writing – Page 2 – Nómada [con] Rumbo

Entre Comillas: Chapter 2, Dreamer’s Disease

Millennial naivety. Dreamer’s disease.

I never was set up for low expectations. With my marketing degree and my 4 years working at Kohl’s, I was sure setting up shop would be easy. The real struggle would be establishing myself.

Since I was young, I fancied myself a writer. An artist. All that was missing from my wave of whimsy was the “starving” epithet in front of the “artist.”

Some might call me aimless. I would just say young and stupid. But regardless, I felt myself stagnate with every passing day in Fayetteville. The heat of summer passed and the mild cold of winter would turn to frosted leaves. I wanted the eternal sun of the West. I wanted to live in someone else’s skin – someone smarter and happier and better. And isn’t that the dream most people seek?

El camión olía a tierra y perspiración. Una sensación de estar inundado en un pantano me bañaba como mi propio sudor. Trataba de no mirar hacia nada, ni al hombre medio parado frente a mí contra la otra pared del camión, ni a la niña y su madre enganchadas a la mano derecha. La vista se me hizo borrosa a los periferales. El ojo se enfocaba en el centro, en el corazón. Pensaba en nada más que mi propia respiración, centrándome en las horas que pasaba con mi celular, escuchando y viendo a medias los videos de meditación y yoga. Yo tenía (y siempre he tenido) un deseo insaciable de ser invencible, de encontrarme en un mundo más allá de la realidad. Y nunca antes alcancé esta meta hasta aquel día en el camión. Y las noches después, también bañadas en sudor, que se me hacían eternas. Y creo que jamás viviré tal delirio nuevamente. O, al menos, eso espero.

Of course, for all my semi-privilege, I couldn’t just pick up and move to the City of Angels. I had a savings account that had barely made it past the $1,000 marker. I had blown most of my money on art kits and dance classes and improvised trips. Oh, and college, which I had not gotten a free ride to afford. Much to the chagrin of my working class parents, I was neither talented enough to earn some sort of fancy art’s scholarship or sport’s scholarship – god forbid – and not bright enough to get a full ride on my academic merits either. I was just good enough to cover the bare minimum.

Regardless, I had never been the sort of person to listen to reason or bar myself. I knew how to work the retail world, sure, I was not the most social of people (although I could lie and say the experience overall changed my essence, I would say it was more of a necessity to adapt that changed me). Retail is relevant everywhere though.

I started by looking at my budget. Where could I live with just enough scraped together to pay a security deposit and rent and still be able to buy a few groceries?

Craig’s List became my best friend. Some ads were sketchier than others. Some seemed normal until you looked at them hard enough and began to ask yourself “Where is the lie?” My budget was pencil slim – no more than $500 a month until I became established. I sent out so many job applications on monster and indeed and, yes, Craig’s List, too, that I thought for sure I would be in a bind once all of the calls started rolling in.

The phone was unnervingly silent. I waited as long as I could before resigning. I had nothing, nowhere to start.

So I began to look for alternatives. Some Craigslist ads advertised what to my naive 22 year old mind was unthinkable – a strange sex trade for free living situation. I stumbled upon a few links that unambiguously read “Free Housing for Live-in Companion.” Companion, I thought, scrunching my brow and biting my lip as if that euphemism was not painfully clear enough. A smile cracked my lips in spite of my disgust as I read on. “Looking for a lovely young lady to share a queen sized bed with me. I will treat you like a queen. Open-mindedness a must.” My lips folded back in a cringe. Pass. As tempting as paying nothing for rent was, my dignity was worth so much more. Although, with each passing day, I could feel myself becoming restless, and with restlessness came the inevitable shifting of my moral compass, what I felt was absolutely oh-hell-no and negotiable – the two formerly isolated concepts were beginning to blur and merge.

One day, a friend reminded me casually of the possibility of couchsurfing. “Why don’t you try it, Claire?” she asked as she sipped her pumpkin spice latte. “I mean, what do you have to lose? You keep saying you can’t spend more than $400 upfront, what could be better than free? You get on your feet, you might get asked on some weird dates or proposed some awkward cuddle sessions, but hey, why not?”

I knew she was being sarcastic, and I shrugged and shook my head. “How even does that work?” As she sipped, I played with my long dark hair. For some reason, splitting my own ends where they were most damaged was calming to me. Also, I loathe pumpkin spice lattes.

My friend, Amber (yes, the most typical of all white girl names), took an extra long sip of her latte. “Well,” she said, “it’s simple. You stay with someone and exchange company for free room and board.”

“Ugh, lame!” I cried, thinking of the unsavory mix of craigslist ads I had waded through for the past week. “When does the actual, um, couch-surfing thing happen?”

“Chill, it’s not, like, prostitution or anything, girly. It’s perfectly legit, the hosts have profiles and everything. I mean, yeah, I’ve had a few hookups on there, but you know, it was like totally unplanned and not awkward at all!”

I felt like my eyes rolled so far back in my head I had found the gap within the space-time continuum.

“Okay, let me back up and reexplain.” She knew the face I was making all too well. She took one last noisy sip of her decimated drink, her lips slurping hard with a desperation that ignored how annoying most people found slurping to be. “Don’t jump to conclusions. Basically, the host can offer you a place on their couch. Sometimes they have spare beds. Sometimes people make agreements to sleep in the same bed. But that’s, like, totally up to the individual.”

Sometimes I wondered how Amber and I had managed to be friends for so long. I thought of myself as being so deep, and sometimes I saw her depth as barely reaching my ankles. I pursed my lips, trying to hide a grin that would inevitably turn into a sneer.

Amber paused, tilting her head at me before bursting out into an uncomfortable cackle. The laugh shook her whole body, and she pushed her dyed red hair back behind an ear so as to avoid it covering her perfectly symmetrical face. “So, you check it out. I mean, it’s free. And really what you trade is just like, cooking and stuff. Going out on hikes. Watching movies. It’s fun. I’ve done it loads of time when I’ve went traveling. Trust me.” Her eyes pleaded with me to take her seriously, but her habitually humorous tone gave her away as insincere.

“Alright, alright,” I said finally. “I’ll take a look tonight and see what I think. Anything to avoid homelessness!”

We had a running joke about me ending up on skid row. It wasn’t the pleasantest or most PC of our jokes, but lately it was looking more and more likely.

After a bit of perusing, I realized that Couch surfing wasn’t the harlotry I had taken it for. The people seemed cool. It was just a matter of finding shared interests and going from there. I sifted for hours through pages that ranged from brief but succinct bullet lists of the person’s interests to a fully detailed novelesque description of their hobbies, goals, and various experiences with couchsurfing. Some claimed to be free spirits that always were hoping to learn something new. The majority were sociable and had likewise expectations of fully getting to know their guest. I figured that could only be expected, to avoid awkwardness. After all, this was not an airbnb you-paid-for-it experience. This was a social experiment, putting two people from different parts of the world into the same living space and seeing what would happen, what they could learn, what they could share…

In the end I was convinced, in spite of Amber’s horrible and somewhat facetious explanation. She never was good for that sort of serious stuff. Now the only issue was finding a host I might be “compatible” with, comfortable with sharing new things and exploring my new home, and yes, kind of freeloading until I got a job.

The more I thought of it in this light, the more I was reminded of my brief but impactful stints on okcupid and tinder. More so on okcupid. There was very little to gain from an app that based your preferences on impulse based on physical appearance alone. I couldn’t be bothered. But the bullet lists and walls of text were very reminiscent to okcupid’s profiles. The only difference was, okcupid didn’t come with warning labels in the form of reviews. So that aspect was much appreciated.

I became mildly obsessed. After getting home from Kohl’s, after waking up, I would begin scanning. I bookmarked different profiles. I mainly gravitated towards the film and book nerds, the ones I knew I would not be stuck grasping at straws for conversation. I tried to avoid the male profiles because my mind inevitably wandered to the idea of some form of relationship. Perhaps it was Amber’s influence, or the fact that I was still trying to move on completely from my last relationship, but I naively dreamed that perhaps my host could become something more. Without the awkward creepiness implied in those craigslist ads. But I suppose on some level I should give credit where credit is due — at least those ads were upfront.

Many conversations began the same way. “Hello! I’m a 23 year old Southern girl looking to get out of Arkansas and move to a land of sunshine and opportunities. Unfortunately, money is an issue at this time. Would you be willing to host me until I get a job (possibly indefinitely)? I swear I make a mean cup of coffee!” Most of these basic messages went through the same revision process repeatedly. Take out a word here, add a smiley face there, swear to myself I did not sound as desperate as I felt.

Everyday the cold dark of winter pushed closer and closer over the horizon. Time was ticking. I promised myself to be gone by the winter so I could hibernate the way the Monarch butterflies do, in search of a warmer climate to live…and die. I still had a lot of life to live, though, so the death part would need to wait. Which was part of why I insisted on avoiding craigslist like the plague. All that I needed was for someone to bite. Until then, I had to keep on dreaming.

En realidad el sueño americano no era para mí tan grandioso. Fue necesidad que me empujó, la adaptación a unas circunstancias imposibles.

Ya no tuve a quien más para apoyarme o para yo apoyar. Mi abue se murió hace 5 años. Mi familia fue dividida por líneas rayadas por el dinero. Había primos y tíos pero no quisieran que yo me vendiera así, y al saberlo, algunos se pusieron distantes. Sí, lo de la familia fue complicado, un empujón, pero tanto para cumplir como para salir de la situación en sí. Y a la vez, había tantas dudas.

Ya no era un niño. Cuando me veía en el espejo, lo primero que me llamaba la atención eran mis ojeras. No dañaron la vista de mis ojos verde-cafés, pero me hicieron sentir mucho más viejo.

En el camino, sabía que crecían cada vez más, cada vez mis ojeras se ponían más oscuras. Era un viaje corto pero se sintía como una eternidad. Como el paso del tiempo en una nave espacial.

Cruzar la frontera no es lo más emocionante. Es lo que te espera allá. Y en algún momento ya tenía claro que me iba a bajar y nadar y encontrarme en una tierra que no conocía. Oaxaca se volvería un recuerdo colorido y otro punto en el mapa.

Se escuchan las toses retenidas de los otros pasajeros. La soledad. A pesar de que sus cuerpos quedan cerca, yo me siento lejos. Me imagino caminando por esas calles doradas y me pierdo otra vez, otra vez el conocimiento me invade y se va…

One of the things that makes writing these sorts of passages enjoyable is the sense of melding the self with a person very distinctive and separate from oneself and creating narratives that are both familiar and distant from my own lived experiences. I started writing based on this concept after a conversation with my younger brother about points of view and what could make a love story like this more than a cliché. But I peppered tons of cliches into my character’s thoughts and perceptions of the world, mainly to provoke a sense of realism as well as one of hyperbole and satire.

I don’t know if this story is worth pursuing and writing more. But it was fun rereading something I wrote years ago. As a writer, exercises in point of view shifts really interest me, especially when incorporating the use of different languages.

I’ve been blocked in some ways from writing, although I have been honing my discipline in other areas. So that’s why I’m back here on wordpress, hoping to make posting a habit again.

Murakami’s “What I talk about when I talk about running” has been my inspiration. I swear, I’ve had this book for the past 5 years, and that’s how slowly I have been reading it. There are moments when I don’t appreciate Murakami’s voice, his understating and candid way of casually discussing his successes. It makes me think, “If only it were that easy!” But I think it just might be, and he might have a point. Because in no way is he really implying that writing award-winning novels is “easy” but rather that it doesn’t just come out of some happy accident, some inborn, innate skill. It takes discipline. We in the West give too much credit to “talent.” So as time goes on, I’m starting to read his words differently and see the wisdom suddenly mixed in in his self-deprecating style.

Also, sidebar, I’m reading the version translated into Spanish. The title is De Qué Hablo Cuando Hablo de Escribir and — wow. I didn’t even realize the original title was way better and less redundant until googling the English title just now. For writers, I would highly recommend this book.

To honing our bodies, to sharpening our minds.

Teaching with Compassion

Being a mentor is not always easy. As an English teacher of students across a broad spectrum of ages, levels, and interests, I have been tested consistently and found that being patient is sometimes easier said than done. I would like to share some of the keys that I’ve uncovered during my last 6+ years of teaching and tutoring to maintaining my composure and making authentic connections with my students (that I hope could last for a lifetime).

Compassion. If we are compassionate with others, we become more compassionate with ourselves — and vice versa. Throughout my life, I have struggled to find and cultivate self-compassion. This difficulty comes from being a perfectionist, a busy-body of sorts, always wanting things to go smoothly. Always wanting to be right. Always wanting to feel competent.

As my good friend and mentor Uncle Iroh once said, “Pride is not the opposite of shame, but its source.” When you are compassionate with yourself, you forgive your own mistakes and short-comings. You are more patient and ultimately, more humble. And if we cultivate a strong compassion with ourselves, it is not so hard to transfer that compassion to our relationships with others.

Empathy. Being able to see things not only from your own perspective, but contradicting perspectives, and recognizing which of those perspectives applies to the person you are interacting with. As a teacher, empathy cannot be stressed enough. Like humility, if we lack empathy, we easily can become a caricature, the angry, exacting professor sneering down at their students without a drop of remorse or interest in the perspective of those they are teaching.

Empathy can only be built from humility, by understanding that we all make mistakes. There was a time when we were learning. Ideally, we are still learning everyday. And how do we like it when encountering someone supposed to be mentoring us who talks down to us and makes us feel dumb every time we have a question or make a mistake?

We don’t. We shut down. Shame leads to anxiety which can ultimately affect the functioning of our brains and memories. This is why it is so hard for someone that has been abused as a child to recall information and be present in other realms of their lives.

Be an example. As a teacher, we are in a special position. We are learning, just as our students are learning. However, our students oftentimes act as a mirror, holding up our own best and worst traits. (This is also true for parenting, but since I’m not a parent, I realize I can’t really speak to that relationship directly)

When you want to teach something, you must talk the talk and walk the walk.

I know I’m not saying anything that hasn’t been said before, but I’d like to use my own successes–and failures–to illustrate what I mean.

When I started out teaching fulltime in Colombia, I felt an immense pressure to establish myself as an authority figure in the classroom. As a younger woman (I was 24 when I started out), many assumed that I must be trampled by my students.

All my life, I’ve had a terribly great tendency of taking these sorts of assumptions personally and using my disgust at them to fuel my success. You know, to be the best to prove others wrong. Spite, however, led to feelings of anger, defensiveness, and isolation…and that’s what happened to my professional relationships at the outset of this journey. I never wanted to be wrong or be confronted about being wrong. I didn’t like for my authority to be questioned. Because I focused more on what I didn’t want to be instead of the sort of teacher I would admire and choose to be.

Laugh at yourself. The more I let go and got taken off guard, the more I learned that the best solution to any tension or mistake is to laugh at oneself. If a student does or says something shocking (and trust me, they will) sometimes instead of letting yourself fall into the role of vindictive hell-bent teacher to prove a point — imagine how you would handle this situation if you were an actor or person you admired or felt inspired by (in my case, Uncle Iroh obviously ranks high on my personal list). Putting yourself into another role and viewing things as humorously and impersonally as possible keeps the classroom fun and also hides the buttons that your less-than-nice students might try to prod at any given opportunity. Also, it helps maintain that whole humility thing.

Don’t jump to conclusions. Assumptions are the enemy in any human interaction. Students will often speak impulsively — and parents as well — especially when they are under stress. The best thing is to shut up and listen. Don’t assume you know what’s going to come out of their mouth. I’ve realized I prevent fires that could have easily sparked out of a simple misunderstanding. As teachers, we have to be slow to process and react to things. In other words, get all of the information and then respond.

Take responsibility. This goes back to being a good example to your students. When you take responsibility without assigning blame or excusing your own mistakes, your students pick up on how genuine you are and how strong your character is. Hypocrisy is a double-edged sword — it hurts the bearer and those in its path. Being a hypocritical teacher is insidiously easy, but it will not gain the respect of your students, and worse, their behavior will reflect your worst moments.

When I was in the hot-headed phase of hating my job and holding onto my power and control by the skin of my teeth, I let my emotions get the better of me. At times, I would preach about treating each other with respect and following the rules while simultaneously humiliating a student in the middle of class to teach a lesson. Little by little, bullying became a problem among that group of students. And some part of me, unfortunately, realized with great dread that it was my fault. I had taught the wrong lessons, and it was my actions, not my words which the students had picked up on.

Luckily, each year and group of students, while bringing its own challenges, offers new solutions and opportunities for growth and self-examination.

During the past year, I have been working with students to promote a growth mindset. The moment I realized that I myself had lacked this important principle and quality was not a blow to my ego — it was a wake-up call. I often felt as though in order to be an authority figure, I had to be direct and firm, brooking no nonsense. But acting that way was as rigid as outlawing fun in the classroom — and I’m a fun person. But under pressure, I felt less and less like myself and more and more fragile. And I didn’t forgive myself enough to realize how much I was growing and changing everyday.

Change doesn’t happen the way lightning strikes — it’s gradual like the tide, ebbing and flowing, sometimes pleasant and rewarding, sometimes painful and unsettling. But it happens, whether we are aware of it or not.

While teaching online, I’ve gotten the chance to step away and reevaluate Ms. Amanda the Teacher. I’ve recognized how my posturing in the classroom often did not create the environment I wanted to see — but I did have some important breakthroughs along the way. I forgave myself. I celebrated how much I had grown and changed. I celebrated the growth of my students. That’s how a relationship is formed. No one is perfect.

When working abroad in particular, it’s so easy to blame every little thing we don’t like on the culture. We romanticize our home countries, thinking that this level of disorganization would never happen there. Everything flows more smoothly through the rose-colored lens of our memories. I’ve spent hours venting and ranting with other English teachers who are frustrated with their jobs, hate their students, disdain their students’ parents, and reminisce on how much easier things were or had been or would be in their own countries.

After talking to teachers in other places and honestly reflecting on my past experience teaching as a paraeducator in the states, I realized that these idealizations simply aren’t true. The difference between myself in the States starting out and Ms. Amanda the Serious Teacher was that I used to have far more compassion. I used to have more perspective, because I often was not in the spotlight. I was a supporting cast member helping to allow things to go smoothly. Yes, things seldom went smoothly. There was administrative pressure, just like I experience now as a homeroom and primary teacher. But with a fresher perspective, I enjoyed teaching more. And as I adapted to the culture shock of living in another country and region with stigmas and stereotypes and ways of communicating, some part of myself became more closed and less excited to absorb everything, to take in new information. To grow.

So that’s what this experience has taught me. I’m far from a perfect teacher (much less a perfect person), but I have been feeling satisfied with the results as I have fine-tuned my online class experiences. The importance of a plan, working with the end result in mind, while being spontaneous and unafraid to improvise and roll with class discussions and fun, has finally imprinted itself on my sporadic, easily-disillusioned mind.

And I’m enjoying teaching. In spite of the new challenges and hiccups, the exhausting days and the never-ending flow of planning and paperwork. I’ve found within this profession a way to evaluate and assess without judgment and to accept criticism and laugh without being too self-defacing and awkward. I’m growing. Reminding myself always to teach with compassion.

What about you? Have you been challenged as a teacher or a mentor? Have you lived abroad? What have you learned?

P.S.: It seems appropriate that this blog go full circle since it’s officially been 4 years since I started it — 4 years of teaching in Colombia.

Writing Project: Entre Comillas

I’ve been stumbling upon and rereading some writing projects that are (yes) mostly unfinished, but I’d like to take the time to share some of them and see if getting some feedback might motivate me to finish.

I feel like prefacing this project might be a good idea so that you get what I was going for.

A couple of years ago, my brother and I were talking about love stories and clichés. He gave me a unique challenge that I began to build upon and have added to here and there whenever I stumble across this piece of writing. It’s interesting, because I am a classic example of a writer that takes their own experiences and morphs them to try to tell a story of something (I hope) someone else might have experienced but that, naturally, does not 100% align with my own thoughts or experiences. It offers me a bit of perspective on my own experiences, while making my own writing feel more concrete without simply and narcissistically copy/pasting experiences from my own life — I have other mediums for that (*glares pointedly at Part 2 of my roadtrip post sitting in my draft folder*).

This project I decided would be bilingual. A love story of a different kind. The idea of two people meeting, not being able to understand each other, yet falling in love anyway. This hasn’t actually happened to me, but it has happened to a family member of mine, and I found the whole idea rather fascinating. I mean, how does one fall in love without understanding the other person? Seems like a pretty big stretch to me.

And so, naturally, writing about it would be the perfect avenue for exploring this concept which people apparently experience, but I have not.

However, as I said, this sort of project does borrow influences and experiences from my own life, allusions that people who know me well might recognize.

And it’s bilingual. I realized that it would cause an interesting marketing issue if I ever wrote a full book — because yes, there are a lot of bilingual readers out there (especially people that can read Spanish and English – yes, huge market win?) — but I would want people that don’t speak or read Spanish or English to find it accessible somehow as well (aside from reading the translations with mere context). (still not sure how I would accomplish this) But the whole idea is that, just as these two people could not fully understand one another, the pieces that they shared would be enough to craft this bigger picture. Yay, literary elements and whatnot.

While I catch up with other projects, I’m going to upload what I’ve written of this story in installments, since I’ve already completed around 4 chapters of the story. If it receives any response, maybe I’ll continue? Or if I get useful feedback, that could serve a source of inspiration.

I’m just curious, and I want to start sharing more of my fiction pursuits for peer review. Looking forward to seeing the response (if any!).

Cuando se acabó la gran noche, solo me quedé pensando. ¿Qué tal que fuera toda una gran casualidad? ¿Que tal que me quedara con ella? ¿Tendríamos una familia ahora en aquel apartamento tan moderno en aquella ciudad tan fría?

“Stay,” me dijo. Como de costumbre, me quedé mirándole los labios. Tan finos, hasta pintados de rojo. Pensé que al fin le entendía.

“Ya no. No se pudo,” le repliqué, y sus ojos no dejaban de mirarme a los míos.

Me prometía todo, sí, como no. Se dice que solo sabes lo que tienes cuando te toca perderlo. En mi caso, podría decir que eso es sólo la mitad del cuento. Y qué cuento más largo. Pero al final, la cama vacía habló por sí misma. Primero la suya. Después la mía.

Me marché.

Pero ¿cómo fue que empezó todo? ¿qué momentos tan pequeños se convirtieron en los que sé que me marcarán para el resto de mi vida?

Just like that, he was gone. I knew I would have to adjust again, to the quiet spaces in between. To the haunted melodies of the sad songs for lonely lovers we used to enjoy together. You see, I didn’t realize how much one could understand in spite of a language barrier. So much of what we communicate we do not say in words alone.

I never really knew what I wanted – to be. I could be one thing one day and a thousand things another. I wanted to be a writer. An actress. A politician. A teacher. A chef. Whatever it was in the moment, regardless of what the profession or fancy might be, I at least knew that I wanted to be great, by whatever definition of greatness I was willing to apply.

I knew I wanted to leave Arkansas. The endless fields of agriculture and livestock had nothing for me. I don’t even have a green thumb. Naturally, there was no better option for a young, indecisive dreamer than to pick up and move to Los Angeles and live a cliche like so many before me. Behind me, there were the winding country roads and broad plains, a life I was sure I would never miss.

Yo siempre me he sentido como una persona decidida, cuando no había camino, me lo abría, o sí o sí. Igual, nunca me imaginé que me iba a marchar de mi familia, de mi comunidad. Aún no supero el eco de su llanto, y los suplicos de mi niña: no se vaya, no se vaya, con Dios todo se puede.

Pero al final, me dejaron ir. Soltaron la correa. Porque su bien también depende del mio, y si uno no tiene milpa y no tiene palanca, conexiones para que uno salga adelante, pues se estanca. El peso de mis pasos fue como si me amarraran hierro a los zapatos. Pero seguía hacia adelante, hacia esa ciudad rodeada de montañas y la esperanza de una estatua verde, una mujer que abraza a cualquiera que aguante hambre, frío, desolación… El sueño americano.

Now you might think because I was raised in Fayetteville, Arkansas–big for a southern city with the same small town feel that seems ubiquitous in the Southern USA–that I had never seen things that could make any normal person’s skin crawl. That I wasn’t ready for skid row.

In reality, Arkansas is far from a idyllic paradise. For me it was more like a swamp hidden among old town charm. Kissing cousins were actual cases of incest and child molestation. A man resembling Pennywise the Clown sans makeup actually lived on my block and had a known reputation for watching and perhaps even trading child porn on the Dark Net. A known sex offender, he had the most uncanny way of looking through any person he met with his unworldly steel gaze. Most people were repelled, but nobody could deny a morbid curiosity. Nobody had ever tried to bust him, in spite of this common townsfolk knowledge of the things he must do in the dark confines of his brick prison. Whenever his sickly grey gaze landed on me as I waited for the school bus in the morning, I felt a convulsive shiver pass through me. I began to feel my heartbeat in my feet, and I suddenly forgot the layers of clothing I would wear on cold mornings as my limbs began to tremble. Still, he was also the little league coach’s assistant, and most people would never talk bad about him to his face.

Then there were the Mason’s. They had changed the face of Fayetteville. All of the small mom and pop shops they owned by the end of the first decade of the 2000’s. They stunk of old money and racism, slavery and lynchings. Few would admit it, but Mr. John Frederick Mason Jr. had been known to don the white hood and go out on night prowls. Again, everyone kept quiet, especially when he gave big donations at all of the ten or more main Christian churches in the town, each claiming to be the first or the closest to God. In reality, I was fairly certain God had shifted his gaze away from Fayetteville long ago.

And yet, you would think when I announced that I was moving to Los Angeles that I had just said I was going to have public orgies with a group of demonic familiars – while getting high and overdosing no less. Most would never dare to leave, for fear of what could be worse. But still, I have to admit that they were right to be skeptical about my rushed decision to take off. I was a lost sheep, free to wander until I got myself eaten by the first wolf I encountered. Sheep’s clothing not required.

Me lo propuse en un día de calor ardiente y persistente. Miraba por las tierras que ya no eran mías, que ya se adueñó de ellas el cartel, mientras plantaba la mano en la frente. Tanto sudor, todo para que me llegaran y me quitaran mi hogar. La frustración se sentía en cada rincón, susurros de qué pasaría con el nuevo presidente de Gringolandia, hechizos de las brujas y los brujos de la comunidad, que se colocaban siempre en la orilla de toda maldad.

Y me decidí. A pesar de todo, no me quedaba de otra.

I could keep living there, I admit. I had my college degree from the University of Arkansas, conveniently located in my hometown. I had a little bit of sway in the community, but not Mason level sway. Still, there was some hope for upward mobility, what with both of my parents being productive members of society. My mom worked in one of the local high schools and even had a position in the school board. My father, though not as noteworthy as he would like, had a financial firm and one of the most easily hated professions on earth. They both set the bar for a life of potential security, if not the old school power play of more influential families.

All the same, the day I left was an act of pure rebellion from a young woman that had never stopped being an adolescent. I felt a sort of pit in my stomach as I threw the majority of what I needed in the one big suitcase I had had for years and had never used. I left at midnight, thinking idealistically that if I drove all night, I might just see my first California sunrise peak over the mountains the next day. What I didn’t realize was that the road from Fayetteville to Los Angeles is over two days long, and the sun rises in the East and sets in the West. I had enough savings to sleep in my car that night and regret every decision I had made up to that point. Still, I convinced myself, rationalizing and reasoning all in one contradictory step, I was living the adventure of my dreams. Nobody could stop me. I was going home, where I belonged.

Day 1: San Antonio, Laredo, Monterrey (aka the longest day ever)

It’s officially been over 24 hours since I began my journey, and let me tell you: my body feels every second of it. I’ve now been on 4 buses, so far, with another one to go to get to our first major stop: Mexico City (CDMX). Right now we’re resting at our 3rd pit stop in Monterrey, Nuevo Leon, Mexico, about 12 hours away from our final destination.

Let me back up. The travel delirium is making my thoughts spin. It started at 5:15 yesterday morning. I was awoken after what felt like the fastest 5 hours of sleep of my life – blink and you’re awake. Time to go to the greyhound station, a grimey gas station/run down casino off of the highway in Lake Charles.

Word to the wise: greyhound SUCKS. You pay over $100 for a 7 hour trip in which you’re guaranteed nothing more than discomfort 100% of the trip. I had experience with greyhound before this, but getting used to Colombian bus companies of superior quality and cheaper cost made me somehow less prepared for the experience. Somehow it always smells like someone forgot to bathe. The seats have no cushioning. The TVs are just for looks. And there’s zero leg room. Now I have long legs. I felt like I had been stuffed into a tiny box for the past 4 hours when I finally got from Houston, the connecting city to San Antonio.

Luckily, Natalie and I met pretty soon after that. Her flight arrived about an hour after I did and then it took her almost an hour to get to the Starbucks where I was freezing waiting.

Another word to the wise: store your bag if you want to walk around and sightsee. I feel so clumsy with this thing. It’s not that it weighs too much, but it takes up space, and I hit people without meaning to which led to a very tense situation at my first McDonald’s pit stop in Houston. So yeah, it’s like having a person strapped to your back. Look out for that.

San Antonio is beautiful especially downtown where we decided to kill time before making our way to the border city of Laredo. That was 36 dollars, not so bad, but again, greyhound. We left from Houston at 9:30 pm after spending the afternoon wandering along the river walk looking for cheap eats before realizing that on Sunday most everything is closed and settling for the cheapest thing we could find open near by – McDonald’s. Spoiler alert: my stomach was not happy after the last 2 bus rides. I think I know why.

In line in the greyhound station, we quickly made friends with some Mexican people planning to cross back into Mexico. They explained that there are two or three ways to go about this: cross in your car or a taxi (*expensive* – around $60 – NOPE) or walk through on foot.

So once we got down, we immediately set off on foot with two older women and a young man towards the border customs building. It was a straight shot from the station – no taxi required. We finally crossed the border at 12 am after converting a dollar for a moneda in pesos, slipping it into a slot, and walking through one of those turnstile things. Easy as that.

As we made our way down this sidewalk, closed off from the cars crossing back and forth on the road, the other lady that was walking with us pointed out all of the people seemingly camped out, thrown on the walkway on the opposite side. All waiting to cross the border. It’s not as crazy as you might think, she said, but that’s the reality. I couldn’t help but think about the children at this point that have been taken from their families and isolated just for daring to look for a sanctuary. Since being here, I can only imagine why. Just like in Colombia, the corruption and dangerous parts are clear, well-defined boundaries. But there is a since of warmth and solidarity that I feel in both places and have felt so far as a simple outsider in Mexico so far. If only we shared that solidarity in the states, a place where hostilities are so high that even walking into a McDonald’s in the poorer side of a city can lead to suspicion and tension.

So, it wasn’t as simple as it seemed. Our guide of the moment, who fortunately was a lawyer, informed us having our bags quickly scanned in customs that we needed to take a cab to Migration to get our visas. Yes, you have to pay a visa fee in Mexico – $533 pesos or $30 dollars. The process was easy, but I would recommend getting money changed sooner rather than later, even though people are more than willing to accept or even exchange dollars for pesos. Also have the exchange rate present, which I didn’t. I didn’t even know there was a visa fee. Shame on me.

Luckily, it wasn’t a big deal. We waited for the taxi to come back after taking the lawyer lady back home. Our original companion was waiting for us, a very kind woman from Monterrey. She’s basically the reason we came here. We wanted to see the Mexico vs. Brazil game, which is currently happening, and then continue our journey from here.

In the bus station, we found out the trip with the lady would cost us $23 dollars to travel about 3 hours away – much better.

While in the bus station in Nuevo Laredo, we realized that (just like in Colombia) toilet paper was not supplied in the bathrooms. Make sure if you are traveling in Latin America to always be on the safe side and *bring toilet paper*! BYOTP. Because most buses don’t have it either, and trust me you don’t wanna go hours without wiping. Luckily, another kind lady gave me a big wad of hers in the bathroom when she saw I didn’t have any.

The Senda bus company was literally world’s superior to Greyhound. We even got a bottle of water and chips included. We left at 2 am and got here around 5:20, pure sleep in some of the softest seats with the best leg room I’ve seen on a bus like that.

Since arriving to Monterrey, we have been taking it easy. Initially we were totally lost – no pesos even to just go to the bathroom (Yes, you have to pay to use the restroom in most large bus stations, it was 6 pesos, so pocket change – Colombia and Mexico have this in common), confused about the public transportation system, and exhausted (at least on my end – Natalie sleeps surprisingly well on buses. I never feel rested). Thanks to being surrounded by helpful strangers though, the confusion aspect resolved itself quickly.

So take away since we’ve been here: people are your friends. Leave your bags if you’re going to even just walk around to take pictures because these bags are bulky and awkward. Make sure you know the details on where you’re going. Monterrey has a good metro service that connects the city with a fare of only a few cents, and we had no trouble getting to the downtown historic district near Barrio Antiguo, a must see according to our acquaintance from the bus. Still getting in this area before 7 is not ideal. Nothing happened to us, but I still felt very uneasy. We talked to another local that clearly was confused by our presence with these bags at 5:40 am and gave us some good advice to avoid losing all of our things.

Welp, that’s what led us to where we were chilling for several hours, VIPS, a Mexican American-ish diner where we got some good eggs, bread, and coffee (and even refried beans and nachos). It’s a bit expensive, so we got the cheapest possible thing, around $45 or 4 dollars each.*

We watched the game, which started exciting and hopeful but ended in silence and disappointment as Mexico lost to Brazil 0 to 2. Oh well, it would’ve been great to see them win, but frankly I’ve never been a big fútbol fan anyway. It was just cool to see Mexico play among their paisanos.

From there, we walked around exploring Barrio Antiguo and the historic district. There is plenty to do, make no mistake, you could spend at least a weekend exploring Monterrey – the palacios, teatro (theatre), multiple museos (museums), and even a lovely river walk with a boat tour akin to that of San Antonio called Paseo Santa Lucia. The truth is colonial San Antonio and Monterrey are rather similar.** Both cities have the same Spanish colonial origins and charm. Monterrey, being the capital of the state Nuevo León, literally has lions and references to the colonial heroes of Mexico everywhere. I spent a good while perusing the statues and getting a feel for Mexican pride towards its history and origins. There’s art and a strong respect for history in this area – not so useful to visit only to glimpse inside because it leaves you wanting to spend more time. We went past the Museo de Historia Mexicana, and my intrigue nearly led me inside but my aching feet and back stopped me.

Did I mention it was really hot?! And we were walking around with all our stuff. Mostof the bars and clubs in Barrio Antiguo were closed up, so it was really just wandering until finally I had to stop, sit, and change into more comfortable shoes.

Final recommendation: Monterrey is worth a day visit but probably not great to explore on foot if you haven’t had a proper sleep in 24 hours.

Now we’re finally on the bus headed to Mexico City after waiting for 4 hours for our bus in the terminal. We were debating after getting back from downtown if we should take the first bus heading to the capital or not. In the end, after weighing our options, we decided that it would be better to wait in order to arrive when our host would be more likely to be waiting for us and we could hopefully get a full night’s sleep on a comfortable bus. We chose Futura Select, a cushy luxury bus replete with wifi, large reclining chairs, screens on the back of each chairs, and even free snacks included (a drink, sandwich, and dried fruit snack combo). We could not complain, as we got this amazing setup for a 13 hour trip for a mere 90 dollars/1200 pesos. Truly better than anything you get with Greyhound in the states – but okay, that’s not saying much.

You would think with such luxury I would be sleeping. It’s 3:12 am. Despite the comfort, my body is sore from being in the same position sitting down for so long. I feel exhausted and driven to finish this post.

Here’s hoping our arrival in roughly 3 hours is a success! And that we’re finally able to shower and lay down. The rest for me is secondary at the moment.

*The exchange rate is mostly a dollar to $18 pesos, which I found up to $20 or down to $10 to convert in my head, but still it’s been a bit awkward to figure out if I’m spending a reasonable amount or not.

**Later I will edit and post pictures to compare the two.

Versos de Colombia

I’ve decided to share the poems that I have written since living and being inspired by life in Colombia. Some days the inspiration is so great, I can’t help but sit and let flow poem after poem. They generally aren’t long, but I feel they are significant for where I am in my life and the person this experience has molded me into being.

Plus, come on, y’all. I’m practically 26. I’ve been telling people I’m 26 without meaning to because subconsciously I’m already there. I feel like in this year and a half I have grown and matured more than in all of my years before combined.

Okay, maybe that is a bit hyperbolic. But yes, I’ve really settled into myself. And that shift in perspective, the embrace of self and denial of anything that does not grow or nourish the self is due in large part to the simple decision I made to live and teach in Colombia.

I will put the Spanish and English versions for those that don’t speak Spanish, so you can hopefully really absorb the meaning.

Al mal Tiempo

Her voice
Like the arroyo washing back
A reassuring hush

Her eyes
Like half moons hidden
Beneath dreamy clouds

Her bones
Brittle yet stark like yue bark
Not easily bent

I see her
Sitting in her mecedora
Reading Catholic psalms
In her flowing, multihued manta

The strength of the Colombian-
Of the Wayuu-
Al mal tiempo, buena cara.

This first poem I wrote back when I was first living in Fonseca at the end of 2016. I stayed with an older woman of Wayuu-indigenous origins (though she is very much a part of that culture presently) who was the sister of the woman that inspired this poem. I was always struck by her straight back in the face of difficulties and hardship and her unwavering resolve. Just every part of her radiates strength that her fragile body would deny. The Wayuu are a strong people. Even though there were moments she could get under my skin, I’m so happy for the time I spent with her and her family.

El Abismo

No es que sea por rencor
Pero espero que sigas con ese ardor
Y ese salado sabor
Cuando mi nombre pasa por tu boca,
Por todas las lágrimas y sudor
Gastados en vano por tocar
El abismo más profundo de mi alma.

The Abyss

Not to be bitter,
But I hope you still feel the burn
And that salty taste
When my name passes through your mouth,
For all the tears and sweat
Spent in vain by touching
The deepest abyss of my soul.

Love has come knocking at my door, although the fruit of that love was far from savory. Sometimes, recontextualizing myself within this culture, understanding the way people play the game of relationships, was something I had to do in order to survive and remove myself from situations that did not serve me on my journey or help me love myself, but instead led me further astray and caused me to forget myself and what has always been important to me.

Dark times, toxic relationships, shifts that have challenged me in this journey and have inspired my verses as well. Sometimes the best way to phrase and manage the hurt people can cause you is via poetry. The end of my last relationship can be summed up as a…

Twisted Fairytale

In truth, the slate has been wiped clean.
He broke the chains of my denial
With his poor, decrepit tongue
Sugar-coated in lies and poisoned in seduction.
I could never live, could never know true
Desire, love, heartache
Again by that harsh sword-

I would rather fall on my sword
Than taste those bittersweet remedies
Again and fall beneath myself.

Thank my pride for the strength it provides;
Thank my love of self and other to realize-
I was never loved by that other and never
Would be or could be-
Thank my nerve to say enough is enough.

And most importantly, thank the signs
Held up by angels among me,
Those gentle voices that know
And eyes that have seen and stung
With tears so that mine would not-

Thank my friends who have taught me
My own self-worth, to trust my own inner voice,
For they are the true heroes in this sad story
Where I am both the damsel and the knight,
And happy endings are never what they seem.

So, with that epoch sealed, I decided to love myself. To love myself ferociously and passionately, secure in the knowledge that I am all I have got.

Narcissus

I would jump into a million lakes,
Head down, face first
Into my reflection,
If it means that I could love
Myself,
Alone; Forever.

Faithful

I made a promise
To never be unfaithful again
To the most important person
In my whole world,
The one I go to bed with
Every night:

Me.

In spite of the pain I experienced, the journey itself has been totally worth it. It has aided in my process of self-discovery and the affirmation of my self-worth and independent spirit. Since breaking up with my ex, I have traveled both outward and inward – to Tayrona, Santa Marta, Ocaña, climbed the beautiful Estoraques, and began planning my independent summer adventures throughout South and Central America. The breakup opened a floodgate of creativity for me that has led me to be more reflective and respect and recognize the beauty in all the things around me.

Continuum

Puedo verlos bailando,
La ondulación como olas
En un mar ámbar
E inquieto.

I can see them dancing,
The undulation like waves
In an amber, restless sea.

Taken outside of a club in Santa Marta during my get-away in early January

Acertijo

Mi Esencia
No se puede atrapar
En una mirada de miel
Y un cuerpo
De carne y hueso.
Soy tierra y fuego–
El mar y sus olas bailadoras–
Soy palabra y aire–
Soy–

Riddle

My Essence
Cannot be trapped
In a honey gaze
And a body made
Of meat and bone.
I’m earth and fire–
The sea and its dancing waves–
I’m word and air–
I am–

The idea here was to be phrased like a riddle. I start by going to the root of my meaning, my essence, that which makes me as a person. I was reflecting not too long ago on the selfie sensation, the need to post pictures of oneself and show the world our best face. I realized that who I am really isn’t contained by that image–in fact, it could never be contained by it because that image of decaying perfection is also impermanent.

So what am I? I am a human being. And human beings transcend the prisons their flesh holds them in. Our spirits and energies make us one with nature, and nature brings meaning to what we are. I suppose it’s something I’ve learned about myself, the view I have of myself as being now far less narrow and 2-dimensional.

There have been other scribblings and fragmented thoughts along the way, but these were the principle verses I have written here. I feel like they represent the metamorphosis – the starting and beginning again where I started from but a bit fuller and wholer, the whole cycle of self-growth – really well. Now, to add some more to the list.