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.
Friday, August 23, 2013
Friday, June 21, 2013
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.
"!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:
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.
Tuesday, April 30, 2013
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.
Sunday, February 10, 2013
Like Crazy
A veces me estreso tanto de perder lo que tengo que sueño pesadillas como las de ayer.
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.
Monday, January 14, 2013
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
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
Thursday, January 10, 2013
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.
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.
Monday, December 24, 2012
Please Santa, bring JR to Venezuela. I'll give you cookies.
[JR is the pseudonym for a french photographer I really like. He won the 2011 TED prize for using art as a mechanism to bring people together. He travelled and went to many places that were either forgotten by the world or considered too late to save. I sent him this letter. He replied only a few weeks after saying: Thank you for this lovely letter, sadly Venezuela is not in my tour list at the time.]
Dear Santa,
Christmas is close, but I hardly feel it. I hardly feel it in this tiny studio apartment I'm doomed to be by myself this break. I know you know why I'm here: you're Santa Claus and you are always on top of things. Regardless, I'm still going to tell my story... I have nothing else to do, really.
2012 has been a pretty darn hard year for me, my mom, my family, my country. I graduated from high-school (for the second time) in the boarding school I went to last year. I didn't exactly know what to do with my life when I received my diploma back home in Caracas, so I decided to come here to America to gain perspective and experience. To buy me some time and discover myself, or whatever that means.
I went back home last summer, sad to encounter a country barely on its feet. I was so used to the mess, my mess, everybody's mess, that I couldn't notice the severity of our situation. It was until I came back that I understood how unsteady my country was compared to others.
From the outside, Venezuela can be summarized in a few words: socialism, oil, Chavez and hostility. Despite that we are much (much) more than that, this political darkness has effectively clouded our good sassy nature in the outside world's eyes. Venezuela is on edge, it is broken.
We are in a crisis that at first I believe started to be political. President Chavez instilled a discourse 13 years ago of hatred&love: love to him, hatred for everyone who dares defy his government. A discourse that has polarized our society in colors. Chavistas in red, opponents in any other color. This crisis, however, has escalated to something even more abstract and poisonous than simple rainbow symbols. It has become somehow permanent, impregnated in our society.
Chavez's political strategy revolves around manipulations. People living in slums, in the edges of society, are vulnerable to distortions. They've learned to blame whoever is against Chavez, the "oligarcas," for all the obstacles and adversities they have come across with. Plenty of Venezuelans pinpoint their insecurity, faulty paycheck (if any) and fear for assaults to the political powerless who still have some money. As if the economic and social injustices are responsibility of the people themselves, rather than of the politicians in power. Chavez has managed to drive all the burden of mistakes and broken promises towards the Non-Chavistas.
Political genius.
Unprivileged people now believe they have the right to claim what is theirs and snatch whatever they think they deserve in whichever way they think appropriate. Assaults, kidnaps, murders, robberies, and what not, have swamped Venezuela ever since I can remember. No one is safe in the traffic, the workplace, not even home.
And I've learned that the hard way.
I never thought I could be more embarrassed, scared, mad and worried than when I was facing 6 armed men entering my humble home last summer. To my surprise, I was incredibly calm and on my feet, unlike my mother who was shaking in my arms. My nanny and her son were in another room, separated from us, while we were being interrogated (harassed) by these men, insisting on some imaginary money we were sure to have. Bolivares, dollars, euros... Anything. What money! I cried. They didn't hesitate to turn our house and lives upside down in minutes, to take whatever they could find valuable. They simply terrorized us. I was kidnapped in my house for 6 long hours, until they got tired and broke into the next-door house. This is nothing but an example, an everydayness in Caracas.
Ridiculous.
Part of the population believes the other half took their well-deserved life away from them, so they are entitled to steal and kill. The rest, afraid that they may be the next, hide under bulletproof windows, electric fences, security cameras, bodyguards. It is needless to say that social classes have strongly divided us all. Venezuelans, from both sides, have taken matters into their own hands, as they cannot longer count on the government to act or care. Some have guns in their hands; most, poor and rich both, can only pray during the nights. No one wants to be caught in the middle of a gunfire, no one wants to receive a call from a kidnapper asking for money. Venezuela is divided by fear and desperation.
There's no one to blame. I can understand why those men broke into my house. They believe they have no other option if they ought to survive. I understand why people hide behind whatever their money can buy. And I'm terribly saddened by it, scared. I'm saddened by how much we accept our circumstances and by how much we expect politicians to solve it all. I may have pinpointed the president, but there is no one to condemn, really. No point. This disconnection now pervades within us.
I'm tired of being concerned for my country. I don't want to see a man in a motorbike and automatically jump in fear anymore. I don't want my mother to keep the lights on all the time, afraid of what might come. I want this to be the last Christmas I spend far from home because it is safer.
Santa, I know you know what is that I wish, but again, I have nothing else to do but to type.
For this Christmas I wish for him to do in Venezuela what he did in Palestine&Israel, the Favelas and Africa. I wish to see Venezuelans unified. I wish they can see how similarities are much more important and numerous than capricious discrepancies. I want Caracas and Venezuela to be unbroken.
Mr Claus, I am writing to you because I know politics is not the answer; people is what we need. I believe that the power art, portraits and most importantly, ideas have proven to possess, can (and will) change something, if not everything. I've seen it in the eyes of those women, teachers, taxi drivers: they regained hope in themselves and in others. I want that.
Please Santa, bring JR to Venezuela. I'll give you cookies.
Dear Santa,
Christmas is close, but I hardly feel it. I hardly feel it in this tiny studio apartment I'm doomed to be by myself this break. I know you know why I'm here: you're Santa Claus and you are always on top of things. Regardless, I'm still going to tell my story... I have nothing else to do, really.
2012 has been a pretty darn hard year for me, my mom, my family, my country. I graduated from high-school (for the second time) in the boarding school I went to last year. I didn't exactly know what to do with my life when I received my diploma back home in Caracas, so I decided to come here to America to gain perspective and experience. To buy me some time and discover myself, or whatever that means.
I went back home last summer, sad to encounter a country barely on its feet. I was so used to the mess, my mess, everybody's mess, that I couldn't notice the severity of our situation. It was until I came back that I understood how unsteady my country was compared to others.
From the outside, Venezuela can be summarized in a few words: socialism, oil, Chavez and hostility. Despite that we are much (much) more than that, this political darkness has effectively clouded our good sassy nature in the outside world's eyes. Venezuela is on edge, it is broken.
We are in a crisis that at first I believe started to be political. President Chavez instilled a discourse 13 years ago of hatred&love: love to him, hatred for everyone who dares defy his government. A discourse that has polarized our society in colors. Chavistas in red, opponents in any other color. This crisis, however, has escalated to something even more abstract and poisonous than simple rainbow symbols. It has become somehow permanent, impregnated in our society.
Chavez's political strategy revolves around manipulations. People living in slums, in the edges of society, are vulnerable to distortions. They've learned to blame whoever is against Chavez, the "oligarcas," for all the obstacles and adversities they have come across with. Plenty of Venezuelans pinpoint their insecurity, faulty paycheck (if any) and fear for assaults to the political powerless who still have some money. As if the economic and social injustices are responsibility of the people themselves, rather than of the politicians in power. Chavez has managed to drive all the burden of mistakes and broken promises towards the Non-Chavistas.
Political genius.
Unprivileged people now believe they have the right to claim what is theirs and snatch whatever they think they deserve in whichever way they think appropriate. Assaults, kidnaps, murders, robberies, and what not, have swamped Venezuela ever since I can remember. No one is safe in the traffic, the workplace, not even home.
And I've learned that the hard way.
I never thought I could be more embarrassed, scared, mad and worried than when I was facing 6 armed men entering my humble home last summer. To my surprise, I was incredibly calm and on my feet, unlike my mother who was shaking in my arms. My nanny and her son were in another room, separated from us, while we were being interrogated (harassed) by these men, insisting on some imaginary money we were sure to have. Bolivares, dollars, euros... Anything. What money! I cried. They didn't hesitate to turn our house and lives upside down in minutes, to take whatever they could find valuable. They simply terrorized us. I was kidnapped in my house for 6 long hours, until they got tired and broke into the next-door house. This is nothing but an example, an everydayness in Caracas.
Ridiculous.
Part of the population believes the other half took their well-deserved life away from them, so they are entitled to steal and kill. The rest, afraid that they may be the next, hide under bulletproof windows, electric fences, security cameras, bodyguards. It is needless to say that social classes have strongly divided us all. Venezuelans, from both sides, have taken matters into their own hands, as they cannot longer count on the government to act or care. Some have guns in their hands; most, poor and rich both, can only pray during the nights. No one wants to be caught in the middle of a gunfire, no one wants to receive a call from a kidnapper asking for money. Venezuela is divided by fear and desperation.
There's no one to blame. I can understand why those men broke into my house. They believe they have no other option if they ought to survive. I understand why people hide behind whatever their money can buy. And I'm terribly saddened by it, scared. I'm saddened by how much we accept our circumstances and by how much we expect politicians to solve it all. I may have pinpointed the president, but there is no one to condemn, really. No point. This disconnection now pervades within us.
I'm tired of being concerned for my country. I don't want to see a man in a motorbike and automatically jump in fear anymore. I don't want my mother to keep the lights on all the time, afraid of what might come. I want this to be the last Christmas I spend far from home because it is safer.
Santa, I know you know what is that I wish, but again, I have nothing else to do but to type.
For this Christmas I wish for him to do in Venezuela what he did in Palestine&Israel, the Favelas and Africa. I wish to see Venezuelans unified. I wish they can see how similarities are much more important and numerous than capricious discrepancies. I want Caracas and Venezuela to be unbroken.
Mr Claus, I am writing to you because I know politics is not the answer; people is what we need. I believe that the power art, portraits and most importantly, ideas have proven to possess, can (and will) change something, if not everything. I've seen it in the eyes of those women, teachers, taxi drivers: they regained hope in themselves and in others. I want that.
Please Santa, bring JR to Venezuela. I'll give you cookies.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)