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cgrrrrrrrr-blog · 7 years

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Your Personal Borderlands

You never knew you were different until you said palita because you didn’t know the word “dustpan” and the other kids made fun of you. How could you have known? You looked just like everyone else, acted just like everyone else, and talked like everyone else. Except for this little slip up. Now all the other kids had found out something you never even realized was a secret. For the first time, you understand that there’s a part of you that’s always been there, but has always been in the back seat, hidden from view, both by your appearance and your upbringing.

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“I’m not Mexican, I’m Spanish!” It’s a phrase you’ve said for most of your 15-year old life. After all, that’s what your family has always told you. “Spanish” as our ethnicity has always been the status quo when discussing who we are and where we come from. No one has ever said “Mexican”. Looking back, it’s clear that insecurity influenced that word choice. No one wants to be Mexican in a world that hates Mexicans. But back then, you had no way of knowing things like that.

One day, a friend calls you racist for saying it, says that you claim Spain because Mexico is shameful. You’re more resentful of that than you’ve probably ever been of anything. You tell her that you wouldn’t be ashamed to be Mexican if you were, but you’re not. You tell her it’s racist to hear that someone is Hispanic and instantly call them Mexican. The Spanish speaking world spreads over two continents, not just one country. Being right has always been your favorite thing, and an argument like this is no different. You believe all of this because for you it’s true. No one had ever said “Mexican”.

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Your mother’s story influences yours more than you ever could have realized. Born and raised in small town Pueblo, Colorado to a first generation ex-marine from Spain and a former nun with a family history in New Mexico going back over 12 generations, she didn’t exactly have it easy. Aside from the strict Catholic upbringing, she also dealt with the small town racism that only the 1960’s could embody so well. Despite living in a town whose name literally means “town” in Spanish, her language was frowned upon. Spanish was the first language of her two eldest sisters, but the trend ended with them once her parents realized the stigma that came with it. Your mother and your other aunt both learned Spanish second, and had to pursue it in school to really learn it since their parents did their best to make English a priority for them.

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Your household is a strange hybrid. Spanglish is the norm, and was your first language, but English is still what you speak the most. When you get older, you wish your mother had taught you as a child so you wouldn’t have to take so many classes.

“¿Quién es ella?” she asks you gesturing towards the TV screen.

“I don’t know, Mom. Some celebrity I guess.”

“¡Responde en español! Necesitas practicar!”

“I wouldn’t have to if you had just taught me when I was little.”

“I’m teaching you now!”

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Your mother has cried telling you about being called a “dirty Mexican” at school, or on the street, or by the parents of her high school boyfriend. That’s why she left him. She couldn’t stand the grief it was causing both of them, so she left, hoping it would be temporary. It wasn’t. In some strange way, if it weren’t for those racist old people, you might not even exist. You’ve always wondered if she would’ve been happier had she stayed with him. You’re certain she wonders about it too. But you’re both here now, and it’s become painfully obvious how that experience has come to shape yours. How she raised you, the way she wanted you to look, all stemmed from that experience, from that family. In some strange way, if it weren’t for those racist old people, you might not even exist.

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Your father has green eyes, with yellow around the pupil. They’re pretty eyes. They’re the eyes your mother prayed for the whole time she was pregnant with you. Her faith in her own brand of spirituality was strengthened when you came out white as snow with hazel eyes. She says her prayer must have been answered since brown is the dominant color. You’ve stopped telling her that sometimes recessive genes can win too. There’s nothing wrong with letting her have this.

Her hair and eyes are the darkest part of her otherwise not-that-“ethnic”-appearance, but they were enough to mark your mother as “other” in her youth, so she prayed that you would be spared. She always tells you how much prettier you are than her, because of your light eyes and long waist. When you’re young, you think she’s just being silly because she’s beautiful and everyone tells you that you look just like her. When you get older, you realize she’s valuing the things about you that she doesn’t have. She’s valuing the Anglo in you she never had.

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The first time you knew you were gay, you were five or six years old. You have a memory (though your mother denies it to this day) of climbing into bed with your parents and saying “I’m a lesbian.” You have no idea where you learned that word, or how you knew what it meant, but there you were, coming out before you could read. It was evident that your mother was bewildered, taken completely off guard, not happy. She pulled out one of her ever present women’s magazines and showed you a picture of a model in an ad. She asked you if you were attracted to this person, if you could like-like her. The tension coming off of her and the intensity in her eyes told you that the right answer was “no.” So you shook your head. “Then you must not be a lesbian!” The relief in her eyes has always stuck with you.

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The second time you came out, you were 13 and you were pretty sure the world had ended. For the next five years, you laid awake listening to hushed arguments down the hall, hoping you hadn’t destroyed your parents’ marriage. You lived one life at school, and another at home. You made non-committal noises when your mother asked you if you thought the man on screen was attractive. Don’t ask, don’t tell.

On the long drive back from Castle Rock, she vows that she’ll never tell them, any of them. She can’t bear to hear her sisters mock her or say that her exit from Catholicism is what made you gay. That her “non-traditional” parenting is what made you this way. You sit in silence, juggling heartbreak and relief. You don’t want your mother to see you as some shameful reflection of her choices, but you don’t want to tell them either.

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They say college is one of the best times of your life, the time when you really get to find yourself. Normally, you prefer to disregard what “they” say. Most of the time, you feel like “they” should keep their damn mouths shut every once in a while. Going to school has been one of the most stressful, terrifying, challenging experiences of your life. But when it comes to the “finding yourself”, “they” seem to have struck the nail right on the head. Being in college felt like waking up from a dream and finally getting to see the world for what it is.

“Gay” felt right. It was easy. Seeking out queer groups on campus just made sense, and Gay Straight Alliance was the obvious choice. The anxiety you felt walking into that room the first time was in response to meeting all those people. Feeling like you weren’t enough or that you were an imposter never factored into the equation. Finding queer community was like being wrapped in a warm blanket by someone who loves you. Trying to find latinx community hardly ever crossed your mind. When it did, it felt like trying to scale Everest with a step ladder.

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“You’re such a gringa!” is a phrase you’ve heard all your life. It’s featured with other greatest hits like, “You only think this is spicy because you’re so white!” and “You have no rhythm!” and your all time favorite “You’re not in touch with your culture!”. Phrases like these grate on you, make you frustrated, and when you were little, they used to make you cry. Apparently your family has never realized that, since they still use them every now and then. You can shrug and laugh it off now, but that feeling of absence always remains.

Your only encounter with your paternal grandfather happened when you were an infant. You have no memory of him and your only context is that your father hated him. It’s probably for the best. Apparently he and his new wife were racists too. Grandma was a big part of your life when you were a kid, but after she got sick, she moved away and you never actually saw her again. In the end, you mainly remember her smoke damaged voice over a crackling line and the promise of birthday checks that never came.

The light eyes and skin that your mother felt blessed by seemed like a curse to you. Family resemblance was never something you could relate to, since your mother’s family, your main family, never really looked like you. Being white made you the black sheep. One of the only times your privilege would make you an outsider. Someone asked if you could trade it all in to be darker, would you do it? Absolutely.

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Privilege is something you didn’t hear about until college. It’s a concept that’s easy to learn, and hard to master. You knew you were white. A Chicano history class you’d just recently taken caused the revelation that you while Spain factored in, Mexico couldn’t be left out of the equation of your heritage. Your great grandmother, the curandera, was evidence enough of the mestiza in your blood. Looking in a mirror though, that blood was always so well hidden behind the European features you could now only tie to a history of wrongdoing. So, where did that leave you? Confused mostly.

Despite your skin, you were trained to always check the “Hispanic, Latino, etc.” box on every standardized test and application. Mom always said getting that recognition was important. We wouldn’t want to miss out on any scholarships, now would we?

Claiming such an identity at a university where very real activism takes place felt like a farce. Saying it in front of a group of queer and trans people of color felt even worse. It was your reality, your truth, but it wasn’t spelled across your skin or your facial features, so how could it be on a level with their realities and truths?

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Your mother went to Pride with you this year. She marched in the parade by your side, held a sign, and yelled. It’s days like this that make you appreciate how far she’s come, how far you’ve come together. Normalcy is the banner your mother lives her life under. It’s how she’s learned to survive in this world. After all the abuses she’s suffered, you can’t really blame her. She’s always tried to push that doctrine onto you, to keep you safe as best she can, even if it left you lonely and afraid. Radicalism is the banner you’re starting to adopt. It’s the only way you can see to make the world move forward. Cheesy as it is, you believe in being the change you want to see in the world. The two of you clash, often and loudly. But your mother holding up a glittery sign that reads “We Love Our Latinx Family” surrounded by half-naked queer people and drag queens is a good step towards compromise.

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The Chicana/Latina panel you attended was amazing. An hour of listening to the insights of women on campus about their experiences with those terms and in general. Just having the opportunity to listen to them speak on their own terms, from their own perspectives felt magical. You weren’t prepared for the sentence that changed everything.

“Even if you are Spanish, even if you came from that imperialism, you’re not it. That imperialism isn’t you.” For the first time, the feelings of absence and falsehood slip away. Tears roll down your face as you walk out that door.

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College is coming to a close, and you’re more terrified than excited. Your expectations have been shattered, the ground beneath your feet feeling far more unstable than you ever thought it would when you imagined getting to this point. Your parents constantly ask you what you’re going to do with your life, anxious that you might be wasting your time and their borrowed money. But it’s not just career goals that have you shaken. You don’t know who you are anymore, not really. At eighteen, you knew “Mexican” had to factor into your equation. There was no way it didn’t. You want to feel proud, but “woman of color” just doesn’t feel right. The color of your skin has never caused you strife or pain. No one has ever accused you of shoplifting for it, or said that you’re smart for a brown girl. White doesn’t have the same comfort it used to either. The white kids you know don’t think in Spanglish. They’ll never know the frustration of not being able to use the perfect phrase because it doesn’t translate right, or of being asked “what are you?” You’re standing on the precipice of change, and you really don’t know whether or not you’ll fly.

#creative nonfiction #creative writing #nonfiction #writing #writers #story #english #cgrrrrrrrr

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cgrrrrrrrr-blog · 7 years

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Last Friday Night

I’ve posted this a few other times, but it’s probably still one of my better pieces so it’s going to be on here too. Trigger warning for sexual assault. Please let me know what you think!

I’ve been dead for twelve hours, and nobody knows.

Last time anyone saw me, I was climbing into his crappy old car, the one he bought himself. We were going on our first date. Was he the best looking kid in school? No, but he was that nice shy guy who everyone said I should “give a chance”.

Now I’m lying in a ditch on the side of the road, mud caked on my face like the makeup he never realized I wore. Guess you don’t have to be nice if you don’t get what you want.

He bought me dinner and took me to some sappy rom –com, something unmemorable and contrived. Not the best date I’ve ever been on, but not the worst either.

I’ve pushed myself up, standing in the blood orange-twilight on legs that shake like Bambi’s (you know, if Bambi’s muscles had just woken up from a dirt nap.) One shuffling step, then another, experimenting. I’m getting more confident. I think it’s time to go.

We drove to this empty field right on the edge of town. Our equivalent to ‘make out point’ I guess. He leaned in to kiss me. I let him. I was giving him a chance after all.

Climbing out is harder than I expected-dirt crumbling beneath my fingers-but I manage. The sun finally sinks below the horizon and the lights coming from town are brighter than I remember. I use a clammy hand to shield my eyes until they adjust. Here we go.

The kiss was fine. Average, just like everything else about him. But it wasn’t long before he decided he wanted more. He got handsy, I pulled away. “Come on!” he whined, “I’m not like those other jerks!”

It’s quiet when I shuffle my way into the city limits. The kids are all inside, doing homework or playing their video games, maybe watching some YouTuber make an ass of themselves. The adults are watching their programs, having a drink, just trying to forget their day for half an hour. Makes this a whole lot simpler for me.

I pushed him away again, and that’s when he lost it. “This is fucking unbelievable! I paid for your food and I dealt with that stupid ass chick flick for you! I’m sick of getting friendzoned by you fucking sluts! Just because I’m not some jocky douche that doesn’t mean you can treat me like shit!”

There’s no way around it, if I want to get to his house I’ll have to cross through my own neighborhood (my old neighborhood now, I guess.) I pass in front of the little grey house and stop. My dad’s truck is parked outside, just like always. My sister’s bike is thrown haphazardly on the lawn. For a moment I’m tempted to go in, just to see them one last time. Deep down though, I know I can’t. That’s not why I’m up and about. I have places to be. And besides, how do you explain your cold flesh and dead eyes to your twelve year old sister? No, it’s better to just keep moving.

He opened the car door and dragged me across the console. He’s much stronger than he looks. From the shooting pain, I already knew that my hip would be badly bruised. He opened the back seat and threw me in, leaving me no time to react before he was on top of me, the door slamming shut behind him. My heart was beating furiously and panic surged through me as he tore at my clothes. My breath came in short, ragged gasps as I struggled against his hold. I managed to get one arm free and raked my freshly-painted nails across his eyes. He snarled “Bitch!” before shredding through the rest of my skirt.

My street is now behind me and I only have a couple blocks to go. The stars are out in droves tonight, a thousand tiny pinpricks of light in a black velvet sky. It’s so peaceful; I can almost forget why I’m out here. But almost is never good enough.

My screams for help were silenced by his hands clamping down around my throat and I felt him finally reach his goal. Within seconds my world had become a red blur of pain, fear, shame and sorrow. Darkness closed in on the edges of my vision. That’s when I realized that I was going to die.

Finally, after what seems like an eternity of shuffling around suburbia, I reach his house. I don’t want to risk waking anyone by jiggling the front door, so I head for a window. The one in the living room is unlocked and I slide it open, easy peasy. Climbing in is easier than I thought it would be, what with the rigor mortis and all.

It didn’t take long at all. One minute I was there, living out every girl’s worst nightmare, the next I was gone. He didn’t notice, or maybe he just didn’t care. Either way, he finished before he did anything else, cleaned up as best he could, then got back into the driver’s seat. It wasn’t hard for him to find the ditch. It took maybe two minutes at the most. He wrapped me in the towel he kept on the back seat in case of messes (because at the end of the day, that’s all it really was, right? Just a mess to be quickly wiped away?), and kicked me down the hill. I hadn’t even hit the bottom before he sped away.

The stairs pose a bit of a challenge (they’re old, squeaky wood), but no one seems to hear and I make it to the upper level unnoticed. Three rooms line the hallway, and I’m not quite sure which one is my destination. Gently, I turn the handle to my immediate right. A pair of little girls, no older than six, snore softly from bunk beds pushed against the far wall. I retreat silently and move on. Second room on the left gives me more luck. The door opens easily and I slip inside. I’m not surprised by what I find: posters of scantily-clad women, sports stars and bands that everyone has heard of, a fairly large TV and Xbox in the corner, the stand overflowing with games, a desk against the wall covered in papers and chip bags, and in the center, a queen sized bed with forest green sheets.

I make my way to the bed, steps less clumsy now that I’m finally so close. Gingerly, I climb onto his bed. He stirs a bit, but remains asleep. That won’t last long. I move up the bed and straddle his sleeping form, making sure I can easily reach my target. As soon as my icy hands make contact with the skin around his throat his eyes shoot open in alarm, but it’s too late for that now. I close down on him, vice-like, stopping any oxygen in its tracks. I make sure to stare him right in the face, never breaking eye contact. I want to see his terror, his pain, his confusion, but most of all, for the first time tonight I want to be seen. I want him to know that I did this, that in the end he didn’t win, that he never got away with it.

The life leaves him just as quickly as it left me. It’s all over in a matter of minutes. I finally release my hold on his windpipe, but I can’t help but stare at those eyes for just a little bit longer. They’re wide, bulging out of his blood-darkened face. The look of panic and confusion will be captured there forever. While what he felt could never compare to the helplessness and terror I experienced at his hands, it’s somewhat comforting to know he’ll never escape what’s been done. With that look I doubt they’ll want an open casket. Finally satisfied with my work, I slide off the bed and show myself out.

#writing #writers #short story #fiction #creative writing #english #cgrrrrrrrr

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