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.

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.

Politica para Cristina

Y qué mejor inicio que Sabater y su Política para Cristina (Amador, pues), un libro que me he tenido que leer ya dos veces por mi memoria empeñada en la ignoracia.

A lo que vine (poniendo cara seria):

La política tiene más que ver con la sociedad que con los políticos. El hombre necesita a la sociedad, a personas alrededor de nosotros, sin ella caemos en depresión y nos lanzamos al frente del televisor a comer 2 kilos de helado. Pero seriamente, el hombre sin sociedad no es gente. La cosa es descifrar cómo soportarnos sin mordernos los cachetes. Aquí entra la política, a mi humilde parecer.

Como nosotros somos los únicos seres con la dicha (o infortunio) de reflexionar , y por tanto sublevarnos, necesitamos una razón para hacer caso. Como el bebé que por terco se electrecutó con el enchufe, necesitamos a alguien que nos convenza, que nos obligue a portarnos como quien dice "como Dios manda". La política entonces es ese conjunto de regaños y consejos que los que saben nos dan.

La sociedad es lo que nos salva y lo que nos mortifica. Vivir en conjunto trae conflictos. Por eso es que en una casa con 4 hermanos y 1 baño, alguien siempre sale llorarle a la mamá. Hay conflictos porque nos imitamos unos a los otros (así aprendemos), porque siempre queremos lo que el vecino nuevo se compró. Porque queremos tener siempre lo mismo y así sentirnos que pertenecemos a algo mas grande que al propio ego. Queremos sentirnos bienvenidos a donde sea que vayamos, y si no es así, ay papá, está en problemas, porque inmediatamente le decimos que se vaya a dar una vueltica lejos de aquí. Consideramos enemigos a los distintos (claro, qué amenaza!)
Pero, como siempre, no todo es malo. Los conflictos son precisamente nuestra musa. Gracias a ellos inventamos, nos ponemos creativos.

Sabater nos explica que, al contrario de los mitos de calle, la política no es la razón de los conflictos. Estos conflictos son problemas de co-habitacion, que bien vienen acompanados de todo grupo social. Por eso es que hay instituciones que nos organizan, nos guían a portarnos bien y a no jalarlos los pelos.

Pero quién es el mandamás? El que tiene la correa apreataa' cuando las cosas se ponen dificiles?
Indudablemente tiene que haber alguien que arree a las vacas, como cualquier cabeza de familia, no? Nietzsche pensaba que sí. Tenía que haber cierto líder para cumplir todas las promesas que lo quieran o no, existen en las sociedades. Hay un líder, en mi parecer, porque la gente es floja. Que flojera estarme preocupando por los problemas de los demás, dejenme dormir en paz, diria yo. Que fastidio tener que escuchar los problemas de millones de personas. O peor aún, tener que solucionarlos.

Uy, no.

Hobbes piensa que las personas eligen un líder por miedo. Por miedo a que el mejor cazador me caze (en tiempos antiguos); por miedo a que el Dios de la tierra me mande un rayo por no escuchar al chamán, o que, que Dios no quiera, me quiten el internet por no escuchar las cadenas presidenciales.
El miedo siempre ha sido un gran controlador social. Los líderes se endiosan, se crean superpoderes y baritas magicas. Pero aparte de miedo, la comodidad nos cae como anillo al dedo.

Sabater llama eso, paternismo. El que nos acojamos a la cobija del Estado para dormir en un dia lluvioso.  Para que nos proteja y guarde. El problema está que mientras mas debajo del techo estemos, menos libres somos. Nos olvidamos que somos individuos y pensamos en colectivismo en vez de personalidad. Lo peor es que hay veces que somos titeres y no nos damos cuenta.

[Está incompleto, yo sé. Esto es lo que pasa cuando dejas que el tiempo pase y que se te olvide qué carrizo era lo que querías escribir sobre este libro que tanto te gusta. Aprendan de mi y terminen las cosas cuando las empiecen]

Remember, remember the 5th of November

Vencer el miedo es el mejor regalo que el pueblo le puede hacer a su país.

ay papá.