2016 Bucketlist

I wrote this at the end of last year. Re-read it today and it made me realize how nice it is to write things to your self and for yourself only. It felt that I read exactly what a great friend would tell me to make me feel better. Is that sad? Anyways, I decided to type it down and share it in a blog that belongs to the internet but only I read. I also realize most of the things I want to accomplish this year, are things I want to learn from people I love. 

(raw writing. I'm going for that writing style for the moment)**
**probably due to laziness. but maybe not.   


- Spend more time on other people but yourself. Not only paying attention and reciprocity after the fact, but also do little things that could make people smile. Learn that from Dominique.
- Become a better leader, wiser, with more vision. Inspire others and become an example, a human example, not putting so much pressure on you. Give space to people to challenge you. Trust people. Have patience and exceed it. Make people trust your judgement by working towards THE goal, not towards your own mission and vision. Learn that from Juan Maragall.
- Eat healthier. Don't let your mind succumb to your body. Exercise, take care of your skin. Be clean, organize, put together. Look like you want to be seen. Looking your best is part of your heritage from Venezuela.
- Be kinder, more understanding and attentive to your family and stop caring what others (with money) think of you. Love your momma, your dad, your brothers, gigue, Edgar (take care of them), your loving wonderful bf. Zack. Pamper in whatever way you can. Learn this from your brother Felix, and your dad. Because they love you so much and respect you and your thoughts. They all look up to you. Don't get greedy, don't think you are better than them. Heed their advice and experiences.

Amen jeje,

Dec 26, 2015

- Find and express your own voice. You have so many things to say, you have this ache for creativity that you are blocking for social anxiety. Liberate yourself from this absurd shame, concern. Use it to express your real self. Use your voice to say what's in your heart and become more of a leader.  Painting? Words? Music? Whatever it is, do it!!
- HEED YOUR PARENTS ADVICE. Listen to what they are telling you. Listen to their experiences, stories and opinions, stop competing with them. Learn, don't compete or simply battle for the sake of battling. Don't fight just to prove you are right. They have great things to say, and they love you and want to help you. Read the things your mom wants you to read. Respect their/his/her opinion. Let them be parents and trust them.
- Express your love not only to Zack. Be kind and thoughtful with your own family also!! Do little things to show your love, like giving them little gifts or calling them more often.
- Curate your content! Watch better movies, listen to what You are listening, find music and share it with friends. Develop your own taste! Stop worrying for what others fucking think.

Amen II, 

Dec 31, 2015

Concurso de CartasDeAmor

Este año decidí participar en el Concurso de Cartas de Amor presentado por MontBlack. Hoy recibí un email en el que me informan que el concurso fue suspendido hasta el 2015 por los acontecimientos que han nublado a nuestra Venezuela por los últimos meses. Y justamente cuando Amor es lo que más necesitamos! 

Escrita el 28 de febrero 2014, 2:36 AM

****

Ya te fuiste, pero te dejo ir

Escrita por Julia Carrasquel

Yo sé que ya no eres mío, pero no sabía que ya eras de ella. Te lo dije, me lo dije (varias veces!), pero no lo quería saber. Y es que tener la razón es una vaina: la quieres, y cuando la obtienes quieres regresarla, como aquel sombrero anaranjado pálido que me trajiste de los Barbados hace años. De tantas cosas bonitas que uno puede encontrar en esa isla del Caribe, me traes un sombrero que ni me queda... pero me rio porque igual me encantó. Por ser de tí, claro.

Yo sé que ya no estamos juntos, pero sigues siendo ‘Bonito’ en mi celular. Sigo usando esas botas marrones que un día me compraste, cansado de saltar y saltar conmigo de una tienda a otra. Sigo marcando el 7 de cada mes, aunque hoy solo sea un numero más. Sigo imaginando tu mano agarrando la mía mientras pasábamos por ese restaurante cuyo nombre nunca me sale bien.

“Regata no, Julia”, siempre me decías con una sonrisa entre dientes. “Se llama Trattoria Florentina”.
Eso eso, Bonito.

Yo sé que debo, pero cómo botarlas si por casi cuatro años fuiste mío. Dos cajas y media llenas de ti siguen debajo de mi cama, tratando fuertemente de olvidarte, de enterrarse. Es que además de los recuerdos, las cartas de gatitos, y globos de aniversario, las cajas emanan esta energía indescriptible que por tanto tiempo me llenaba y me decía buenas noches. Que me entendía sin yo decir una palabra. Hablabas perfectamente el lenguaje de mis silencios.
Pero ahora, cada vez que algo se desliza entre el espacio de la pared y mi almohada me da taquicardia. Qué monstruo sentimental me esperará en esas cajas llenas de amor expirado? Mi profesora de Antropología, tan sabia ella, explícitamente recomienda que todo aquello que te recuerda a un pasado sin presente (ergo, a ti) debe ser eliminado.
Qué agallas las de ella!

Yo sé que no cabía, pero igual traté. La música es tu mundo y no es lo mío, pero yo igual soñaba con acompañarte entre notas y toques. El talento lo reconoce cualquiera, pero por alguna razón nunca pude convencerte de lo que veía en ti si los demás no lo hacían. La música me quedó grande.

Yo sé que no debería, pero quiero. Quiero recordarte bonito. Tengo tantas cosas de ti en mí hoy, que sería un desperdicio dejarme llevar por estos nudos en la garganta y espadazos a mi ego. Con los años la motivación me la multiplicaste y la indecisión se fue con paciencia y cientos de “tu si puedes.” Y es que para qué olvidarte? Si te conozco tanto como tú me conoces a mi. Si sé que a pesar que tu amor propio siempre ha sido mayor que el mío, y que mi sentido de independencia es mucho más sincero que el tuyo, vales la pena recordar.

Yo sé que es difícil, pero tengo que aceptar que esa casa californiana, llena de gatos y perros y de una isla enorme en la cocina, no era para nosotros. Era para una pareja dispuesta a trabajar los sueños propios por un futuro nuestro. Una pareja que no entendía que por más que quisiera, no estaba hecha para siempre. Por eso hoy, agarro todo este cariño, estos recuerdos, tus sonrisas y sorpresas, mis besos y los tuyos, y te dejo ir.
Ya te fuiste, pero te dejo ir.

New Moms are Better than Old Moms

ENG 111: Creative Non Fiction

Prof. Michael Carolan

Draft Three

New Moms Are Better Than Old Moms

New Is Always Better is the motto of children all over the world. As adults, we know very well this is almost never true. Diamonds are irreplaceable precisely because they take 1 to 3.3 billion years to mature. Nothing is more precious than the first, oldest, edition of a book. Malted, milled, mashed, fermented, distilled and carefully matured for twenty years Glenlivet Whiskey, is undoubtedly better than Old Smuggler, or Jumbo Jim’s Grape Scotch. Yet, at age six, gleaming, unopened, new toys instantly replaced the old ones; the ones I, as a kid, was obsessed with until the newer ones came along. Toys were only exciting at first, before they got stained, dirty, wrinkly and predictable. Before they became boring and ordinary. Toys, and people, were replaceable. Easily disposable.

*

She is technically not my mom, but I liked to think she was. She is nine years younger than both my parents, has long fabulous hair, perfect manicure and big breasts and behind. She is a great singer and salsa dancer. Overall, newer, and thus better than my oh-so mundane mother.

At age 6 I couldn’t wait for the weekends to come. Those were the days I knew I’d see her (and my dad, I guess). We would go to nice restaurants, the movies, the circus, and during vacations, to the beach weeks on end. I would spend hours watching her get ready: she always applied her black eyeliner first, then her Aplum toned blush and finally, a crisp red lipstick that contrasted charmingly with her caramel skin.

She taught me how to make kissing sounds without the ticklish aftertaste. The trick was to make the gesture quick and smooth. Just like waxing, she said. I copied her coquetry and social faculties to flirt with boys. Boys would cede me their place in the water fountain line for me to go first. I would never have to carry a heavy bag if I played my cards artfully, she promised. I copied her music taste: I was obsessed with Olga Tañón, a Puerto Rican salsa singer, just like she was. We would go to the beauty salon together, a place that my mother wouldn’t dare to go, “so much estrogen,” she says, and spend hours getting our hair done. We would pretend to be mother and daughter when strangers approached us –“how do you have such a beautiful daughter and still look that stunning?” Our names were both Julia and since I mastered her facial and body expressions, no one ever doubted our association. She twitched her nose, I twitched mine. She crossed her legs, I did too. It seemed naturally choreographed. She would laugh embracing the compliment, and I blushed, honored.

I would order the same as her, Cesar salad and diet coke. I wanted to be as pretty and thin as she was. I was her companion in cigarettes breaks, making sure my little brothers didn’t notice that ungodly habit my dad disapproved of. I hated the smell, but never said anything. In fact, I hated the salon and hated the dried taste of diet coke, but she fascinated me. Her teeth were still so white, despite all the caffeine ingest and nicotine. She had no crows feet, her face was wrinkle free. She matched her bracelets with her purse and the occasional eye shadow. My mom wore gray suits for work and same pointy heels everyday. 

When I was in the first grade, our big project for ceramics class was to design, build and paint the greatest, most beautiful Mother’s Day gift our 7-year-old selves could make. We had six weeks, twelve in-class workshops, to complete the mission. Since I was the promising artist, I decided to make a gold teddy bear dressed in a suit that would turn into a jewelry box. Brilliant.

I worked on it passionately, delicately crafting my masterpiece with keen determination. I finished it two weeks in advance. After we were done, the teacher gave us a pre-made card she had prepared for all of us. Our only job was to add our mother’s name in the blank space and voila! Recess time.

Astonishingly, I didn't know what name to write down: Belkis, or Julia? I made the teddy bear/jewelry box for her and not for my mom and it troubled me for that entire recess. Do stepmoms have a Stepmom’s Day too? I wanted to ask, but Ms. Ariela would know I was up to something. She would see the discomfort and guilt in my eyes. She knew who Julia was, she was always in school meetings with other moms. My mom would always answered me with a sharp “I have things to do,” whenever I asked her why she didn’t spend time with other stay-at-home moms, like Julia did. Julia seemed to be a better match. She and her mom friends chatted, stayed for soccer games, brought the occasional cupcakes to class. Everyone liked her, she was fun. My mom only went to the trimestral report card meetings, and only because she had to. She could only remember the name of one of my teachers; she’d forget the other one. Embarrassing. Ms. Ariela knew both my stepmom and mom, which meant, I had to go back and start a new teddy bear if I didn’t want her to notice, tell my mother and thus risk my television privileges back home.

I had never given my mom a Mother’s Day gift before. I mean, purposely, independently. In past years, my father would have either made me deliver the chocolates or earrings he had chosen for her, or my teachers would have simply done it for me. I just had to sign the gift with my name and love. And so, at age seven, I made my first genuine Mother’s gift rather guilty and slightly uninterested. I had no choice but to give the prettier and carefully crafted teddy bear to the fun mom. The second teddy bear wasn’t enough to impress her.

My enthusiasm for the new persisted for a while. I chose to spend Christmas eves with Julia’s family and my new little brothers as soon as I found out Santa would find me wherever I went. They were my family too after all. She taught me how to drive, irresponsibly without a seat belt. She intoxicated me for the first time in a trip to the beach my dad couldn’t go. We laughed for weeks about it. I was growing up to look like my mother, but I believed I was just like her in the inside. I was adventurous, careless, exciting. I loved her. I cared enough to ask her to be my Confirmation godmother. She said yes, but for some miraculous reason I never went through with the ceremony. God spare me that one.

Our birthdays are one after the other. June 6^th and June 7^th have always been national holiday days in the Carrasquel home. Turning eighteen was a big one for me: I could vote, buy a drink and feel like an adult when people asked for my age. I was graduating high school, moving to another country for school and out of my house. I was growing up. But turning forty is apparently a bigger deal: Drinking is not drinking until you collapse in the bar’s floor, or in the neighbor’s back door. Throw monogamy off the window! You are still young and lively: boys, younger sweet boys, become suddenly interested in your expertise and sexual prowess. There’s no bedtime, you are allowed to get home as late as you please, even better, there’s no need to go home nights in a row or make it to your sons’ soccer games or music recitals. Why bother go to your stepdaughter’s graduation? It is not like she wants you there. Forty, Julia thinks, is your last chance to turn eighteen, to feel young and act wild. And so she did. And so she does.

It turns out I grew up very differently. I am straight forward, independent, and ambitious. I learned how to read books, not skim magazines. I found comfort watching movies and drinking wine, not beer. I know where my limitations lie and when the appropriate time to leave a party is. I hate diet coke, whinny drunks and pretending to find a boy’s joke funny. I got older and appreciative of honesty and curly hair. Just like my mother. I admire her (my real, biological, only mother that is) for keeping my teddy bear in sight for all these years. For using it at least to place the earrings she rarely wears. I respect her for not getting mad at me for postponing movie nights and for playing Olga Tañón for the longest time in the car. I respect her for turning fifty and remaining fifty.

Oh what a surprise it was to find her unused, unappreciated, perfectly assembled teddy bear with no left ear inside a dusty box after the divorce.

Timing Us

(Assignment: Short form essay, less than 500 words).

Julia Carrasquel

ENG 111: Creative Writing Nonfiction

Prof. Michael Carolan

Final Draft: Short Essay

Timing Us

I check my $30 gold wristwatch: it’s 8:33PM and he just texted. He said to meet half way, meaning not in his parked car, not in my front door, but in between his nervousness and mine. I get out of class at 8:30PM, he’s punctual. We enter my room, he takes off his coat and respectfully puts it on my chair. I throw mine on the floor. We sit. After fifteen minutes we exchange Christmas gifts. I think he liked his, especially the little note that goes with it; I tried making it witty and cute. I hope he doesn’t notice the three drafts of this witty cute note sitting on my desk. I’m supposed to be casual: I am casual.

It’s been 27 minutes, four months, three coffee dates and a couple of other things since we meet half way today. Whoever invented time as we know it, counting seconds, minutes, and those dreadful hours, wasn’t aware that timing, not time, rules the world, and my life. I’m its puppet and it my master. So why am I keeping count of everything if it’s not time, but resolution what we are in need of? I feel his stare touching me from far away as I avoid eye contact.

The watch’s tick tock is filling the silence our small talk is making. Has it being ticking this entire time? I wonder if I’ve noticed before. I want to tell him so many things, but words escape my courage. 

Should I?

I look at my wristwatch for comfort but it’s not telling me what to do, so I stare. It has a world map printed on its face (well, mainly of Western Europe and Africa). It’s darkened around the edges of the band as I often forget to take it off when I shower or workout. I like my watch even if I know of at least three other people who have it. I like my watch even if I’m not sure I like knowing what time it is. I mean, being aware of time can be scary. Counting meaning in all his texts and half smiles - Exhausting. I often wonder how can time be so strict, so demanding, when not even heartbeats are that accurate or trustworthy. When we have no idea where this is going.

For three and a half years I knew exactly what time it was, without ever needing a watch. Being in a relationship is easy: I used to know when it was the 7^th of every month, when it was time to buy a gift or have a screaming match. But after wearing this wristwatch and not caring, of not caring if he would speak up, I find myself counting time again. I find myself expecting this to happen.

It’s 9:22PM according to my $30 gold wristwatch. He sees my voice blushing when I call his name: “Should we?”

Feliz(?) Día de la Juventud

Tengo un ensayo de 1300 palabras que escribir para mañana. Pero qué Venezolano en el exterior tiene cabeza para hacer otra cosa que no sea refresh su timeline de Twitter? Para hablar de otra cosa que no sea ESTO.

Es la 1 y 20 de la mañana y por aquí están celebrando un posible día sin clases por la tormenta de nieve que se viene. Qué Venezolano va a tener clases después de un día como hoy? Quién va a estudiar Nietzsche o Calculo III, cuando el mundo se nos viene encima?

Tengo escalofríos, pero qué lejos están del frío. Hoy soy insensible a la nieve y a los vientos gélidos del norte. Hoy ni pienso en mis quejas matutinas de la comida de la cafetería o de las pocas horas de sueño que mis obligaciones me regalan. Hoy la angustia me sale de la boca, del corazón, de MI patria. Bassil Da Costa y Robert Redman son nombres que recorrieron desesperadamente el mundo para despertar al país y al mundo. Qué terror me da imaginar que uno de esos estudiantes pueda ser un amigo y no un desconocido.

Qué dolor me da pensar que sí soy una desertora, que los defraudé. Que por no estar ahí, no siento, no ayudo.

Hoy llamé a mi casa, preocupada de no ver a mi mamá conectada, preocupada de todo. Mi Guigui me atiende angustiada, sin saber porque llamo tan tarde (eran las 9pm, pero en mi casa se duerme temprano). Le explico que Twitter está explotando con sangre y me pide que le explique más en detalle. Sorprendida lo hago, aliviada de que todos parecen estar 'bien'. Sin acceso a internet y con televisión nacional ella no sabe de las muertes o de todas las irregularidades que han transcurrido en Caracas, Valencia, Maracay, Mérida, Táchira. Yo, que estoy en otro país, separada de las protestas, estoy más al tanto que mi Guigui, que mi mamá. Cuántas Guiguis habrán? me pregunto. Cuántos no saben lo que esta pasando porque los miedos (medios) de comunicación están atados de pies a cabeza? Cuántas personas verán estos hechos de defensa a la vida como actos violentos o golpes de estado planificados por la oposición? Cuántos creerán el discurso obtuso de ellos?

Hoy llamé a mi tio que vive en San Cristobal. "En la ULA se están dando tiros, aquí esto parece una zona de guerra y tu tía esta de guardia en el hospital." La garganta se cierra y me sofoca.

Qué dolor me da pensar que no puedo opinar apropiadamente de lo que esta pasando en MI país porque no estoy esquivando balas ni bombas lacrimógenas. Esto de la calle es #LaSalida es una poderosa muestra de la impotencia, infelicidad, inquietud y HastaAquíLlegué de nosotros los jóvenes. Jóvenes que han probado ser una pieza clave, por no decir esencial, en la historia de un país (nuestra Venezuela) que ha luchado desde siempre por una sociedad libre y justa. Pero esto, esto de la Calle es #LaSalida, NO es un plan de juego. No es una estrategia política. Es un desahogo de años de impotencia. Un desahogo merecido y comprensible, claro, pero desahogo al fin. Y creo que esto es importante tenerlo en mente. No para parar de expresarnos, sino para no perder el norte. Para no llenarnos las manos de sangre, sino de progreso y cambio del bueno.

Son las 2 en punto de la mañana y hay tanqueras en vía para Caracas con rumores de auto golpe. Y aquí estoy yo, escuchando el Pollo Brito porque no me queda de otra.

No me queda de otra.

Así me despidió Venezuela

Así me despidió Venezuela, con Monica Spear.

Rayma 13 de enero de 2014

Llegué el 18 de diciembre a Venezuela emocionada por salir del frío y por comer el perico fantástico que Guigui siempre me hace; por ver a mis papás y por ir a la playa con mis tíos y abuelo.

Mientras hacía la conexión en Miami, me impresionó lo discreta que fue la gente. No tenían bolsas y bolsas de Duty Free, ni carry-ons que bien podían ser considerados equipaje con sobre peso. Sorprendentemente tampoco tenían bolsos, camisas ni llaveros con el I <3 Miami impreso. En el momento me alegré porque pude poner mi carry-on rosada, llena de regalos que los oficiales de la Aduana podrían considerar apetecibles, cerca de mi asiento y no al otro lado del avión. Estaba hasta orgullosa que nos estuviéramos comportando tan civilizadamente, sin atraer miradas gringas o europeas llenas de pena ajena. Hoy me supongo que las personas ya ni tenemos dólares que raspar para comprar whiskey y perfumes tax free.

Después de un viaje tranquilo, al lado de dos personas que nunca pararon de narrar sus historias de vida, ni para escuchar las instrucciones de seguridad (típico), aterrizamos en Maiquetía puntualmente. Menos mal que al avión no le falló ni un bombillo porque los hubiera dejado atrás sin piedad alguna: encima que te tocó la ventana, no nos puedes hacer el honor de quedarte dormida?!

Como que si llego a mi casa antes de la medianoche, me dije cuando, entusiasmados esperábamos que apagaran la señal del cinturón de seguridad.

Si Luis.

Al parecer, American Airlines, como tiene el nombre del imperio escrito en el costado de cada avión, siempre tiene problemas en Maiquetía. No les dan la autorización necesaria para moverse de la pista de aterrizaje sino después de joder un buen rato.

Tal y como el aeromozo le explica a la señora Country Club, que amenazaba con un ataque de ansiedad y de tirarse por la ventana (Ábremela que me salgo ya!), nos tomó una hora y media estacionarnos en una puerta de desembarque, abrir la puerta del avión y bajarnos a la sala de immigración. Qué casualidad que dos semanas después, dicha aerolínea decide parar la venta de tickets con destino de o hacia Venezuela. Se cansaron de jugar a la marioneta con el centro operativo de Maiquetía. AirEuropa, Lan Chile, Aeromexico, hicieron lo mismo, ni bobos que fueran.

Mi estadía en Caracas fue como la había planeado: llena de familia, arepas, pan de jamón y vino tinto. La torta negra de la Tutodeli fue el highlight de mi escena culinaria navideña. Conseguí el libro de Toto a la primera y fui a la playa al siguiente día de haber llegado. Perfecto. Me quedó el vestido para la boda que me mandé hacer en agosto, un milagro. Trabajé durante la última semana y mi jefe me despidió con un trip para Avila Burger. No hubo necesidad de pago después de esa Humboldt Burger.

Qué vaina que el 6 de enero Monica Spear y su esposo fueron asesinados por una banda de chamos contemporáneos a mí que opera en la carretera de Puerto Cabello. Tan bien que iba todo.

En un país que gira en torno al Miss Venezuela, las novelas, el pan Bimbo diet y el chisme, la muerte de la ex-Miss Venezuela 2005 y actriz de novelas tipo Mi Prima Ciela, fue todo un escándalo. Un escándalo que no sólo resonó por todos lados sino que hasta causó la creación de un fondo por Miss USA 2005 para garantizar los estudios de esa pequeñita herida de bala.

Su muerte destapó los miles de hechos similares que hasta ese día eran considerados rutinarios y aburridos. Twitter y Facebook estallaron, los comentarios en la sección de Opinión del Universal, que según mi mamá (la fan #1 de dicha página), son generalmente pocos, fueron cientos y cientos. Me cuenta que hasta los editores del periódico se cansaron de hacer su trabajo y dejaron pasar grosería pareja. No había otro tema de conversación que no fuera ese. El hecho se convirtió en Roma: Todos los caminos llegaban al cuento de Monica Spear. "Viste lo que le paso a..." Cuentos de asesinatos, secuestros, motorizados robando iPhones salieron a la luz y protagonizaron mis últimos días en Caracas. Que estrés.

Muchos decían que les agradaba la respuesta del público y de los artistas (que ahora son políticos también) porque por fin protestan algo que sucede todos y cada uno de los días en Venezuela. Protestan algo a lo que nos hemos ido acostumbrando con el tiempo. Y aunque entiendo que no podemos dejar pasar las millones de muertes, las miles de viudas, se imaginan que esta respuesta sea la regla y no la excepción? Explotaríamos mínimo.

Para el jueves ya no quería ni salir de mi casa, por miedo y paranoia. No quería ni abrir Twitter. Yo puedo vivir con Rayma buscando a su perro Schnauzer llamado Blue twenty four seven (regrésesenlo vale, pobrecita), pero no puedo con el recordatorio constante del QEPD de los 24.763 venezolanos asesinados durante el 2013, buena parte de los cuales, por cierto, pasaron delante de mis narices mientras me bronceaba en Cayo Sal.

Así tal cual no hablo de mi ex novio, los venezolanos obviamos estos hechos para sobrevivir el día a día. Para no pasarla tan mal. Prefiero quejarme de la falta de papel tualet, que de cuando seis tipos entraron a mi casa armados a joder. It's a matter of survival.

Monica Spear me dejó con ganas de no volver y de volver a la vez. De rezar un Ave María y de agarrar un bate para caerle a ñapas a todo el mundo que asocie la palabra "trabajo" con "secuestro". Porque es eso. Mientras que en otros países los adolescentes se preocupan por encontrar trabajo como niñera o barista, en Venezuela se preocupan por ver qué malandro les va a regalar una pistola a cambio de robar casas y espicharles los cauchos a una familia inocente en la carretera de Puerto Cabello.

El caso de Monica Spear no debería ser necesario para que el pueblo se levante,  así como tampoco hace falta la bola de estrés que mi mamá, la vecina, la peluquera me crearon para que yo sepa y le pida a Venezuela que no me vuelva a despedir así.

No me vuelvas a despedir así, si? Que me nubla la mente de lo realmente importante: una última noche rodeada de amigos y el borracho de la arbolada.

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.

-------

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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.