Lucinda and Bill

I visited Cozumel recently, and on one of the happiest days there, I met a couple in the pool area. The man was in a wheelchair, and his wife was an expert at putting him in the pool. I could tell from the look on his face that the lightness of his body in the water was soothing. He looked happy being out of the chair. I felt a little guilty, watching the woman struggle getting her husband in the pool, but she looked strong and determined. When she was about to get back to her poolside seat, I spoke to her and confessed, “I’m sorry I didn’t help you. I didn’t know if it was appropriate to ask.” She turned around and said to me, “Oh, don’t worry about it. We’re all set here. Thank you for asking now.” Then what happened surprised me.

She introduced herself as Lucinda, and her husband was Bill. “Short for William,” she said with a big smile on her face. She then proceeded to tell me the story of her life. Her warm, comforting voice had me craving to know more about her. It was about 4 or so when we started talking, and I returned to my room close to 9. I had such a blast hearing her story and falling in love with it.

Lucinda told me Bill was a veteran, and she believes what caused the breast cancer she had and later on Bill’s progressive, paralyzing disease was his exposure to a nuclear warhead he had to work around when he was deployed to the Gulf War. She told me how they met, about her beautiful children and grandchildren, and even about her German daughter-in-law. She talked about how happy she was about life in general, despite all the losses and the continued deterioration of Bill’s health. “He lost control of his right side this year, you know,” she told me. It broke my heart to hear her talking about this. But then we talked about being thankful, about how happy I was to see him walking around the pool, and how he made me feel grateful for all the blessings in my life: the ability to walk, to move around at will, to have my health. 

Then Lucinda moved on to the amazing story of why she and Bill were in Cozumel. It turns out that Bill belongs to a diving club, and he was traveling with a group of people who have all kinds of injuries that cause them to be in wheelchairs, as well as people with cerebral palsy. Right when we were talking about this and how they all actually dive, two people from the group joined us, both of them in their late 20s or early 30s. They openly talked about their injuries. The man happened to trip once – as Bill stated, “a bad trip” – landing in the wrong place at the wrong  time, and that was it – he dislocated spinal discs C6 and C7. He showed us the huge scar that runs from the base of his head nearly all the way down to his shoulder blades. He lost feeling from the area around his nipples all the way down his body. The woman had simply jumped into a pool and smashed her head on the bottom or side of the pool. She said she doesn’t entirely recall the incident because she lost consciousness and almost drowned. When she woke up, she learned she had smashed her C6 and C7 beyond repair. Her scar runs from the middle of her throat to the base of her ear. The surgeons lifted all that skin and removed the pieces of bone that were floating around. “I really smashed it good,” she said with a smiling face.

They were so open and kind, talking about their injuries, their group, their constant, CONSTANT pain, and how diving helps them release the pressure in their spine. They especially described the freedom they feel in the water and also explained that they dive with a partner who has full movement and is usually very experienced. The professional diver takes them around, helps them move around, and shows them where there is good stuff to watch. The diver is their guide, their legs, their propellers. I had never felt more humble, being around such wonderful people. I had never felt more appreciative of the multitude of blessings I have in my life. We laughed together as they recounted their stories, and above all, I learned so much. They were so eager to share.

When the others left, Lucinda and I kept talking. I told her that she was a goddess, and she was surprised. She said, “OH, NO! No, no. I believe in God, and there is only one God.” I told her that I didn’t mean it like that, but that she is taking care of this man with whom she’s deeply in love, she survived cancer, she’s been the head of a household all by herself. I told her I noticed that she smiled every single time Bill would come around the corner of the little island he was walking around in the pool to tell us, “One more round!” with a huge smile of his own and the best attitude possible. I could feel the enormity and warmth of their hearts. Bill was teasing me, saying I have a man in every port, but saying he was a hopeless romantic who fell in love with Lucinda the second he saw her pass by. “I didn’t care if she was married, a widow, had one baby or seven. That was it for me, Mono. She was for me.”

There is no way that I won’t keep in touch with this amazing couple. You know how you just kind of love and admire some people immediately? That’s what happened to me with these two. They gave me an open invitation to visit them, which of course I will do because I can’t wait to see them again and share our life stories once again. 

When I said goodbye that day, Lucinda said to me, “Please say hi to your parents from me. They have raised an amazing daughter,” and Bill blew me a kiss. 

Be grateful, be happy, be alive, be well. 

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EL último esfuerzo

Es muy curioso como encuentro la simbología en las cosas cuando miro atrás y analizo con calma y es muy curioso también cómo la inspiración llega a las 3:29 de la mañana a pesar del silencio sepulcral que ya va a cumplir casi una semana.

Me esforcé! En no encontrar de nuevo simbolismos y repetición de ciclos, no había puesto mucha atención cuando me fui a Canadá aquella vez, pero puede que también en medio del viaje llegara un mensaje, igual que llegó en Japón en aquella litera que decía «I don’t love you anymore» igual que llegó en España con ese cuaderno que decía «I believe I was a great love novel in a past life»… pero ya no en esta, verdad?

Una última noche juntos, compartir el miedo de que vuelva a suceder, pedirle al universo que no sea así y mágicamente, desaparezco. Me aferro, me esfuerzo, escribo, comparto a diario, quiero que seas parte, te empujo para que lo seas, te siento aferrándote a esta historia, pero algo pasa, lo que siempre pasa, te sueltas.

Qué pasó? si yo supiera lo que pasa, no lo sé, no sé si las cosas serían diferentes pero algo pasa que aún no termino de entender, será la distancia? será el trabajo? será el estar con alguien más que borra todo lo demás? que borra las risas que nos hacen llorar, que borra esos abrazos que pueden durar horas, que borra todas las lagrimas de felicidad compartidas, que borra todas las cartas que al final si pudiste leer, que borran esos besos que sacan chispas, que borran ese sexo que parece de novela erótica, que borran esas noches platicando sin dormir ni un instante, que borran todas esas caricias eternas, que borran esa laguna, esa vía láctea, esa magia compartida y manifiesta? QUÉ PASÓ?

Todo se borró… TODO.

De este lado que pasó? Una persona esperó que se rompiera el ciclo, que cuando me sintiera desaparecer, todo eso que pasó en este último periodo regresara a tus recuerdos, te tocara como lo hace conmigo e hicieras el esfuerzo conjunto de seguir. No pasó, el afán de mi parte fue enorme, para no insistir, para no forzar, para no hacer algo de lo que me fuera arrepentir después. No fui prioridad, no soy prioridad, ni lo voy a ser en el futuro, cómo lo sé?: tuve un accidente, sabes quién fue la primer persona en enterarse? TÚ. Sabes quién fue la única persona que no mostró el menor interés en ello… TÚ, pasaron horas, me llamaron tantas personas, le dieron seguimiento todavía más, aguanté, el no poder respirar, el moretón gigante en las costillas, en las piernas, en los brazos, las botas rotas, la chamarra chamuscada, no dije nada. Aguanté. Me dolió más tu indiferencia que el golpe, mientras todos querían ver fotos del golpe, de la moto, saber cómo ayudaban tú solo escuchaste que alguien más ya había apoyado y desapareciste. Ahí está la razón de todo, tu indiferencia, tu falta de interés mermó mi interés. Merezco algo mejor. Pero aguanta, tal vez es el horario, llega a la siguiente etapa y tal vez ahí la cosa pueda cambiar.

Llegar a México y saber que tampoco hay el más mínimo deseo de escucharme. Ni saber cómo estoy, mientras tanto las llamadas del resto de la gente se dirigen a la siguiente etapa del viaje, la más difícil, la más demandante, mientras tanto, el cuerpo va acumulando toda la tristeza, todo el dolor. Llegar a Veracruz no fue difícil, fue un rush de adrenalina de 6 horas que acabó conmigo tumbada en una cama a las 9 de la noche caminando como zombie sin saber qué pedo con la vida. Esperándote.

Son las 6 de la mañana, ya vamos de camino al malecón, fotos, emoción, nervios, me asomo al mar y comienzo a llorar, estoy muerta de miedo, quisiera que estuvieras ahí, carajo estás ahí! pero sé que este es el último viaje en el que me vas a acompañar, el sol está saliendo así como estás saliendo de mi vida, levanto los brazos y lo único que me sale es lo de siempre lml_ por última vez.

No me lo esperaba, pero Clo me toma del hombro, me ve directamente a los ojos, -TÚ PUEDES CON ESTO, ES DIFÍCIL, VA A COSTARTE TRABAJO, PERO HAS PODIDO CON COSAS MUCHO MÁS DIFÍCILES QUE ESTA, Y AQUÍ ESTOY YO, AQUÍ ESTAMOS TODOS, TÚ PUEDES- contengo las lágrimas y ahí estás, apareces por un instante, el temblor de las manos y de las piernas desaparece «ánimo» me dices, y luego te vas. Me subo a la moto y vienes conmigo en el viaje más difícil de todos, 13 horas, (las mismas de un vuelo a Japón curiosamente) pensándote, acompañándome, en cada caseta en la que sentía desmayarme, en cada subidón de adrenalina por las curvas a 140km/h, en los momentos en los que quería llorar pero no podía porque tenía que guardar cuanto líquido me fuera posible para evitar deshidratarme, en la comida de teques… porque teques, en el hermoso atardecer, en todo momento, traté de retenerte, me esforcé por llevarte conmigo. Llegamos a la foto a la playa, te sentí irte, era momento de dejarte ir, no querías estar conmigo. Para este viaje ya no. Y mi cuerpo se rindió. Te sentí partir, sentí que ya no querías compartir, la goma mágica había borrado todo, de nuevo, esta vez para siempre. Lo supe y me sentí morir, literalmente.

Tu silencio me dice absolutamente todo, la decisión a la que has llegado, las prioridades en tu vida, lo que quieres, tu actitud habla más que mil palabras, ya no estás, ya no vas a estar.

No importa lo que diga, lo que haga, lo que pase… no es suficiente.

Mi padre no llora

Hace un par de días, mi Papá mandó al chat familiar la imagen de un niño japonés durante la segunda guerra mundial esperando su turno para cremar a su pequeño hermano muerto. En la imagen reza la historia de la foto, en la que el niño mordía tan fuertemente su labio para no llorar que le sangraban las comisuras de los labios. Palabras más, palabras menos, la imagen hasta hoy en día es símbolo en Japón de fuerza, y a la foto le acompaña un texto que dice así:

«Que esta foto sirva de ejemplo para los pequeñitos modernos que sufren por palabras, que creen que el mundo se terminó porque la novia deshonrada le cambio por otro. Niños que dicen sufrir de depresión y se cortan con láminas (que supongo son navajas) en sus habitaciones, haciendo que sus padres lloren de disgusto por los chantajes emocionales. Maduren!!! Vayan hombres, el mundo se está jodiendo por sus traumas. Su única alternativa es ser fuerte en este mundo…»

Me dio muchísima pena, y no fue el pequeño que en la foto trae cargando a su hermano a cuestas, obviamente sin vida, me dio pena mi padre, mi hermano. Este par de hombres a los que se les dijo C O N T I N U A M E N T E y a lo largo de su vida que llorar «no es de hombres» que sentir «es solo para las mujeres». Este tipo de roles de género a creado una sociedad que no quiere pretende aceptar, no solo que los hombres lloren, sino que exista equidad en nuestros géneros, tampoco permite o juzga que exista más de un género, que juzga y que limita nuestro entendimiento del amor, de la familia, de nuestro rol en la sociedad. Que castiga y estigmatiza a quien se ve diferente, que nos pone etiquetas por permitirnos vivir en libertad el amor, el sexo, carajo, hasta los deportes!!!

El llorar, no le quita su hombría a mi padre, ni a mi hermano ni a ningún hombre sobre la faz de la tierra, sin embargo se les ha dicho que sí, y qué es lo que pasa con toda esa energía que se acumula cuando no podemos llorar? Bueno pues eso es muy fácil de explicar, cuando en México mueren 11 mujeres víctimas de feminicidio, cuando la taza de suicidios de hombres supera por MUCHÍSIMO la taza de las mujeres, cuando vemos que los hombres en general y en todo el mundo mueren antes de las mujeres, y no creo que sea una cosa que tenga que ver con lo que comen o con biología, creo que tiene que ver en demasía con la constante presión que se le pone al género masculino para ser fuerte, independiente, proveedor, líder, ganador, capaz, buen padre, buen amante, buen hijo, buen esposo, buen hermano, buen amigo y SIN QUEJARSE, SIN LLORAR, -eso es para las niñas, eso es para los maricones-

Qué me gustaría que pasara? Que tú, que tienes un hijo, un hermano, un primo, un amigo, conocido, allegado hombre, que ves que sufre porque no puede siquiera estar en contacto con su llanto le aconsejes que vaya a un psicólogo, que le digas, -LLORA CARNAL, DESAHOGATE, ESTÁS EN UN ESPACIO SEGURO- que permitas que las figuras masculinas en tu vida se den la oportunidad de abrir su corazón para que no se les cierre la vida. Tal vez no llorar te haga parecer ante los demás como fuerte, pero está debilitando tu alma.

LLORA, SIENTE, RIE, VIVE. AQUÍ YO NO TE VOY A JUZGAR. Te quiero, bye.

Heritage

The more time passes by, the more I am convinced why I never had any children. I was raised by  and with a tribe of people of all ages and ideas, even different backgrounds: my mother’s mother María and her younger children Maribel, Toño and Alejandro; my father’s mother Quina, her husband Juan; my uncles and aunt Miguel, Carlos, Chavo, Francisco and Lety; and also later on by a family that rented a space to my mom where she had a laundry business. They were the Jaramillos: Mr. Raúl, Mrs. Luz María, Alejandra, Raul and Luz Ma.

None of these people had the same upbringing and ideas, not even the same religion or culture. This made me a mix of all things, which made me “weird.” There was one thing, however, that they all shared, they all knew, they all agreed upon and without realizing, they all left as a heritage for generations to come: MACHISMO!

I really fought this monster my entire life without knowing I was doing so. I never even heard the word “feminist” until I was probably in college, and I thought it was a bunch of lesbian women fighting for their rights. It took me literally a lifetime to understand the cancer that machismo is in our society.

For as long as I can recall in all the houses where I grew up, there was always a motherly figure  who would take care of everything around the house -laundry, dish washing, cooking, cleaning, paying the bills on time (with the money given by the men in the family). When a man would come to the house, the women in it would move around like little ants answering to whatever needs he might develop even before he thought of them. It was magical. (For them of course)

When I was well into my teens, and I was at home with my parents, it drove me crazy to know that I needed to set the table so my brother and father would sit there and eat, and then I would have to pick up the dishes so my mother could wash them and put them away when dry. All they had to do was eat and say thank you. 

Why was I asked to perform all these roles, and why did my mom also always do them with grace and without hesitation?

When I started dating, my mother would always say, “Agg MoNo, those guys you date. They are such hippies, not paying for your things, not opening the door for you, not asking you to marry them. WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?” My answer was always the same, “I work to pay my own bills, Mom! I don’t need a man, a woman or a quimera to do that for me. If so, why am I even working?”

When I experienced my first rape attempt, I didn’t share it with anyone but a friend; first because I felt it was my fault, going out in the street at such an hour, and alone with no money. Then my friend said, “Well, nothing happened to you in the end, so why would you complain about it?” After almost a decade, I shared the story with a group of friends and my mom, and she said almost the same thing and thought the comments were intended to make  me feel like it was my fault. Why was I out at that time? Why did I do this instead of that?

My feminist quest didn’t have an exact moment of appearance. Several events triggered it; for example, when I started living on my own at age 22. Back then, in 2002, it was such a weird thing to do as a woman without being married. The quest continued when I started working, and I saw how women treated other women in the workforce. I couldn’t pinpoint it, but the competitiveness didn’t feel «sane;» it felt more like a crazy-ass, winner-takes-all competition. My journey into feminism continued with a set of wonderful women I began meeting along the way. Not only did they show me the importance of my own voice, but also the similarity mine had with their voices, which was further consolidated through the #MeToo Movement.  I heard so many women telling stories that resonated with mine. All the memories, all the insults, all the fear, all the pain. All of it started to emerge from inside me and poured out like an endless fountain. It hurt. I cried. Inspired by all those feelings, I created a workshop for women only to learn personal defense. It felt like something I needed to do, but later I also realized that this isn’t a battle for women to fight with fists, but with knowledge and by changing our state of mind.

Later when I found out my brother was going to have a baby girl, I was crying tears of joy, but then I got extremely serious. His father-in-law came over and put his hand on my shoulder and  asked me, “MoNo, aren’t you happy you are going to be an auntie?” I got up with tears still rolling down my cheeks and told him, “Happy? No, I feel afraid and extremely responsible for a little girl who is coming into this world. I need to step up my game.” I think he got a bit scared, and he just smiled at me and left.

Still to this day at my parents’ house, all the responsibility falls into a single person’s hands: my mom. But it is very important to state that it falls into her hands because to this day, she still doesn’t ask my brother or father to help with simple tasks like loading he washing machine, doing the dishes, sweeping the floors, or whatever. She has two reasons for this:

1. She says that they do it wrong.
2. She would rather do it herself.

But isn’t it funny that if I do it, there’s no problem? 

Is this the heritage I would want to leave to my children? Is this the heritage I would want to pass on to my niece? Is this the heritage we as women deserve?

I actually never intended to not to have children because of these issues; but the more time passes, the more these problems surface, and I find myself grasping the real baggage of machismo. I feel like I made the right decision. 

I can talk to my niece about all these things, but what I feel I should do – and actually have been  trying to do – is share my experiences more openly with my mom, ask her to listen to podcasts that talk about sexuality, machismo and feminism. I’ve taken the responsibility to educate myself, my family and the people I love, in order to live a life that might set an example of what happiness stands for outside the stereotypes of previous generations. 

To me, the best heritage for my niece would be to show her that all human beings deserve happiness, and that the pursuit of it is different for all of us. Because of that, her happiness will depend solely on her, on her values, ideals, ideas and faith. Furthermore, I want her to know it’s ok to go against the tide if that is what her heart tells her. That institutions (all of them) should be questioned, and she should make her own conclusions. That going down the road of intelligence rather than conformity is a hard and tortuous one, but that following it does bring the greatest of satisfactions. 

Above all, the heritage I want to pass on to my niece is to resonate with the sound of her own voice and femininity. I want to be there for her and for all women and sentient beings that I  possibly can be, in the best way I can possibly offer. After all, she’s the future of our race, and she and all the members of new generations deserve better than we had. I owe it to her and to all the women before me. I just hope she understands the importance of it.

• 

CQ, CQ, this is W9GFO…

En noches como esta, y a estas horas es precisamente cuando más te necesito.

No nos confundamos, por favor, me di cuenta hace un tiempo ya, que desde hace muchos años te necesitaba, igual que tú a mí, como mi confidente, como mi hermano. Eras mi mejor amigo y yo la tuya. Qué difícil no? Darnos cuenta entonces de que era solo la más hermosa de las amistades. Cuántas mentiras y cuánto daño nos hicimos para tratar de conservar algo que no era más que una divina, rara, compleja, una en 7 mil millones, la mejor de las amistades.

En noches cómo esta quisiera tomar el teléfono y llamarte, esas llamadas que duraban toda la noche y llorar, y reír y por supuesto quedarme dormida cuando saliera el sol. Simplemente saber que contaba contigo y que me dieras la seguridad de que todo estará bien porque ya hemos pasado por momentos como estos y hemos salido avantes.

El peor enemigo de nuestra amistad fue el apego, el pensar que algo tan hermoso e inimaginable no solo podía ser eso… amistad, fraternidad, cariño. Qué sencillo nos fue confundirnos y simplemente aferrarnos. Caray! no me lo tomes a mal pero ya no tenía ni siquiera atracción física hacia ti, era solo aferramiento y que daño te hice, que daño me hiciste, que daño nos hicimos.

Magia, también puede ser amistad, la amistad también es amor, insistimos en hacerlo algo más y perdimos toda perspectiva en el camino. Perdimos una amistad única en 7 mil millones.

¡Qué inmaduros!, nos perdimos otro capicúa, un cometa, otro Cosmos, un bebé, el resto de nuestras vidas (aunque ya sabemos que ahí estábamos, en la memoria, en los recuerdos, en la mente, y probablemente ahí sigamos toda esta vida)

En noches como esta, extraño a mi mejor amigo, pero sé que estás bien, me lo dicen mis sueños y nuestras pláticas en ellos. Yo también estaré bien.

Pero en noches como esta precisamente es cuando más te necesito.

… PLEASE COME BACK?

Next life for sure, and we will make it better, my dear, dear friend way better, I promise.

Fear and Love

FEAR

noun

1. an unpleasant emotion caused by the belief that someone or something dangerous is likely to cause pain, or a threat.

LOVE

noun

1. an intense feeling of deep affection.
2. a great interest and pleasure in something.

They made love in the shower. She had somehow developed a kind of a ritual with him; it was either kissing for the longest time or making love. She would just jump on it – start her music with the little waterproof speaker and then wash herself. When the warm water passed through her hair, she would face the wall and close her eyes. His timing was almost perfect every time. The moment she would turn around, he would be inside the shower, grabbing her by the waist, kissing her on the lips, and moving his way down her neck, shoulders, chest, and breasts. She would melt and get carried away every single time. She loved him. This time, they were making love in a different shower. They had traveled for the weekend to a lake house they had rented on a website, and the shower was rather uncomfortable, so he turned off the water, and she understood immediately – it was time to take this to bed. Their hair and bodies were all wet, but they didn’t care, and all the sheets got soaked. He loved to look her straight into her eyes, and she always felt staggered by him doing this, even after all this time together. He was too much, he knew her too well, he felt too much, he craved too much, he needed too much. He was too much. 

Making love to him always left her with no energy. Was he an incubus? She fell asleep right after, over the damp sheets.

An energy woke her up with a scream. He knew about her nightmares, but this one felt different. A fear surrounded her, and she started crying profusely. He held her in his arms, and she felt that horrible energy taking over the entire room, the entire house. 

“I’m so afraid I’ll lose you,” she said.

“Don’t worry. What did you dream?”

“I don’t even remember. I just feel like I’m going to lose you. We’ve come so far, we’ve worked so hard for this. I’m just so afraid this will end, but I don’t know why. I just feel like I’m going to lose you, and it’s so scary.

He kissed her forehead and said, “Please, don’t worry. I’m right here.”

She had to take a very long trip as soon as they got back home. They made promises to talk to each other as much as possible while she was far away, and 15 days later she was about to get back to see him. They were ready to meet, and he had said he had a surprise for her, but somehow it sounded distant, weird.

When they finally met, it was all very theatrical like they loved to do. He had also taken the time to travel while she was away, and gifts were given, exchanging places and spaces that reminded them of each other, heartfelt moments and Polaroids of the places they shared, even when they were apart. 

A lamp

Stamps

A Hat

Figurines

Origami paper

Erasers

Candy

And a book… 

Walking Trough Walls, a memoir by Marina Abramović. The moment she saw it, she started to cry. He had never read the book, neither did she, but she got the subliminal message that she was pretty sure he didn’t even realized he had given to her with the book.

She was Marina. He was Ulay. And it was time.

Somehow, her fear had become a reality. But it had to happen. She knew it, she just waited for him to say it. 

“I’m so sorry,” he said. “I just can’t be with someone I don’t love anymore.”

“I understand,” she answered softly. 

Have you ever heard those stories of people that have close to death experiences? And how their whole life flash in front of them? 19 years flashed in front of her on a second. The good, the bad, the ugly, all. Nineteen years. They had been together for 19 years. She knew it was over. She knew the love was there, but it was different. She knew the fear was there, and it was real.

And that was it. She got up and walked away. To never look back again. To start walking her own path without him. Without fear, just filled with love a different one, but still LOVE.

Heartbreak

My grandmother was very young when she lost her first husband. The family legend says that she lay in bed for a whole week when he passed, and the eldest of her sons (my father), who was nine or 10 years old, lost his childhood in the blink of an eye. I have no further information about my grandfather, none whatsoever. It was a taboo subject, and my grandmother never mentioned his name again. NEVER. I think that when she lost her husband, my grandmother’s heart cracked in such a way that it could never mend again. The fact that she never mentioned my grandfather’s name kind of confirms that. Whenever she referred to him, she would call him “El Finado,” which literally means “the one that found its end.” The dictionary translates it as “dead.”

So, none of the six children my grandmother had (then) really overcame the death of my grandpa. My father cannot speak more than two sentences about him because the pain and loss overwhelms him, and his voice breaks and his eyes become watery. So no, no talking about EL FINADO.

My grandmother remarried very shortly after the loss of my grandfather, and her new husband Juan León was the only grandfather I ever knew and remember. He was a very dark–skinned man, and I always remember him being at the entrance of my grandmother’s house, looking at the horizon or in his garage, cleaning some piece of a motor or something. Grandpa Juan (as I used to call him) came to mend my grandma’s heart. She used to call him Gordo (fat).

Grandpa Juan was a weird person, but he was always sweet to me. I was his first granddaughter, and he was very patient with me. I grew up in their house because my parents were very young, and they worked all my life, so my grandparents raised me – my Grandma Quina, my Grandpa Juan and my Grandma María.

Grandpa Juan LOVED to read, and he LOVED crossword puzzles. He also loved Coca-Cola and to have a smoke after lunch. I don’t think he ever had a steady job, but he would do one thing here and one thing there. He was always at home and was my Grandma’s companion. He did love to travel, though, and he joined a radio club called “Conejos Liberales.” With those friends, he would go up and down Mexico, and he would have long radio conversations with them when he was home. He was a very quiet person, and he loved my mom. They would always go and have a cigarette after lunch. He would give her honey candy. He would have one, too, and then they would smoke their cigarette together in the entrance of the house while looking at the horizon.

Grandma Quina was older than Grandpa Juan, and she always used to say she would die before him and ask him to take care of her children when she was gone. She had six from her first marriage and shared one with Grandpa Juan. They all got along pretty well, I think.

One day, Grandpa Juan went to the doctor for a check–up, and he never came back. The news of his death was a total shock for the entire family, especially for my grandmother. Her heart was absolutely shattered. The same thing that happened with Grandpa Felipe had repeated, and my Grandma had a meltdown. I think she had to be sedated, and she slept for days. I do remember, though, that when I finally saw her again, she had aged. She looked so old, so sad, so heartbroken. It was hard. It was extremely hard.

As time passed by, Grandma Quina started to get back to her normal life of cooking and keeping herself busy, but he light in her face was gone. She never actually recovered. A year passed by, and we met her for Christmas. She was sitting in a corner of my grandpa’s garage and solemnly said, “I miss my Gordo, dear family. I’ve done my best, but this is the last Christmas I’ll spend with you. I’m sorry.” We all pumped her up, telling her she had so much to live for, that we loved her, etc, etc. She had tears in her eyes but still managed a small, gentle smile. I felt for her.

On December 2 the following year, Grandma Quina had a stroke and died. She kept her promise and didn’t spend that Christmas with us. Even though the death certificate stated she died of complications due to her stroke, I knew she died of a broken heart.

I should confess something at this point. Grandma Quina was my favorite family member, and when she left, she broke my heart, too.

Finding

I got a promotion and with it I had to move to Queretaro. I was living in a beautiful apartment in Mexico City just around Condesa, but when I got the promotion, I was ecstatic! I have always loved change, moving around and finding new places.

But shortly after I received news of the promotion, I met a guy, and our relationship became pretty serious in a matter of weeks.

The happy feeling of moving to Queretaro soon vanished because I didn’t want to spend a second away from this guy that had become so important so fast. I promised myself I would make it work, and every weekend for 4 months, I went back and forth to be with him. Until he broke up with me. I went back to Querétaro with a broken heart and no one to actually talk to about the situation. I was in this new place, living by myself and just crying my heart out. I felt lonely and sad, and all I wanted to do was leave this new place and go back to Mexico City and make the relationship work. I was devastated.

Every day I would drive myself to my office just to come back and fall down into that lonely abyss and cry myself to sleep every night. I was feeling so deeply alone.

A few days passed, and one morning I went down the stairs of my house to find a cat inside my living room. She didn’t move, meow, or get scared (God knows I sure did!). She gently and slowly walked towards me and then started rubbing herself on my leg. I leaned down to stroke her and ask her, “Hey! How are you? What’s your name?” I saw a collar but no name tag. She turned around and ran to the window and left just as silently and swiftly as she had when she entered the house. I remember smiling and taking a box of cereal back to my room. To my place of solitude.

Later that afternoon I called my mom and told her what happened, and she immediately said, “DO NOT FEED IT MONO! It’s not your cat! You don’t know where it’s been or if it even has an owner or anything! If you feed it, it’ll always go to your house just for food, and well, you are going to be feeding a stranger’s cat! PLUS, YOU ARE SO ALLERGIC! DO NOT FEED IT MONO!”

“OK, Mom! OK! I won’t. Thanks for your input.”

The next day, though, the cat was back in the house again. She explored a bit more, going all the way into the kitchen and now answered by meowing in reply to my random questions. It was very weird how she kept interrupting my solitude with her very mystic and majestic personality, as if saying, “Hey there! I’m just checking if you are still alive. OK, bye now!” And she left again.

The weekend was over, and I went back to work. When I returned home that evening, the cat was waiting for me ON MY BED! I was very surprised to see her there, but I was also quite happy to find someone to talk to. I didn’t feel so lonely. That day I discovered that “it” was a “she,” and I started calling her Gatita (Kitten).

A whole week passed, and Gatita kept getting into the house during the day and getting out during the night. I figured she was just going back home, but for the next week, she stayed over, and after that she never left. I never saw a sign asking for a lost kitten. I asked my neighbors, but they had never seen her before. So I started feeding her, and my mom went a little crazy (along with my allergies).

“I TOLD YOU NOT TO FEED HER! Well, never mind, send me a picture or something. Is she pregnant?! OH GOD, MONO! WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO WITH BABY KITTENS?! I hope she doesn’t have fleas! Does she have a name? AAAAWWWW, YOU SHOULD CALL HER FELIX!!! TAKE HER TO THE VET! WHAT IF SHE HAS RABIES?!”

“OMG, Mom! Do you want me to keep her or not?! How can I call her FELIX if its a SHE?! You know what? I’m taking her to the vet. I’ll talk to you later.”

The sadness that was instilled in me previously quickly disappeared with the thought of seeing with my cat every day. I never gave her a different name, and Gatita simply turned into Tita. She would sit next to me at night until she fell asleep and wake me up with little purrs in the morning. I started to feel better in no time. When I finally stopped thinking about my ex (whom I shall call Israel) he suddenly called me and asked me how I was and how was I feeling. Then I told him about the cat and how she had helped me with the sadness he caused me after we broke up. He was so excited about the cat and very sorry about what happened. He confessed he missed me and said a million other things, and eventually we got back together. Later on, he moved to Queretaro, and Tita was only the first of three cats we ended up taking in. Each of them found us exactly when we needed it, in magical and unexpected ways.

Israel and I decided we were going to move abroad, the 12,500-kilometer trip was a big deal. The first thing we knew was going to be difficult was moving away with three cats. There was never an argument about not taking them. NEVER. We knew they were coming with us, and that was it.

When we made the decision to move, we took the cats to the vet, and started the research for the trip. But then something happened. Tita started to leave the house and not come back during the night. Our cats were always free to go out and about if they wanted, but they always came back home for the night. Tita left for three nights straight, and we almost lost our minds. A neighbor told us she had taken care of Tita the same way I was now until Tita found me. Tita would go to the neighbor’s apartment for a few hours then leave. She began leaving for longer periods of time and then entire nights.

We realized right then and there that Tita had made the decision to not move with us, and Israel was very sad about this. We had actually learned a few days before that we could only take two cats with us, and we were thinking about paying someone to take one of the cats, or send it by courier or something. We never argued about this inside the house, but Tita just knew, and she made the decision for us. I also realized right then why Tita had found me when I was so sad and lonely and why it was time for her to move on now – exactly the same way I had needed to move on to the next chapter of my life.

It was time for Israel to leave and get all our things ready for our arrival to that foreign country. The day he was supposed to leave, no one could find Tita, not even our neighbor. A week had passed since we last saw her and we were afraid she was dead, sick, or something bad had happened to her. I remember feeling a huge hole in my stomach.

We needed to go to Mexico City to catch a plane, and Israel was crying his eyes out. He couldn’t believe that after three years, he couldn’t even say goodbye to his furry baby. We closed the house doors, walked to the car, and called Tita with treats, food, and jam – all the tricks in the book but nothing. Fifteen minutes passed, and we just started to drive away. I remember feeling so sad and lost. I also felt a little guilty, Israel was leaving before me and the rest of the kittens to get us an apartment and maybe a job, so that meant that I could go back home and see her again, but Israel would never have the chance to do so. We drove away.

I don’t even know how he noticed, but Israel suddenly stopped the car, opened the door, and ran back to the house. There Tita was, standing in our parking space! Israel grabbed her, kissed her, and we both cried as we said goodbye to our baby girl. It was one of the most sad yet magical moments I had ever experienced, and I was also so grateful that she was there to say goodbye.

The cat that had found me, that showed Israel and me a different way to love, was saying goodbye to us and letting us go. She was moving on and so were we.

I never saw her again. To this day I can’t believe the way she found me and showed me the path to find myself, as well as teaching me how difficult and extremely sad it can be to say goodbye. But sometimes you just have to move on and carry on.

What I miss about you…

I had a dream last night. As it always happens (at least in my dreams) some parts are kinda blurry and I’m not sure that the characters are quite defined. I do remember that 2 of my greatest loves where part of that dream. With one of them I talked, and I recall the feeling of being heard with attention bounded to love.

I don’t even know how to describe this, but it kinda feels like when you love someone, and you are listening to whatever they have to say and you hope deep in your heart that they are happy and wish them the best, just because you love them. In this particular case it felt like that but it had a hint of romance in it, and a desire that only comes from passion.

I miss that.

With the other guy, we didn’t actually talked that much during the dream. We sort of had an interaction with another person but the feeling I had was of great caring, he only wanted me to find what I was looking for. He hugged me in the way you hug a person that you love. I could smell his clothes, and it was so real that it made me wake up.

I miss that too.

I certainly loved this guys in a moment of time, and I don’t miss them, not in the romantic way that you might expect after all the time spent together, I did woke up yearning the way it felt to be loved like that by another person. I have found myself in this knowledge trip, that has made me realize that self love is very important, and I feel the love that I pour into myself everyday, and the one that my friends and family also feel for me, but after been almost 3 years single (without counting the mingle) I realized just now, that I really miss been loved that way.  And that that’s ok.

5 de Noviembre de 2016

La historia en realidad comienza el 4 de Noviembre de 2016, Luis y yo habíamos decidido pasar día de muertos juntos y para la noche el plan era ir a bailar al Imperial. Bailamos hasta que ya no pudimos más y fue entonces cuando decidimos pasar la noche en su departamento, que está literalmente a 10 minutos caminando de aquel épico lugar que tanto me gustaba.

Nos despertamos a la mañana siguiente, contigo, tocando la puerta súper enojado porque una moto estaba estorbando tu lugar de estacionamiento. Tocabas como queriendo derrumbar la puerta, pero quien abrió fui yo. Cruda, qué digo yo cruda! CRUDÍSIMA!!! Y tu molestia se convirtió en sorpresa.

-Perdón, buenos días, es tuya la moto que está estorbando en mi lugar de estacionamiento?

-SÍ!!! DISCULPA, deja bajo y la muevo.

Tu tono bajó de 10 a 2 en 3 segundos y me hiciste la plática de inmediato, te sorprendía primero que nada que anduviera en moto y de ahí nos seguimos con muchos temas más.

Mientras subíamos las escaleras al departamento, Luis ya se había despertado y estaba preparando de desayunar, nos sentamos a comer y a platicar mientras tu hermano se bañaba porque tenía un compromiso “familiar” (ja, ja, ja, ja) aquella era la época en la que no hablaba del poli-amor tan abiertamente. Estoy casi segura de que se iba a ver con alguien más. Pero eso, es parte de otra historia en la que no nos vamos a enfocar hoy.

Mientras Luis se bañaba, arreglaba, perfumaba y obviamente interrumpía de cuando en cuando nuestra conversación yo, perdí POR COMPLETO la noción del tiempo, había también, olvidado totalmente, que era el cumpleaños de mi papá y que tenía que llegar a casa pronto. Pero la conversación fluyo, como fluyen todas nuestras conversaciones hasta el día de hoy, entre risas, desacuerdos, defender a capa y espada nuestras ideas y luego escuchar las del otro y bajar la guardia. Para cuando Luis estaba listo para su otro compromiso, yo seguía con la camisa que me había prestado para dormir y ya habían pasado por lo menos dos horas!!!

Y es que así pasa el tiempo contigo, hablamos de cosas que no comparto con NADIE es más ni con mi psicóloga! Tus comentarios, tus jaladas de oreja, tus aseveraciones siempre me hacen pensar en lo afortunada que soy de tener amigos como tú y como Luis (obviamente) pero a él ya le escribiré luego.

El día de hoy, te dedico estas líneas porque siempre me has impulsado a escribir, a hablar, a desahogarme, a liberarme del dolor, la presión, la furia y la alegría también. Te escribo hoy porque admiro tu maravillosa idea de no regalar cosas materiales, sino experiencias y quería justamente hoy compartir la experiencia y el agradecimiento a tu hermosa y fraternal amistad.

Te admiro muchísimo, admiro la manera en la que tratas de verle un lado positivo a todo y a todos y te estoy infinitamente agradecida por todas estas cosas:

1. Sabes pedir perdón, tal vez mejor que cualquier persona que conozco, probablemente porque sabes reconocer tus errores.
2. Eres casi por seguro el único hombre que conozco que respeta tanto a su pareja que ha sabido escoger a una que entiende y acepta a tus amistades con el mismo amor y respeto con el que tú la tratas a ella. Eso está bien cabrón!
3. Tu capacidad de ver en los demás el potencial de aprender algo nuevo y no tener miedo en decir… no sé hacer eso, pero me gustaría aprender. ME ENSEÑAS? Sin pensar jamás que te demerita, al contrario te enaltece.
4. Tu capacidad de hacerme reír hasta en los momentos más difíciles. Porque obvio, eres un teto!
5. Cuando me ayudas a ponerme la chamarra!
6. Que sepas tus límites y no los cruzas, porque te respetas a ti y por eso respetas tanto a los demás.
7. Tu fuerza de voluntad! Solo tú puedes beber nuggets de pollo. (sí, puse beber)
8. Que me has enseñado a aceptar mi intensidad y a verla como algo con muchísimo potencial positivo. Gracias!
9. Eres de los mejores anfitriones del mundo mundial. Luisito diferirá de esto porque siempre dice que dejas el depa hecho un desmadre y no lavas los platos (pero eso sólo lo sabemos nosotros, shhhhh)
10. Todavía me parece increíble que podamos hablar por teléfono más de dos horas y que ni siquiera sienta que hayan pasado 10 minutos
11. Lo parecidas que son nuestras historias de vida y como por ello nuestra amistad es más fuerte
12. Tu honestidad, bruta, sin filtro, pero amorosa.
13. Lo mucho que te quieren tus amigos habla de la gran persona que eres.
14. Tu amor por el teatro, el cine, el arte en general y tu gran capacidad de desmenuzar las tramas sin spoilerear
15. Tus trompos al pastor. QUÉ PEDO CON ESO!?!?!?
16. Todo lo que has logrado, a puro pulso!
17. Que sabes lo que quieres, sabes lo que tienes que sacrificar por ello y que eres honesto con todas las partes para lograrlo
18. Esa idea tuya de regalar experiencias y no cosas materiales (aunque se agradece lo material que me has dado)
19. Hablando de regalos: que prefieres hablar y revisar si vas por buen camino cuando estas comprando un detalle para mi, “para no cagarla”
20. Que compres “detalles” sin que haya una ocasión para ello.
21. Aún no puedo creer que se te haga “cerca” ir de la condesa al pedregal en cualquier momento del día.
22. El trato que tú y tu hermano dan a la gente, siempre como iguales es algo que admiro muchísimo de ustedes
23. Eres super pedorro y no te da miedo admitirlo. Aunque deberías, la neta.
24. Lo mucho que quieres a tu familia y lo importante que es para ti, aunque luego sientes que no haces lo suficiente para que estén bien. Créeme, haces muchísimo.
25. El tamaño de tu cabeza. YUCA!!!
26. Admiro lo extremadamente diferente que eres a tu hermano, sin embargo son el complemento perfecto el uno del otro, tan distintos y tan adorables LOS DOS! Y pedorros, claro.
27. Tu habilidad de adaptación, no cualquiera podría tener la posición que tienes sin eso y menos en un lugar como India!
28. Lo verdaderamente NACO que puedes llegar a ser sin siquiera proponértelo. Si te escuchara tu madre, seguro te deshereda. EL GAAAAAAAS!
29. A estas alturas del partido, la paciencia que has desarrollado cada vez que tienes que sacar la visa. CADA VEZ UN PEDO DISTINTO y ya se te pasa como agua debajo de un puente.
30. A pesar de lo lejos que estás, siempre ofreces pasar por mi.
31. Como cualquier tema del que estemos hablando puede terminar en dos puntos, mi corazón de condominio o el tamaño de mis nalgas SIEMPRE.
32. Y hablando del corazón de condominio, no tienes ningún reparo en etiquetar a cualquier güey que me guste como raro y no solo eso, encontrarás la manera de hacerme ver en dónde reside su rareza y me caga que no te equivocas!!!
33. Neta? Adela Micha? NETA?
34. Haces tiempo siempre para pasarla con tus amigos a pesar de tener una familia, una pareja, un trabajo con horarios tan distintos a los nuestros y eso es un enorme regalo y el bien más valioso, así que GRACIAS
35. Eres el mejor dando consejos, no me dices lo que quiero escuchar, sino lo que tengo que escuchar.
36. La importancia que le das al momento presente, porque cuando estamos juntos de verdad estás presente y regalas momentos de calidad y no de cantidad.

Querido Dani, estoy súper feliz y orgullosa de llamarte mi amigo. Mi hermano! 36 cosas que admiro de ti y 36 años de vida, gracias por todo el tiempo risas y lágrimas compartidas, el resto de tu vida te espera en este nuevo año y en este nuevo país donde espero que cumplas todas las metas que te has puesto, pero sobre todo espero que siempre haya balance, salud, amor, y éxito en tu vida. Te mereces lo mejor!

Te adoro amigo!