The Culture of Magical Realism (June 8th, 2009)
"Culture is like an iceberg." Maybe it is, but in the times of global climate change, at least my iceberg has been melting. "Icebergs melting? It must be magic!" -my grandma would have said. Reality has met magic today.I was born and raised in Mexico, that was my Reality. Magically, I never felt part of the culture I grew up in, I questioned it too much. My upper-middle class Mexican life never made sense to me. My parents, my sister, and I are all Mexican, no background questions are asked. We are mestizos in case a Canadian asks. Inside us, I don't think we have ever fitted in the Mexican stereotype.My sister and I lived the (superficial) "globalization" of our little city. NAFTA brought about McDonald's, unemployment, accute class polarization, and foreign TV. Yet, we could not afford that globalized -rather developed-worldesque- life style. I did not grow up with main-stream pop culture, be it Mexican or foreign. As opposed to many of my friends, I guess you could call me a confused and contradictory teenage nerd. I hanged out with the Mexican version of the popular junior-high girls. However, most of the time Latin American literature was my real best friend. They called the genre "Magical Realism" for expressing the Latin American 20th Century reality mixed with magical scenes, situations and characters. By the time I was 15 I had travelled and been shaped by Latin America without ever taking a plane heading to the South.Contradictions.... that is my culture, a culture of Realismo Magico, for how can it be Magical and yet remain Real?I had an enviable life in Mexico, great family, loyal friends, good school, did not need anything else. That, my upper-middle class life always felt like a cage. I was happy but not satisfied. Every time I am there I cry when I say good-bye but I am always so eager to go back.I went to Canada when I was 18, leaving my 'perfect life' behind. A life of contradictions, indeed. I proudly hold a Mexican passport and love my country; but every time I go back I feel frustration, anger, happiness, excitement, and sadness ALL at the same time. Am I really Mexican? In paper I am. In practice, I have not fitted in the Mexican society for quite a while. I have been in Canada for four years. No, I refuse to become Canadian. However, I know more about the country than many citizens that I've met who do not yet understand my rather emotional defence for bilingualism. After four years I have not been able to have close anglophone friends; yet I am always hesitant and afraid to speak in French to my Quebecois friends.I think multiculturalism is overrated, ironically only when I am in Toronto I feel like I can be both Magical and Real. Talking about France gets me nostalgic, I miss my life there, I know if I had stay I would be someone else. I miss the life in Montpellier, I fantasize about going back to Europe; at the same time I can't cope with the supremacism and discrimination disguised under the (real) freedom of expression. Nothing compares to Egypt, but I can't go back without sharing it with my best friend trying our best not to impose our undefined cultures while stealing an incomparable culture ourselves.Who am I? Je suis qui? ¿Quién soy? I am definitivamente un mélange. That cannot siquiera encontrar une response dans un même langue. On peut toujours hear the thick accent of my native español.I have been six hours in Argentina, four sitting at a little restaurant in Palermo writing and sipping white wine trying to answer that question that I have refused to even ask for a while.What is my culture? I have been writing about that without knowing where to start. The more my iceberg melts, the less I care to even ask, the more I enjoy not thinking about that.Magically, the reality is that I am obsessed with cultures. Other contradiction of my life. I cannot stop thinking, studying, reading, overanalysing, experiencing, ad trying to understand cultures. The more I do, the less I identify my own.I have been the Numbian girl in the little village along the Nile delta, the Algerian immigrant in Montpellier, the latina in Toronto, the enriched Mexican exploiting the indigenous and at the same time fighting against the system where I belong. Today I am the girl with the unidentifiable accent absorbing everything she can from sitting in this corner in Palermo writing in English, on a question that confuses everything of my life.
No, I am not a global citizen. I find the term pretentious and unrealistic. I am just a girl whose Real life has been shaped by the powerful Magic of culture, resulting in identifying her culture as one that is only about contradictions. Appropriating other's Magic identifiable culture without creating a real one for myself
Getting (more) lost. (June 11th, 2009)
It is not chaotic, it is just real; I said as we start laughing. I feel like I am alive again, remainds me of Cairo in a way. I do not know her name, I did not bother to ask. Our conversation did not let us exchange pasts, names, ages... rien. To me so far, she is Emiliano's mom. I have not met Emiliano yet. He is supposed to show me an apartment that is four blocks away from the hostel. The hostel... my house so far. Well can you call it a house if you don't have a key? I guess yes, you could call it like that.
We talked about the favelas, the Latin American "Golden Years" -those ones that I never lived, our respective crisis, our stolen present and our forgetable past. "This is my soul. I am latinoamericana. I tried the US, tried Europe. Je suis toujours une étrangere Where ever I am in Latin America I feel safe, I feel that I belong North to South.América Latina es mi patria" She tells me, I wanted to cry too.
I went to CEDES on my first day; took the right bus, got off at the wrong stop. It is all good, until I realized I forgot my map. Here I am in Buenos Aires not knowing where I am. For any Westerner tourist this exactly where there is nothing to see -you know, poor and real argentines. This girl from Lyon at the hostel asked me why would I go there. I work there. "Just for fun", I said.
It is good that Western women tourists are adviced not to go overthere, they would feel sexually harassed. I like to call it a terapeutic shot of high self esteem. I forgot how interesting is to walk around. Men say random things, as opposed to "bad areas" in Mexico City, here they are harmless. "You make the winter a beautiful season miss", "Thank you for the beautiful smile" "If I saw you walking everyday I would be poorer than now" "No te acomodés el vestido, negra, asi te va re bien" "¡Qué guapa que sos!" And it was almost when I was getting to CEDES that a man went on his knees "Marry me please" when I laughed so hard, Thank you you just made my day; I said. I came back to the hostel, Ignacio, my boss drove me here. As I was finally getting to the third floor where my room is, I heard some American guests singing Akon's "smack that on the floor" the ultimate western female sexual emancipation song.... I sat down in my room quite confused.
Is my culture really the label the West has impossed on me? Am I Huntington's homogenic Latin? Or do I simply see things all in terms of the West vs The Rest? Am I part of the Rest?
"The Mexican people are the most noble people, miss." The taxi driver said -the one I took when I got lost again because I really wanted to go and watch the football game. "Your people are simply the best I've met. Look I have one of the 20 pesos bills the plastic ones" I smiled, said nothing. Are they? Are we? Am I? I got off to watched the game, "Nice to meet you Mariele" he said "I hope we Argentines treat you as well as Mexican have treated me". I wanted to cry, does the taxi driver loves more my people than I do? I feel at home here... and at the same time I do not.
Bueno acá en la América Latina al final todos nos vamos a joder ¿viste? -Emiliano's mom said.
Carrefour? (July 3rd, 2009)
So what are you cooking tonight Mariele? The owner of thecarniceria, the butcher says. I was cooking a simple pasta with some meat. He does not yet believe that I am Mexican I showed him my passport today. He laughed and said that I only say one word in Mexican Spanish. I do and I say it a lot.
During my YIIP interview I was so confident about coming to place "similar" to home that I said that it would be so easy. Confirmation that I am not a global citizen: it has not been as easy as I thought. Buenos Aires is a big city and when I say big, I am not saying Toronto or Montreal big I am saying 11 million-big. I love it, and now and then I hate it, specially when I get so distracted in buses and keep on missing my stop. I expected Buenos Aires to be so similar to Mexico City, it is not. I realized how different it is, and how North-American-wanna-be my country is. Buenos Aires is so Latin American but if you are walking on some districts you will actually believe you are either in Madrid or Paris.
No, there is no IKEA here, I have not seen a Walmart yet buuuuut there is Carrefour!!!! As I was walking to see Plaza de Mayo, I saw Carrefour, and I smiled. I went in thinking perfect I am so going to find some Mexican brands and cook or maybe I can find this or that. WRONG AGAIN. I naively thought Carrefour would be like in France or in Mexico. I went back to the hostel and some Americans were complaining about the same thing, I heard them saying exactly what I thought... supermarkets in Argentina suck. But when I was listening to them I realized how stupid my anger to Carrefour was and how mistaken I am. They don't suck, I do. I do for assuming that everyone in Latin America will consume Mexican products, that I will find what I have found in France or in Toronto. Why would Argentines like what I like?, and why should I get so annoying about a supermarket? I do my groceries in the little family-owned supermarket, they have spicy sauce from Mexico... go figure.
People from Buenos Aires are called Porteños. One of my friends told me that they were rather unique characters. So far I have not been able to relate to them, specially the girls. My Argentine friends are not Porteños they are from somewhere else, and I am in love with them. Two weekends ago we went to a little town outside Buenos Aires called La Plata, it is only one hour away and people are so different. I had the best time there. However, after living 4 years in a country where parties start at 10pm and end at 3am I have noticed that I have been Torontonized. Here dinner starts around 10pm going to a bar is 12pm, going to the club is around 2 or 3am... want to know at what time does it end? We went back home two Sundays ago at 11am. ¡Vaya Fiesta!... I don't understand how people do it. I guess I will have to learn or drink (more) coffee at La Havana -an Argentine coffee chain and more Alfajores to have more energy... Maybe I should eat less Mexican hot sauce and more chimichurri...
A SDF Trying to Build a Home (July 19th, 2009)
I opened the door and smiled, left the grocery bags on the purple kitchen counter and took a deep breath. As I was singing to electronic tango followed by some Lebanese music I started cooking. It was just me, no more travellers in the hostel, my music and me. I felt so lucky, so greatful and so... complete, that is the word.
He asked me where did I lived. Je suis une SDF, I said. I did not say it in Spanish or in English ni vagabunda nor a homeless. I just did not have a fixed address at that point, I wanted to say it in French. After living in a hostel followed by being a guest in my friend's apartment I finally had my room. My room? I thought... why am I obsessed with privacy and private property, they are both human constructions. There are people who do not have either, and here I am getting all excited about having my room. I could have dance to Lebanese music on a park or started singing tango in the Subte, I did not had to wait. I already had plenty of reasons to be happy to do it. Here I am in Argentina, an unbeatable opportunity and an amazing experience. I do not need to have my room to enjoy it, I was enjoying it from the beginning.
I come back from my placement everyday feeling like a thousand days have passed outside the studio, that I have learned in 5 hours what I could never learn in 10 months. I want to be an academic, I said and they looked at me surprised, No ambassador? No lawyer? No MBA? No... I just want to be an academic, teach and learn, write and read. An internship in a research centre? Why not? I am not going to lie, I wasn't so sure about the internship. What do I know about Public Health? I can tell you now, I did not know anything but what I did know was closely related to Health. We work at my boss' studio every day, there is not a fixed schedule, research is not done from 9 to 5. We are only three, Ignacio, Marcelo and me. At the beginning I was so intimidated here I am working with someone who has been a university president, who has multiple publications, who knows so much. Next to my co-worker who is the most articulated M.A. student I have ever met, he always has an answer, he is always committed and involved. What could I bring to such a good team, me who did not know anything about Health? I did my undergrad in International Studies too, Marcelo said; Do you know what are you going to write your dissertation on? And somehow I felt at home talking with one of my friends in Toronto. I started talking. I saw he was interested in what I had to say, me the Mexican girl living in Canada who has a random accent, had something to say and it was worth hearing it. I do not longer feel ashamed to say anything in fact, if I don't know something I just ask. I often stay longer or come back home and research more.
I just need an apartment with two rooms, I told my mom. I just need one to sleep and the other one to be the studio, when I grow up I won't need a car or an amazing office, I won't need the expensive work clothes. Hopefully, I will make out of that studio my home, notmy room but where I know I can sit down at midnight without worrying that the next day I have to work from 9-5. I guess even if I am away, as long as I am happy I will always be at home.
Words on the field trip to Pampa del Indio (August 10th, 2009)
Catalina is 67 she hopes to live till 109 like her aunt who lives in Paraguay. Catalina did not want her son to spend money in buying her a fridge, she lived over 60 years without one but now she enjoys a cold glass of water when the hot summer comes up to 45 degrees. Out of the 13 rural settlements, Fortin Brown where she lives is one of the only two where there is electricity.
Lino lives with his granddaughter, she is 15 and does not longer go to school, they don't have the money to send her to high school because it is 45 km away. He used to live out of the the cotton crop, before it stopped raining 3 years ago. He believes it is going to rain again and her granddaughter will go to school and get married.
Ramon Garcia has three kids. He does not take them to the hospital in Pampa del Indio which is 35 km away, his eldest daughter died there. She had stomach infection, he thinks it was a negligence; some people said they did not treated her on time. She wanted to be a doctor. He drives all the way to the next town when his kids get sick. He can't sleep at night thinking he might loose one of his kids.
Ramona's husband died four years ago. She has two daughters. She sleeps outside because she is scared, two of her horses were stolen the ones she used to go to town. She thinks more of her animals have been stolen, they haven't come back. When she goes to town she walks over 5 km to the road waiting for a car to stop and give her a ride. She knows that they will keep on stealing her animals because they are three women and she has no family living close by. She misses her husband but she says she is going to keep on working hard so her girls don't have to go through the same things she is living.
Mariana has Chagas she was diagnosed before she had her second child. She is my age. She doesn't know yet that her kid has Chagas too, because she does not know anything about the disease. Her dad is sick, her grandfather too, the nurse goes and visit them once a month. The last month they called the ambulance twice. Her mom takes care of everything now. She thinks she can be cured. She can't.
So I will remember how it felt (Septemeber 1st, 2009)
I don't like to write on my blog before writing it on my notebook, I like to have the first, the second, the third, all the way to the last draft. I like to see how I have changed and in a computer I tend to erase it, Only for the first assignment I was able to write just one draft.
I don't update my blog that much because I have a notebook full of comments that I intend to type on the way home and then publish them on my blog the moment I leave my suitcases on my apartment's floor. But right now from the corner of Palestina y Estado de Israel, I wanted to writte the last words that I will type in the studio's computer. I can't leave!! I finished my work and I can't turn off the computer, ask someone to open the door for me, go downstairs and see the green door closing after me for the very last time. I don't have the strenght and my legs are on strike... they don't want to move. Three months that felt like the time was not running, the world outside stood still while my mind expanded. I want to cry,
laugh, memorize every single corner, every smell, every sound from the street... I
wish I could stop time and make this last minutes perpetual.
I will miss it so much... the walk on Córdoba, the coffee in Havana on the way herethe always-packed subte all the way to Medrano Station, the bus. The hours in thestudio, all what I learned. I guess many are happy on their last day at work, I am happy please don't get me wrong it is just that... I wish I could do that walk tomorrow once again
It has come to an end, this time I don't only feel it, ahora ya lo sé. She has come and asked me at what time am I leaving, I only need to turn off the computer, I said.... I only need to turn off the computer but I am taking the studio with me.
I was born and raised in Mexico, that was my Reality. Magically, I never felt part of the culture I grew up in, I questioned it too much. My upper-middle class Mexican life never made sense to me. My parents, my sister, and I are all Mexican, no background questions are asked. We are mestizos in case a Canadian asks. Inside us, I don't think we have ever fitted in the Mexican stereotype.
My sister and I lived the (superficial) "globalization" of our little city. NAFTA brought about McDonald's, unemployment, accute class polarization, and foreign TV. Yet, we could not afford that globalized -rather developed-worldesque- life style. I did not grow up with main-stream pop culture, be it Mexican or foreign. As opposed to many of my friends, I guess you could call me a confused and contradictory teenage nerd. I hanged out with the Mexican version of the popular junior-high girls. However, most of the time Latin American literature was my real best friend. They called the genre "Magical Realism" for expressing the Latin American 20th Century reality mixed with magical scenes, situations and characters. By the time I was 15 I had travelled and been shaped by Latin America without ever taking a plane heading to the South.
Contradictions.... that is my culture, a culture of Realismo Magico, for how can it be Magical and yet remain Real?
I had an enviable life in Mexico, great family, loyal friends, good school, did not need anything else. That, my upper-middle class life always felt like a cage. I was happy but not satisfied. Every time I am there I cry when I say good-bye but I am always so eager to go back.
I went to Canada when I was 18, leaving my 'perfect life' behind. A life of contradictions, indeed. I proudly hold a Mexican passport and love my country; but every time I go back I feel frustration, anger, happiness, excitement, and sadness ALL at the same time. Am I really Mexican? In paper I am. In practice, I have not fitted in the Mexican society for quite a while. I have been in Canada for four years. No, I refuse to become Canadian. However, I know more about the country than many citizens that I've met who do not yet understand my rather emotional defence for bilingualism. After four years I have not been able to have close anglophone friends; yet I am always hesitant and afraid to speak in French to my Quebecois friends.
I think multiculturalism is overrated, ironically only when I am in Toronto I feel like I can be both Magical and Real. Talking about France gets me nostalgic, I miss my life there, I know if I had stay I would be someone else. I miss the life in Montpellier, I fantasize about going back to Europe; at the same time I can't cope with the supremacism and discrimination disguised under the (real) freedom of expression. Nothing compares to Egypt, but I can't go back without sharing it with my best friend trying our best not to impose our undefined cultures while stealing an incomparable culture ourselves.
Who am I? Je suis qui? ¿Quién soy? I am definitivamente un mélange. That cannot siquiera encontrar une response dans un même langue. On peut toujours hear the thick accent of my native español.
I have been six hours in Argentina, four sitting at a little restaurant in Palermo writing and sipping white wine trying to answer that question that I have refused to even ask for a while.
What is my culture? I have been writing about that without knowing where to start. The more my iceberg melts, the less I care to even ask, the more I enjoy not thinking about that.
Magically, the reality is that I am obsessed with cultures. Other contradiction of my life. I cannot stop thinking, studying, reading, overanalysing, experiencing, ad trying to understand cultures. The more I do, the less I identify my own.
I have been the Numbian girl in the little village along the Nile delta, the Algerian immigrant in Montpellier, the latina in Toronto, the enriched Mexican exploiting the indigenous and at the same time fighting against the system where I belong. Today I am the girl with the unidentifiable accent absorbing everything she can from sitting in this corner in Palermo writing in English, on a question that confuses everything of my life.
No, I am not a global citizen. I find the term pretentious and unrealistic. I am just a girl whose Real life has been shaped by the powerful Magic of culture, resulting in identifying her culture as one that is only about contradictions. Appropriating other's Magic identifiable culture without creating a real one for myself
Getting (more) lost. (June 11th, 2009)
It is not chaotic, it is just real; I said as we start laughing. I feel like I am alive again, remainds me of Cairo in a way. I do not know her name, I did not bother to ask. Our conversation did not let us exchange pasts, names, ages... rien. To me so far, she is Emiliano's mom. I have not met Emiliano yet. He is supposed to show me an apartment that is four blocks away from the hostel. The hostel... my house so far. Well can you call it a house if you don't have a key? I guess yes, you could call it like that.
We talked about the favelas, the Latin American "Golden Years" -those ones that I never lived, our respective crisis, our stolen present and our forgetable past. "This is my soul. I am latinoamericana. I tried the US, tried Europe. Je suis toujours une étrangere Where ever I am in Latin America I feel safe, I feel that I belong North to South.América Latina es mi patria" She tells me, I wanted to cry too.
I went to CEDES on my first day; took the right bus, got off at the wrong stop. It is all good, until I realized I forgot my map. Here I am in Buenos Aires not knowing where I am. For any Westerner tourist this exactly where there is nothing to see -you know, poor and real argentines. This girl from Lyon at the hostel asked me why would I go there. I work there. "Just for fun", I said.
It is good that Western women tourists are adviced not to go overthere, they would feel sexually harassed. I like to call it a terapeutic shot of high self esteem. I forgot how interesting is to walk around. Men say random things, as opposed to "bad areas" in Mexico City, here they are harmless. "You make the winter a beautiful season miss", "Thank you for the beautiful smile" "If I saw you walking everyday I would be poorer than now" "No te acomodés el vestido, negra, asi te va re bien" "¡Qué guapa que sos!" And it was almost when I was getting to CEDES that a man went on his knees "Marry me please" when I laughed so hard, Thank you you just made my day; I said. I came back to the hostel, Ignacio, my boss drove me here. As I was finally getting to the third floor where my room is, I heard some American guests singing Akon's "smack that on the floor" the ultimate western female sexual emancipation song.... I sat down in my room quite confused.
Is my culture really the label the West has impossed on me? Am I Huntington's homogenic Latin? Or do I simply see things all in terms of the West vs The Rest? Am I part of the Rest?
"The Mexican people are the most noble people, miss." The taxi driver said -the one I took when I got lost again because I really wanted to go and watch the football game. "Your people are simply the best I've met. Look I have one of the 20 pesos bills the plastic ones" I smiled, said nothing. Are they? Are we? Am I? I got off to watched the game, "Nice to meet you Mariele" he said "I hope we Argentines treat you as well as Mexican have treated me". I wanted to cry, does the taxi driver loves more my people than I do? I feel at home here... and at the same time I do not.
Bueno acá en la América Latina al final todos nos vamos a joder ¿viste? -Emiliano's mom said.
We talked about the favelas, the Latin American "Golden Years" -those ones that I never lived, our respective crisis, our stolen present and our forgetable past. "This is my soul. I am latinoamericana. I tried the US, tried Europe. Je suis toujours une étrangere Where ever I am in Latin America I feel safe, I feel that I belong North to South.América Latina es mi patria" She tells me, I wanted to cry too.
I went to CEDES on my first day; took the right bus, got off at the wrong stop. It is all good, until I realized I forgot my map. Here I am in Buenos Aires not knowing where I am. For any Westerner tourist this exactly where there is nothing to see -you know, poor and real argentines. This girl from Lyon at the hostel asked me why would I go there. I work there. "Just for fun", I said.
It is good that Western women tourists are adviced not to go overthere, they would feel sexually harassed. I like to call it a terapeutic shot of high self esteem. I forgot how interesting is to walk around. Men say random things, as opposed to "bad areas" in Mexico City, here they are harmless. "You make the winter a beautiful season miss", "Thank you for the beautiful smile" "If I saw you walking everyday I would be poorer than now" "No te acomodés el vestido, negra, asi te va re bien" "¡Qué guapa que sos!" And it was almost when I was getting to CEDES that a man went on his knees "Marry me please" when I laughed so hard, Thank you you just made my day; I said. I came back to the hostel, Ignacio, my boss drove me here. As I was finally getting to the third floor where my room is, I heard some American guests singing Akon's "smack that on the floor" the ultimate western female sexual emancipation song.... I sat down in my room quite confused.
Is my culture really the label the West has impossed on me? Am I Huntington's homogenic Latin? Or do I simply see things all in terms of the West vs The Rest? Am I part of the Rest?
"The Mexican people are the most noble people, miss." The taxi driver said -the one I took when I got lost again because I really wanted to go and watch the football game. "Your people are simply the best I've met. Look I have one of the 20 pesos bills the plastic ones" I smiled, said nothing. Are they? Are we? Am I? I got off to watched the game, "Nice to meet you Mariele" he said "I hope we Argentines treat you as well as Mexican have treated me". I wanted to cry, does the taxi driver loves more my people than I do? I feel at home here... and at the same time I do not.
Bueno acá en la América Latina al final todos nos vamos a joder ¿viste? -Emiliano's mom said.
Carrefour? (July 3rd, 2009)
So what are you cooking tonight Mariele? The owner of thecarniceria, the butcher says. I was cooking a simple pasta with some meat. He does not yet believe that I am Mexican I showed him my passport today. He laughed and said that I only say one word in Mexican Spanish. I do and I say it a lot.
No, there is no IKEA here, I have not seen a Walmart yet buuuuut there is Carrefour!!!! As I was walking to see Plaza de Mayo, I saw Carrefour, and I smiled. I went in thinking perfect I am so going to find some Mexican brands and cook or maybe I can find this or that. WRONG AGAIN. I naively thought Carrefour would be like in France or in Mexico. I went back to the hostel and some Americans were complaining about the same thing, I heard them saying exactly what I thought... supermarkets in Argentina suck. But when I was listening to them I realized how stupid my anger to Carrefour was and how mistaken I am. They don't suck, I do. I do for assuming that everyone in Latin America will consume Mexican products, that I will find what I have found in France or in Toronto. Why would Argentines like what I like?, and why should I get so annoying about a supermarket? I do my groceries in the little family-owned supermarket, they have spicy sauce from Mexico... go figure.
People from Buenos Aires are called Porteños. One of my friends told me that they were rather unique characters. So far I have not been able to relate to them, specially the girls. My Argentine friends are not Porteños they are from somewhere else, and I am in love with them. Two weekends ago we went to a little town outside Buenos Aires called La Plata, it is only one hour away and people are so different. I had the best time there. However, after living 4 years in a country where parties start at 10pm and end at 3am I have noticed that I have been Torontonized. Here dinner starts around 10pm going to a bar is 12pm, going to the club is around 2 or 3am... want to know at what time does it end? We went back home two Sundays ago at 11am. ¡Vaya Fiesta!... I don't understand how people do it. I guess I will have to learn or drink (more) coffee at La Havana -an Argentine coffee chain and more Alfajores to have more energy... Maybe I should eat less Mexican hot sauce and more chimichurri...
A SDF Trying to Build a Home (July 19th, 2009)
I opened the door and smiled, left the grocery bags on the purple kitchen counter and took a deep breath. As I was singing to electronic tango followed by some Lebanese music I started cooking. It was just me, no more travellers in the hostel, my music and me. I felt so lucky, so greatful and so... complete, that is the word.
He asked me where did I lived. Je suis une SDF, I said. I did not say it in Spanish or in English ni vagabunda nor a homeless. I just did not have a fixed address at that point, I wanted to say it in French. After living in a hostel followed by being a guest in my friend's apartment I finally had my room. My room? I thought... why am I obsessed with privacy and private property, they are both human constructions. There are people who do not have either, and here I am getting all excited about having my room. I could have dance to Lebanese music on a park or started singing tango in the Subte, I did not had to wait. I already had plenty of reasons to be happy to do it. Here I am in Argentina, an unbeatable opportunity and an amazing experience. I do not need to have my room to enjoy it, I was enjoying it from the beginning.
I come back from my placement everyday feeling like a thousand days have passed outside the studio, that I have learned in 5 hours what I could never learn in 10 months. I want to be an academic, I said and they looked at me surprised, No ambassador? No lawyer? No MBA? No... I just want to be an academic, teach and learn, write and read. An internship in a research centre? Why not? I am not going to lie, I wasn't so sure about the internship. What do I know about Public Health? I can tell you now, I did not know anything but what I did know was closely related to Health. We work at my boss' studio every day, there is not a fixed schedule, research is not done from 9 to 5. We are only three, Ignacio, Marcelo and me. At the beginning I was so intimidated here I am working with someone who has been a university president, who has multiple publications, who knows so much. Next to my co-worker who is the most articulated M.A. student I have ever met, he always has an answer, he is always committed and involved. What could I bring to such a good team, me who did not know anything about Health? I did my undergrad in International Studies too, Marcelo said; Do you know what are you going to write your dissertation on? And somehow I felt at home talking with one of my friends in Toronto. I started talking. I saw he was interested in what I had to say, me the Mexican girl living in Canada who has a random accent, had something to say and it was worth hearing it. I do not longer feel ashamed to say anything in fact, if I don't know something I just ask. I often stay longer or come back home and research more.
I just need an apartment with two rooms, I told my mom. I just need one to sleep and the other one to be the studio, when I grow up I won't need a car or an amazing office, I won't need the expensive work clothes. Hopefully, I will make out of that studio my home, notmy room but where I know I can sit down at midnight without worrying that the next day I have to work from 9-5. I guess even if I am away, as long as I am happy I will always be at home.
Words on the field trip to Pampa del Indio (August 10th, 2009)
Catalina is 67 she hopes to live till 109 like her aunt who lives in Paraguay. Catalina did not want her son to spend money in buying her a fridge, she lived over 60 years without one but now she enjoys a cold glass of water when the hot summer comes up to 45 degrees. Out of the 13 rural settlements, Fortin Brown where she lives is one of the only two where there is electricity.
Lino lives with his granddaughter, she is 15 and does not longer go to school, they don't have the money to send her to high school because it is 45 km away. He used to live out of the the cotton crop, before it stopped raining 3 years ago. He believes it is going to rain again and her granddaughter will go to school and get married.
Ramon Garcia has three kids. He does not take them to the hospital in Pampa del Indio which is 35 km away, his eldest daughter died there. She had stomach infection, he thinks it was a negligence; some people said they did not treated her on time. She wanted to be a doctor. He drives all the way to the next town when his kids get sick. He can't sleep at night thinking he might loose one of his kids.
Ramona's husband died four years ago. She has two daughters. She sleeps outside because she is scared, two of her horses were stolen the ones she used to go to town. She thinks more of her animals have been stolen, they haven't come back. When she goes to town she walks over 5 km to the road waiting for a car to stop and give her a ride. She knows that they will keep on stealing her animals because they are three women and she has no family living close by. She misses her husband but she says she is going to keep on working hard so her girls don't have to go through the same things she is living.
Mariana has Chagas she was diagnosed before she had her second child. She is my age. She doesn't know yet that her kid has Chagas too, because she does not know anything about the disease. Her dad is sick, her grandfather too, the nurse goes and visit them once a month. The last month they called the ambulance twice. Her mom takes care of everything now. She thinks she can be cured. She can't.
So I will remember how it felt (Septemeber 1st, 2009)
I don't like to write on my blog before writing it on my notebook, I like to have the first, the second, the third, all the way to the last draft. I like to see how I have changed and in a computer I tend to erase it, Only for the first assignment I was able to write just one draft.
I don't update my blog that much because I have a notebook full of comments that I intend to type on the way home and then publish them on my blog the moment I leave my suitcases on my apartment's floor. But right now from the corner of Palestina y Estado de Israel, I wanted to writte the last words that I will type in the studio's computer. I can't leave!! I finished my work and I can't turn off the computer, ask someone to open the door for me, go downstairs and see the green door closing after me for the very last time. I don't have the strenght and my legs are on strike... they don't want to move. Three months that felt like the time was not running, the world outside stood still while my mind expanded. I want to cry,
laugh, memorize every single corner, every smell, every sound from the street... I
wish I could stop time and make this last minutes perpetual.
I will miss it so much... the walk on Córdoba, the coffee in Havana on the way herethe always-packed subte all the way to Medrano Station, the bus. The hours in thestudio, all what I learned. I guess many are happy on their last day at work, I am happy please don't get me wrong it is just that... I wish I could do that walk tomorrow once again
It has come to an end, this time I don't only feel it, ahora ya lo sé. She has come and asked me at what time am I leaving, I only need to turn off the computer, I said.... I only need to turn off the computer but I am taking the studio with me.
I don't update my blog that much because I have a notebook full of comments that I intend to type on the way home and then publish them on my blog the moment I leave my suitcases on my apartment's floor. But right now from the corner of Palestina y Estado de Israel, I wanted to writte the last words that I will type in the studio's computer. I can't leave!! I finished my work and I can't turn off the computer, ask someone to open the door for me, go downstairs and see the green door closing after me for the very last time. I don't have the strenght and my legs are on strike... they don't want to move. Three months that felt like the time was not running, the world outside stood still while my mind expanded. I want to cry,
laugh, memorize every single corner, every smell, every sound from the street... I
wish I could stop time and make this last minutes perpetual.
I will miss it so much... the walk on Córdoba, the coffee in Havana on the way herethe always-packed subte all the way to Medrano Station, the bus. The hours in thestudio, all what I learned. I guess many are happy on their last day at work, I am happy please don't get me wrong it is just that... I wish I could do that walk tomorrow once again
It has come to an end, this time I don't only feel it, ahora ya lo sé. She has come and asked me at what time am I leaving, I only need to turn off the computer, I said.... I only need to turn off the computer but I am taking the studio with me.
