in the hotel; I pack the board games and snorkels. Going to the beach makes me so happy, and I hate not knowing if it's because of him, or me.

The first time I went after that little devil trashed my ego, all I could picture were his eyes shinning with the sun, his nails full of sands after digging into the sand, and his pink swim shorts. I felt so empty I even though about writing a poem.

Me? Poetry? Pathetic.

I recalled how we fell so hard on the water while in the banana boat, I cried like a baby. I perfectly recalled how we experienced the worst sun burn of our lives, after we forgot to put on sun block. I saw him everywhere; he was freakishly omnipresent.

After months of mourning, my family and I went again. This time, I miraculously remembered we were not the only ones in the beach those weeks. I remembered the waitress with the tattoo on her hand. Awesome tattoo. I remembered how my little brother was obsessed with a smoothie they served on the deck. I remembered the name of the banana boat driver, Siete.

The beach passed from being GI Joe's sacred temple, to a special place. A place where I feel comfortable.

Let me put it in other words: All the focus I had on him zoomed out. Who cares about his two-tower sand castle, if I can ask Siete for a ride for good times' sake?

Regretting something is recognizing you didn't learn the lesson. I don't regret GI Joe, he made me love The Sun.


Step #5: Let GI Joe be.
Song: Sweetest Goodbye (Track 12)


I'm tired of listening to Maroon 5 now. I got the message; Jane came across. I can see you now without putting some extra perfume on. I can go to bed without you flashing through my thoughts. I can go to the beach and picture you without getting mad, depressed, excited or nostalgic. It's freaking awesome.

Dear GI Joe, you're not my boyfriend, you are not my friend. You are just there, flying away.



It took me time for Jane to kick in, but she made it! I got over GI Joe thanks to her watching my back.

Maybe she can do the same for you.



Take care,

Julia

Stereotypes: True of False. Go

1. Middle Easterns like to blow things/them up.
2. Italians are loud.
3. Africans are hungry, they live in poverty.
4. Mexicans are illegal immigrants.
5. Asians are good at math.
6. Rednecks are dumb.
7. LatinAmericans are Puerto Rican.
8. Musicians are pot heads.
9. Middle Easterns are all terrorists.
10.Women in the Middle East are miserable.
11. The Gays have AIDS.
12. Videogames make people violent.
13. Activists are vegans.
14. Tech Service employees are Indians.
15. All Asians look the same, they are all Chinese.
16. Jews are all rich and greedy.
17. People from bad neighborhoods are gangsters, trouble.
18. Rich people think they are better than everybody else.
19. Poor people need help.
20. A woman that cheats is a hore, a man that cheats is a player.
21. Women can't drive.
22. Men can't multitask.
23. White people can't dance.
24. Scientists are all geeks.
25. Artists are irresponsible.
26. All prisoners are violent.
27. Blonde girls are dumb.
28. Jamaicans are Rastafaris.
29. Russians are crazy.
30. Suburban life is all the same.
31. Asians can't drive.
32. Black people play base.
33. Tall people play basketball.
34. Tattooed people are a bad influence.
35. Latin girls have a big booty.
36. Latin people can dance.
37. Redheads have no soul.
38. Arabs are not clean.
39. Indians don't eat cow.
40. South Asians don't eat pork.
41. Fat people are lazy.
42. Cats are indifferent.
43. Dogs are loyal.
44. Europeans are always hot.
45. Grandmothers cook deliciously.
46. Adults are mature.
47. Feminists are lesbian.
48. Oceania is full of prisoners.
49. Brazilians are good at playing football and are perfectly tanned.
50. Black people love magic tricks.