Sin terminar

Estes palabras, si las veo. Hoy termine therapia, pero yo Estoy lejos de terminar. Me falta mucho Trabajo personal. Creo no acabare mientras viva. Y Estoy bien con eso.

empieza, noviembre.

Noviembre. es raro. hoy fue un dia largo, y pido energia para manana. me siento pesada. le puse punto final a mi relacion con el. y estoy bien. he decidido muchos No para mi vida. al esperanza de estudiar un doctorado. tengo esperanza de dejarme influenciar. tengo esperanza de perdonar. de buscar a mis 'medios' hermanos. quiero dejar ir, traumas. estoy disfrutando terapia. extrano la cercania fisica con el, pero solo eso. mm, solo eso? 'eso' no es tan 'poco'. Quisiera ser mas valiente, de lo que soy. A veces me imagino embarazada. y me gusta. pero no he entendido de donde viene ese gusto. No estoy segura de querer saberlo. Me gusta que un hombre sea caballeroso. me gusta el tiempo. el pasado. me gusto yo, en veinte anos mas. Quiero envejecer, con calma. quiero disfrutar el ultimo dia de mi conferencia manana. quiero ir a caminar a la playa, despues. quiero disfrutar el momento, tomando te. y asi quiero morir, porque si quiero morir. porque la muerte esta muy en mi. quiero tener sexo, con un tanto de amor. quiero algunos cliches, porque la vida, la mia, la siento muy corta. y quiero vivirla.

Huicholes, the last peyote guardians.

Thes are my roots and my inspiration.  I am proud to say now, that im turning that personal inspiration into a professional one, too. My herencia indigena es la mas fuerte influencia y razon de mis busquedas personales. Estoy feliz pues empiezo a ver, que no tengo respuestas, solo tengo mas preguntas, pero sobretodo, compromiso y responsabilidad social con mis ancestros, con mis abuelos, conmigo misma.

Resistencia

Mi resistencia

Ver esta foto me ayuda mucho. Yo soy en esta foto, la mas pequeña, la que esta profundamente dormida, con la mano estirada, vestida con mi traje huichol de pies a cabeza. Atrás esta mi prima Lucy, Ricardo, y Teto.

Siempre he guardado esta foto muy cerca de mi. Y siempre ha tenido un significado distinto, cada vez. Pero igual, también. De más joven, la miraba, y la miraba, sin entender porque me podía pasar horas regresándome a esa foto. No entendía muy bien lo que me causaba. Pero era siempre, la idea de verme a mi misma en un traje indígena, lo que me hacia reflexionar.

El lado de mi bisabuela, Laya, es ‘mas’ indígena, que el lado de mi mi bisabuelo, Zarco. De niña, solo se me hacía un tanto raro, ver a mi abuelo Zarco tan blanco de su piel, con ojos azules. No me gustaba ni me disgustaba. Solo se me hacia raro. Conforme fui creciendo, entendí ideas de mi misma y de mi familia, que fui internalizando. El que me dijeran en la primaria que parecía de ‘Oaxaca’ por mi color de piel. Y que yo misma creyera, que eso era algo motivo de vergüenza.  El que se burlaran un tanto, porque mis facciones son mas indígenas que ‘europeas’, no lo entendía. Pero me hería.

He sido afortunada de escuchar historias en mi familia. He sido afortunada, de que a mi madre, mis tíos, han sabido contar sus historias también. Gracias a esas historias he entendido el porqué de la discriminación, en mi niñez, en mi propia familia. Y esto me ayudado a ver la discriminación y a entenderla de una manera mas abierta, mas compasiva, en donde los culpables, solo han sido nuestra propia ignorancia, las influencias de la colonización, el machismo que eso nos dejo, y las ideas catastróficas de creernos menos, o mas, por nuestra apariencia física.

Estas historias no han terminado. Historias de violencia en las que que mi abuelito Chuy decía, ‘Laya se lo busco, por haberse casado con un hombre guapo.’ Mi bisabuelo no era culpable de creer menos a mi abuela Laya, por ser más indígena. Ni era culpable de creer que ella merecía golpes, malos tratos e indiferencia, por el ser ‘blanco.’ La única culpa es de la historia. Historias torcidas que nos han hecho creernos menos. Historias de poder en los que todos salimos perdiendo.

La resistencia en mi se hereda. Somos de Nayarit y la resistencia de nuestros hermanos Huicholes me ayudado a resistir.

Esta foto y el recordar mis raíces indígenas y lo orgullosa que me siento de venir de donde vengo, me ayuda, a resistir, para vivir.

Hoy agradezco haber experimentado este tipo discriminación. Una discriminación muy ‘sublime’ que me ayudado a ser mas sensible. Y que me ayudado a sentir un poquito mas, lo que mis hermanos de las comunidades indígenas, han pasado por tanto tiempo injusto e innecesario.

A veces me siento furica. A veces me siento inspirada. A veces conmovida. Pero sentir estas cosas ayuda a seguir luchando, y seguir intentando hablar por lo que creo. Hoy más que nunca, siento que cada parte de mi cuerpo y de mi mente, se descoloniza. Y siento que este proceso empezó desde ese día, ahí, tirada en esa mesa, con el orgullo que muchos me prestaron con esa vestimenta.
 

El orgullo es lo que me mantiene. Que porque me enojo a veces? Porque no soy indiferente a la discriminación y a la tristeza? Porque fui y soy afortunada de ser parte de todo, de mi pasado. Quienes de mis abuelos fueron más o menos indígenas? Que tanto lo soy yo? Yo lo soy, porque me duele el dolor.  Me duele el dolor histórico que la historia ha subyugado a unos mas que a otros. Por ese dolor sigo creyendo. Tengo fe en un dolor mejor.

La cabeza no se esta quieta. a veces busca por momentos que la hagan estar mas fuera de lugar. Esto a pasado un poco mas seguido desde que estoy teniendo mi propia terapia. Es risible hoy. Pero al salir de mi primera cita, lo unico que queria hacer era llamarlo. y llamar a todos los que de alguna forma u otra me han querido. entro en mi cuerpo una ansiedad incontrolable. Repeti en mi cabeza las cosas que me han pasado, las dije en voz alta, las apunto, las escribi en mi dia. Y nada de eso ayudo. Solo abrio heridas y confusion.

No se lo que me espera. Otro ataque de ansiedad? Me asusta mucho volver a esos ciclos. Lo unico que me ha detenido no actuar en los ciclos pasados es el recordar como me siento despues. Pero necesito algo mas. necesito esto.

manana es viernes, me enfrentare otra ves a eso. al espacio en el que yo busco encontrar respuestas en mi, en terapia. sin embargo, es algo en lo que no creo completamente. como proceder? Tengo que tener un plan. No dejare que gane la ansiedad. esta vez  no.

felicidad.

I saw a documentary today that talks about 'happiness.' the way that others perceive happiness and how different people in the world are conceiving happiness sometimes very different from other societies. I thought that it was an interesting movie just to be able to see other realities and understand the bilogical, and real implications of mood. However, after watching that movie, i started thinking about meanings. And, soon, my mind went gto many other places.

I wonder, is 'happiness' really exist? or is just a constrcution of own desire to create the meaning on a words that will either motivate us, or diminish us, depending on what moment we are in our lives. Not sure if this makes sense, even to me right now. But in an attempt to understand why is 'being happy' so important in our vovabulary, in our definitions of reality, i need to ask myself these questions.

This takes me, somehow, to narrow down my ideas so far.. if happines is a social construction of a meaning that we are wanting that word to have, then, many people can give different meaning to that word. And, following this guideline, for now, then I am happy, as long as I gave 'happy' the meanings that are important to me. I am not done thinking through this. But i am not done putting meaning to my own word of 'happiness' either, yet.

Vuelvo a mis dias, de estar mas cerca de mi misma. Vuelvo a mis dias de lecturas, a mis dias en que platico conmigo antes de dormir para darme aliento ante cosas que parecieran imposibles para mi. Vuelvo a una cafeina moderada, a aquella que disfruto mas. Vuelvo a esa necesidad de correjirme y de leerme en voz alta, sintiendo que es la unica forma de sentirme escuchada. Vuelvo a mis pasiones, a mis miedos, a mi lugares para tomar cafe y te favoritos.vuelvo a mis andadas.

Alguien me pregunto hoy por el. Senti mi cara estrujada, y mi expresion vacia. Fue un momento que me ayudo a percatarme de lo importante que el fue para mi, y que ya esta bien que deje de negarlo. No quiero que mi cara o mis expresiones sean vacias. pero tampoco quiero que ocupe un gran espacio en mis dias. Quiero lo que siempre he  querido, un balance. Aun no lo he encontrado. pero por lo tanto, ya me encontre a mi. Y encontrarme a mi, ha sido lo mejor que me ha pasado en mucho tiempo.

deconstruyendo la felicidad. un dia a la vez.

Me gusta que las cosas sean complicadas. Me gustan hacer las cosas complicadas. Veran, para mi la vida es una continua busqueda de pedacitos de felicidad, momentanea. Pera esa felicidad a la que puedo regresar por medio de imagenes, de texto, de recuerdos, o por medio de la memoria. Pero no creo que la felicidad sea solo una. para mi la hay mas de una. y mas de una forma de ser lo que culturalmente se conoce como 'feliz.'

Partiendo de lo cultural, partiendo de las expectativas por ciertas culturas, talves a la vista de otros, yo noy feliz.

Pero yo estoy poco a poco escogiendo y quitandome de encima esas presiones culturales, dia a dia.

Pero yo no decido mi felicidad asi. La felicidad, como el amor, como el triunfo, o la satisfaccion, son entidades que deconstruyo dia a dia, para mi propio bienestar. por mi propio juicio y desicion.

La felicidad asi, se vuelve una experiencia disuelta en muchas palabras, o posibilidades. Posibilidades de la palabra, que aun no he terminado, y espero nunca terminar, de deconstruir.

Hoy por ejemplo, fui feliz. tuve tiempo de caminar y de disfrutar el aire en mi cara. senti el calor. senti un dolor en mis piernas. senti mi cuerpo. hable de cosas que me apasionan. escuche a otros hablar de cosas que les apasionan. las conversaciones me hacen feliz.

y las conversaciones, son solamente una pequenita parte de mi idea de la felicidad.

Lunes

I found some unique flowers.

Hay algunas cosas que ayudan mis dias.

Hay algunas otras, que me lastiman.

Hay en estas horas un poco de enigma, de que yo sola no encuentra cabida

Hay en este espacio 40 esperanzas, de que algun dia, alguno se cumpla.

Hay en este centro, lo que tengo dentro. Hay en estas flores, mi lunes, mi suenos, mi melancolia.

Hoy me encontre estas flores en mi camino, y recorde, lo importante de las rarezas.

Hay en estas flores, esperanza, en la espera.

If there is an idea I do love, is the idea of deconstructive thinking. Deconstruction is just part of who I am as a woman, as a professional. Deconstruccion de la memoria is the theme of this space, and I have some reasons why. I am thinking deeply about this in the last couple of days, and I have an idea why this is so much in my mind. I have been stuck. and when I think about putting the pieced of ideas, of thoughts, of feelings, separated, I can be unstuck again. Speaking with alegorisms, speaking with symbols, and not with some of those words that are overstimated. This is just in my mind, this life.

I am feeling good now. Being in front of this blank page, is another way to be back at what I would call 'my safety zone.' I like being here. I life feeling the urge of wanting to say something and not having somebody to say those things to. I like having a blank page as my option. Many things tonight. But less is better. Im tired.

But the idea of couples, is just in my mind.

I am now working with more couples in therapy than I thought I would be. But the most amazing thing that had happended is how I am finding myself rethinking my relationships. Tonight, I thought of hope. I remembered the crazy mountain ride that was my last relationship, and keep thinking what would be different if me and him just talked more? I am wondering of him. But I am thinking of him very different this time. I know now that he never loved me. And I am realizing that is ok. I am realizing that I never gave anytime to myself to just process that, how hurted that I was. He woudnt never try any different, because there was no love. Him being dettached was not my fault either.

Are the experiences responsibles? Ok, i need to explain this here in order to understand myself. Something about the word 'Love' doesn't fit good for me. But I do have my reasons why. One of them is the fact that I can not say the word 'love' without getting emotional. Just a paragraph above, when I wrote that he never loved me, felt really hard for me to write. It was almost like saying that father never loved me. Even though i know there some thruth about those words, they do hurt so much. It is because it does hurt, that i am not being capable of using them myself. Does that makes sense Gema?? I am responding to myself that, I am not sure if it makes sense. It does makes sense to me. But I dont think it makes sense for the rest of people out there.

When he used to ask: 'do you love me'? I could never answer. And now, thinking, not only back but thinking forward, I wonder, am i going to ever be able? and, Do I even want to say it??  I do wonder, If am blocking myself from getting close to people when I feel they are being honest or they care? Do I fear to the 'real' feelings? No!! I dont think so. Im confuse.

Love is such a given for granted word.

Is either that, or just the fact that i might be uncapable of  having a real trust in a man. or, that there other types of love. I don't know. The only thing I know for sure is that I never believed he loved me. And I dont think I ever believed a man loved me. ughhhh, this is so hard. I feel the weight on my back when I write that. I guess i do care about love somehow.

Even though I would never understand why he choosed to just hurt me, I do understand, that he had no option. That's the only thing he knew. I just noticed that I can't even say his name anymore. is just a name i guess.

I can not say that I am free from that relationship. Relationships always hunt us. like ghost. But I do believe that i am liking this idea of 'recreating' aspects of that part of my life, to understand, to forgive, and to reconciliate with my own identity and choices.

But I am sad at times. I can't lie. I am sad about the 'idea' but not about him anymore. the idea that I did wanted him to stay, to try a little more. But I am understanding now, that maybe he did care about me. I asked him for few years, to just leave me if he cared fore me. and this time he did.

I guess i need to thank him. for once he listened. oh this is making me laugh now. But is also helping me. I do not think about him often or with anxiety anymore, so that means im good. that again, I am feeling good now.

Why do I think about thinking? I think of my process of though because I have an intention. With no intentions, my thoughts get confuse, and the overwhelming feeling of being lost arrives.

I am not lost anymore.

I am now started to think that my thinking is just passion. I dont want this to leave me. But I needed to be productive, for me. and for others. The word compassion has been hunting me, I think about my body and I feel it, I have to be compassionate, mindfull at all times, because being mindfull and aware of my limitations,  bring me back to my ground.

My intention for tonight, is being aware of my breathing, of my dreams. That's it.

identidad

Someone made me really mad last week. I was mad, until the point of getting sick. Because I coulnt articulate the ways to defend my self, or my ideas. I realize how much labels that doesnt fit with us, can hurt. I was hurt, mad, and invalid of words. But I wake up.

Conversations can heal, with other conversations, with restorative conversations. After having a conversation with a woman that I admire, and value, I felt empower again. I feel connected again. I feel, that it is ok to say no, and it is ok to speak up as I have been working on so much for the last few years.

I am still mad. But I am mad in a more productive way. In a way that is not paralizing me, nor my identity. I dont feel ashame for needing to talk, or for being me. I feel mad, but that feeling that will not stop me for thinking. I want to make things better, and I will.

Having somebody telling me words of my identity that doesnt fit with me, I realize how I am adding or deleting words and actions of my identity on daily basis. I am the one that is choosing those labels. That are not labels.

domingo y palabras.

“A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction.”― Virginia Wolf

this note reminded me how much I wanted space as a child and teenager. I wanted my privacy and a safe place to hide my diaries. I feel so safe with my diary, being safe. And i feel safe now, but for different reasons. I feel safe knowing that im not feeling constraint anymore for not writing something out of fear. I feel safe knowing that i can still write whetever i want, and that that is ok, because i am ok. or im getting there. I feel that my words can not be stolen this time. or burn. these words are mine, and the experiences, even if they painful, are mine. I am mine.

mas.

Ver ninos, en terapia, esta cambiando mucho quien soy yo, como persona y profesional. Es como si tuviera una nueva identidad. Me vuelvo mas vulnerable que lo que ya soy. Pienso mas. Siento mas. Y me dejan pensando mucho mas, que lo que los adultos me hacen sentir. No quiero asumir que se trata de un instinto, de su tamano, y cliches por el estilo, porque se que no es eso totalmente. Es una combinacion de recordar mi propia ninez, y el no querer hacer dano. Trabajar con ninos me recuerda que no solo puedo ayuda, que tambien puedo danar.

 It has been a very difficult day to me. An unexpected anxiety attacked me all day. I almost feel as I was dying slowly at different times of the day. The bad memories came back to me, and this time I could not fight them. I got so mad, thinking and remember that ugly moment of my life. And I feel dirty. I felt heavy. And powerless. I do not wish these feelings to anyone. The only thing that helped me today was my walking. Yes, I was able to repeat to myself: 'things were not in my control, there is nothing I can do to change that-. And I walked. And even though that will not help me to forget, it did help me to survive, today. but my own words have not help me today. is as if all of a sudden, that moment attacked my  memory again.

I think that what triggered today's anxiety is the father's day which i never celebrated. But for some reason, today, the memory of that incident really made me think about my father absence. Something tells me in my body that if i had a father nothing wouldnt happen. But that's just my thinking. I am thinking about him too today and is making me very vulnerable. I can help but thinking about abandonment, about my impossibilty to trust , to really attach as i wish i could, and my rush to always runaway, from what seems real.
I know in my hearth, that this is my time to get help, to really work on this burden that I have been carrying for so long, because this is not fair to me, I resist to it. I am resisting to go back to relationships and people that are hurtful to me, but at this moment i dont seem to know how. I am able to resist. Resist. That is the word that will help me to heal, eventually.

Yo a mi destino
lo perdono
con vino.

Si yo fuera yo
estaría contigo
aquí mismo
donde estoy.

Tras consultarlo con mi bufete de almohadas
... decidí seguir haciendo nada.

("Anacreóntica", 'Micropoemas' de Ajo)

lectura de hoy.

 

Mi lectura hoy,,, Una historia de mujeres especiales. Así comienza... LOS CUADERNOS DE LA SEÑORA BELL
"Es verdad que en el pequeño pueblo en que vivimos, al que llegan los fines de semana unos cuantos excursionistas a hacer senderismo y alpinismo, los hay qu...e piensan que no existo. Probablemente piensan que casi no veo, y que mi letra —a esta altura de mi vida— debe ser un galimatías ilegible. ¡Dios, me encantan estas gentes! Hacen que me sienta viva.
Mientras ellos piensan esas cosas, yo en mi preciado retiro, en mi letargo de osa, en el mayor de los secretos, escribo mis cuadernos de tapas azules donde voy contando poco a poco nuestras vidas; las suyas y la mía".
Enlace:
http://www.amazon.com/Kindle-eBooks/b/ref=sa_menu_kbo3?ie=UTF8&node=1286228011#/ref=nb_sb_noss?url=node%3D1286228011&field-keywords=pilar+alberdi&rh=n%3A133140011%2Cn%3A!133143011%2Cn%3A!251259011%2Cn%3A1286228011%2Ck%3Apilar+alberdi
Otras obras de la autora: "Isla de Nam", "Las fotos del inglés", "La niña que no quería nacer"
Pásate por el blog de la novela y lee las reseñas: http://loscuadernosdelasenorabell.blogspot.com/

Lo erótico es un recurso que reside en el interior de todas nosotras, asentado en un plano profundamente femenino y espiritual y firmemente enraizado en el poder de nuestros sentimientos inesperado y aun por reconocer. Audre Lorde.

The erotic is a resource within each of us that lies in a deeply female and spiritual plane, firmly rooted in the power of our unexpressed or unrecognized feeling.

Eroticism is one of the basic means of self-knowledge, as indispensable as poetry. (Anais nin)

Hay varias maneras de conocerme, una es esta. Me siento un tanto orgulloso de este conocimiento, un camino al autoconocimiento que empeze un tanto tarde, pero a tiempo. Lo erotico ni siquiera radica en la presencia de otra persona, radica en mi. y en mi forma de ser con los otros. Para hablar dr lo erotico no ocupo hablar de lo sexual, sin embargo, a veces, viene implicito. Pero lo erotico es cosa aparte. es tomarse el tiempo de respirarse y respirar al otro. Es tomar el tiempo de extranar, si es que ya no se cuenta con la presencia de ese anorado y conocido cuerpo. Es respirar.

Erotismo, en este momento, para mi, es agradecerme que me conozco, y que para mi, por hoy, es mejor esperar, en lugar de dejarme ir por algo que es burdo, lo mero sexual.

happy mothers day to those silent mothers, on the street. those mothers that without wanting, are 'expecting,'  to all of those cats and dogs that survive with their peculiar motherhood.

 Frida. No more words needed. No words to explain why I believe Frida was a revolutionary. and continues to be one of the women in my list that keeps inspiring me.

Feliz dia del trabajo, Mujeres!

Un homenaje a ustedes.

Me estremecieron mujeres
que la historia anoto entre laureles
y otras desconocidas gigantes
que no hay libro que las aguante.
Me han estremecido...  Silvio Rodríguez.

Hoy es un buen dia para pensar en la importance del trabajo, sin trabajar! Hoy no trabajo. pero hoy reflecciono acerca de la importancia de trabajar. Hoy reflexiono acerca de las luchas trabajadoras de muchas mujeres, de muchos tipos.

Today, is all about the women that work, out and inside home. Giant women that work, enjoy the day and the ability to enjoy it.

Today i remember her saying, 'everything hurts.' and i remember myself beliving on her pain. There is nothing more real than pain. i can not help but thinking about the absences of pain and how those can also misunderstoods. Pain also implies the reactions to pain from the society.

I need to think this through, i know. but today, I just wanted to make sure I give her a space in my thoughts to her. even if is not the space. even if im not using the right words, like she used to.

Existira de verdad, el tiempo perdido?

Ayer no podia dormir, o mejor dichom, me quede dormida pensando en el tiempo. en mi tiempo.
pense en los ultimos anos y me senti melancolica cuando repetia estas palabras en mi mente: perdiste el tiempo.

Creo que sigo aun en esa epoca de extranar lo qjue ya no esta. decidi, para poder dormir, que yo no he perdido el tiempo. que solo han sido accidented algunas personas que se han interconnectado con mis horas, con mi tiempo.

Error?

No se. estoy triste, aun. Pero solo cuando tengo tiempo de estar triste.

Pensar. Tambien pense que para los cambios tambien hay tiempo. y que, valga el cliche, para todo hay tiempo.

Para la muerte hay tiempo.

Se han muerto algunas cosas ya en mi. y no estoy bien con eso. pero para lidiar con eso, ya habra tiempo.

hoy para escribir y desechar estas pequenas destellos de faltas de suenos, siempre hay tiempo.

aunque no este bien, la escritura nunca esta bien. no debe de estarlo. si yo escribiera bonito, estaria muerta.

y para eso, no tengo mucho tiempo.

If They want to know
   ' what does it all mean'?
        Tell Them
             Read between the Lines.

Graveline, Circle as methodology.


this is my credo.

yo pienso, que muchas veces estoy fuera de mi cuerpo.

no se que sea. no se quien sea. pero se siente bien ser mas que solo yo.

momentos.

el sol se va, y yo me quedo.

after a long weekend of readings and staring of a computer, i am finally taking moments for myself. i will come back. but not tonight.  

mujeres creando



Hermosa. una miradita al taller de el Colectivo Mujeres Creando, de Bolivia. Colectivo feminista que ha colaborado de muchas formas a la creacion y a la apertura de espacios, mas amplios.

Que placer, de imagen, y aire.

en esta manana, ese aire de lucha, esta muy presente en mi.



no fear

'Nothing intimidates me when I’m writing.' J.Derrida.

I feel again more connected to the words that Derrida made me love. I love his words because he spoke of the things that I was always curious. The first time I read that statement, I was very young, and I was going through a big moment of anxiety in my life, because someone read what I wrote to myself. Something secret. something painful. I thought back then that writing was death to me. and that I was death too.

I am not afraid of writing anymore. I’m not afraid of being abnormal; the writing to me creates who I am. But who I am is continuality. Is not going to end now, or in 5 years, I will continue to be. I am writing, therefore I’m alive. Writing was a necessity for me when I was 13 years old. And is a necessity now. Is the way I becoming to learn more about me, and others.

my feminist Identity

Today I have been thinking a lot about feminism and its influences on me. And I think that is very good for me. My history with my encounter with feminism is one of passion with literature and how I am becoming to interconnect the things I love, the things I believe in and the ones I hate seeing, such as injustices. 

Few years ago I would never consider myself a feminist. I was constantly fighting to take off that label from me. But this “fight” was due to knowing inside of me that I loved many of the ideas and values that the feminist movement promote and believe in.

Growing up in a culture where feminism it’s the enemy for women, I used to put those ideas that I had in a box with a big lock, in my diary.

I used to hear this very often: “women over 30 that wants to study are old single ladies forever, they will die dry” most of this comments were made by men and women as well. However, the ideas behind these statements were socially constructed on a patriarchal society where there was not space for a third option for women, it was only either married or not. Single or not. I knew right back then, that something was not completely right about those ideas. I always look up at my mom as my example, and know I understand that even if she doesn’t name it like that, for me, she was my big first example and firsthand experience with feminism.

She broke many rules of her time. She chose to be with a married man, and even though she continually listened to many voices telling her what was wrong of what she was doing, she stay close with her ideas and values as an independent woman. I don’t think she realizes the importance that the way she lived her life means to me.

Later in life I found myself realizing that something was not right in the way I was feeling about myself looking at my friends getting married, and achieving “normal” things for their age. I felt constraint for a long time with the weight of those ideas of the things that I “suppose to achieve” by then. But I was afraid to speak up.

It was not until I found myself in my studies of literature that I found a place where I could fit. And I fit right.

As I start learning about the construction of realities through literature, through texts and book, I became fascinated with the idea of paying attention, finally, to those ideas of being a woman in this world, in a text, in a way somebody speak about life through books.

I met with Derrida, Bakthin, Foucault, Rosario Castellanos, Elena Garro, among others that made me feel welcome in this world that was new to me: the world of the other.

It was mainly, Derrida and Foucault that made my skin excited with each reading.

On my introduction to Derrida, I remember a professor telling me about an image and the drawing it for me. The image was a hand writing something. And then, another hand writing something looking at the other hand writing something. That was a magical moment to me. This was almost 11 years ago and I still remember the importance of that moment in my life. That moment has become a pivotal moment in my development as a student, professional, writer, and last but not least, as a woman.

That image has so many meanings. But the idea that writing is something independent from meaning is amazingly fascinating to me. Derrida promotes that. Derrida is one of the most complex writers I have ever read, but its complexity has a meaning, many meanings. At that time, everything became clear to me. I remember thinking, so, after I write something I am not the author anymore! So, what’s the point!! I was perplexed. But then I start fascinating readings about women I love. I met Rosario Castellanos and her early feminist ideas in a traditional Mexico. I felt much identified. Then, I remember thinking, “now I know, her words are not only hers. They are mine too.”

Derrida talks, among many other things about the death of the author. The meaning of a story or a line that you read has not only one meaning. It has many. And it has as many meanings as many readers read that same line. Because the experience that a person brings into a reading is not the same experience ever. It will always change. I get so excited just by saying this. So excited that I almost forget that im talking about me and my journey through feminism.

This is a long journey. And im not able to summarize my journey tonight. But I can start by saying that this idea that concepts doesn’t have only one meaning is what makes me identify completely as a feminist. Because I am a mix of the feminist ideas that better fit to me. Because I believe that the legacy to fight against injustices is one of the best legacies I ever learn from somebody. From my grandfather, from my mother, and from some books and words that are opening my eyes my fantasies and dreams into a more complex experience than just that.

I believe that feminism is a way of being human. But it’s not the only way. Therefore, that its not the only thing I am. I am many. But feminism is close to my hearth as a human being and as a child that witnessed injustices. I really like, the idea of picking and choosing pieces of what I love of the feminism and other theories that I am fascinated by. And like I said, it doesn’t have to be one way. There is no need, when I can be many.

This is not my only journey. But my encounter with this writers are one way i have come closer to ideas im developing over the years, it was my second encounter. Seeing my mother being so strong was the first one. And the third one, that one can be for another night.

Me gusta que algo que se puede oir, o tocar, me haga llorar. lo poco que se de arte, lo se poco. Pero me llega mucho.

Hoy despues de algunos años vuelco a ver la pelicula Kamchatka, y me conmovio igual. pero por otras razones.

Escuchar esta hermosa cancion me hizo llorar, y recordar lo efimero de los momentos bellos.

Recorde cosas que leo y que me afectan de manera especial, desde niña. Recorde lecturas que leia mi padre, y que yo leia con una gran pasion pensando que si yo entendia lo que el leia, lo entenderia o estaria cerca de el.

Recorde cosas que mi madre a leido mias. cosas que se van.

Me pongo sentimental, asi nomas.

Esta cancion simplemente me recuerda a mi misma mi derecho a la escritura. mi derecho a lo que siempre he creido, que la escritura no es un escape de un escape y nada mas. son muchos escapes juntos y amontonados independientemente de quien este involucrado.

me recuerda el porque sigo creyendo. y me hace llorar.



My mother made me food last night. she felt happy i was at home. we talked about other people and their lives, we drinked some wine. our time together is not more than being together. and to me thats more than i can ask for.
She cooks and she is happy seeing other eat. Littlr things like that, that i wish i could have.

I like sunrises. and im happy if im sharing those.

I like not being the only one who sees the sun.

I guess in a way, i am kind of like her.

Hoy pense en como me han herido frases como estas, "mi tipo de mujer es..." y escuchar los "tipos" de mujeres que son el tipo de mujer de los hombres, incluyendo el fisico. Hoy me doy cuenta que esos "tipos" que algunos hombres han creado en su mente no son solo de ellos, son una creacion de la sociedad en la que ellos se han construido..ahora lo entiendo. El entenderlo, no quita el dolor. Me sigue hiriendo que de alguna forma yo fui presa de creer que esos estereotipos eran validos. Y hoy soy todo lo contrario. Hoy quiero romper estereotipos propios y estoy en busca de otros, de los mios. con otros nombres, con otras construcciones. Aunque este camino hacia otra identidad, hacia la que prefiero, no es del todo dulce. es amarga, y conlleva algunas lagrimas. pero la necesidad es una mezcla de placer y gusto. las identidades, las nuevas, son como una droga. no se puede dejar de tratar, de llegar a ella.



Identité

One of the philosopher that I really love is Judith Butler. No one can speak but herself the way she does. Love this documentary. Her conception of identity regardless gender and fighting for our preferences continues inspiring me. I am reading her now, and i cant stop. reading her is dangerous. meanings start multiplying. When I read her I feel I am having a conversation with her. I know, i love dreaming.

http://feministing.com/2012/03/14/mexican-transgender-activist-agnes-torres-sulca-killed/

el poder del lenguaje nos hace segregar o dignificar al 'otro'.

hoy casi no puedo dormir pensando en este crimen de odio. muchas batallas se siguen aun perdiendo, y con ello la muerte. espero seguir teniendo esa esperanza.

Que triste. y que impotencia. que la discriminacion empiece por la boca..pero termina en asesinato.

‘Female otherness is created by discourse but also by spatial practices and constructs’                

    - Jean-Fracois Staszak

The ideas that are around me as woman are constructed by history, by men, by media representations, by traditions. They are not real.

This idea that ideas that we have in a society or in our life might be a social construction of our contexts, are really powerful to me. This idea gives me hope.

Gives me hope that what people are expecting of me are just socially constructed ideas of cultural expectations assigned to my gender.

I am fascinated by this idea of the otherness and how societies are assigning the meaning of being the ‘other’ to specific people, and not to other. In this process of assigning meaning, there is marginalization.

There is marginalization ideas by giving something or someone power, over others. And viceversa.  

I think about this often. And I will continue to. In many levels, in many way, im fascinated by what I don’t know about the ‘other.’ Including myself.

my body

I have been thinking a lot about my body lately, today, this year, right now.I hear things and stories about how it supposed to be my life at this moment in time. because of my age, because of my experiences, because of the family, and society. I hear: 'you should have a baby now, before it is too late, if thats somethings that you want".. "you should have a baby because i want to be a grandma".. and the last one: "we should make a baby, and that way we stay together,"..and many other phrases like that.

I think about what those discurses mean to me. Why they do affect me so much, even though, i know they shouldnt. Before they used to bother me because of the context. I used to think that if my situation changed I would be probably think differently about having or not a child. The stories transformed to many others when they are being processed thorugh pain, or the opposite, through happiness.

Now, those annoying statments about how my life supposed to be by this time, bother me for other reasons. Now I think about my body. and the power I have over it. I think about people think they have a right over the desicions of my body, and I feel really mad. I am tired of explaining. I am exausted to explain, even to myself what I want or not out of my body.

I do not now yet.

Maybe I want a child, but maybe not out of me.

or maybe yes.

and I will find out, even though becomes late.

That desicion will come from me, and from my body. and only from that binarie. I want to be in peace with my desicions, but mostly I want to be in peace, with it, with my body.

vw

Me pregunto si estare loca. siempre he estado obsesionada con la locura. en especial, la locura de las mujeres. siempre he tenido una gran curiosidad por las causas de la locura, sus consecuencias, razones, y el como vivir con ella. Pensando en ello, me ha fascinado la vida de Virginia Woolf. Compre el libro de su diario cuando me cambie a vivir a san diego, hace 6 anos. Recuerdo sentirme identificada, conectada con las experiencias de Virginia en terminos de aislamiento. de silencio. y de pensamientos que de tan internos se perdian en mi. Poco a poco pretendi entenderla. pero nunca lo hice. solo admiraba fascinada por aquello que yo no conocia, y que por lo tanto, no podia sentir en carne propia.

Me fascina lo que no conozco.

Espero nunca entenderla.

I am, multiple.

migration of identity

I have been thinking about Michael white today and the migration of identity. Today im realizing that I am migrating, that I have been migrating out of my old identity for a while a go now. It has been, and it is still, a long process. But I am embracing the fact that im deciding to be a different person, the woman that I want to be. A more free one.

The migration begun not only by physically moving away from the things that and the people that I didn’t wanted to be with. The migration started once I start thinking and feeling about myself in a different way. In a more compassionate way towards my own experiences. And mistakes.

I am noticing that there is no place in which i want to arrive, yet. But I know I want to go somewhere else. Within myself.
I have not arrived to my destination in this process of migrating, but will try this rite.

Una

La palabra clave para esta semana, para mi, es deconstruccion. de-construir las cosas que me pesan que vienen de las ideas patriarcales de actuar, de ser, de sentir, o de internalizar una experiencia de vida.

Yo he internalizado ser menos. menos que ___. menos que alguien, menos que muchos.

deconstruir, hoy, me ayuda. a sobrevivir. de los demas. de sistemas. de mi misma considerandome menos. Si paso a paso, deconstruyo lo que ese lenguage se ignifica en mi vida, sere capaz de mirarme al espejo y decirme, soy una.

por medio de de construirme, me reconstruire en la que quiero y anoro ser, en una.

Laya

I am listening to Nina Simone's station at pandora. While im listening, i cant help but thinking on many colors of women voices in my life. Women that are strong because of the humility that they present in my head. There is no other word but that one. Humility.
I think of great grandmother, abuelita Yala, and the stories i grew up listening, not from her, but from others about her. My greatgrandmother was a woman that all the characteristics of the indigenous women of Nayarit, Coras. She grew up at the time where looking more as indigenous was a sin. You were curse for life if your skin was dark. My greatgrandmother endure a lot of pain at her time. Pain that has not ended because times have not changed. At least not for us.

My great grandfather, on the other side, was light skin and had blue eyes. Zarco was his name. And i used to have a feeling of safety every time he huged me as a baby. I didnt have that feeling of safety from men as a child. But I do remember him. My greatgrandfather Zarco never stop drinking. And never stoped hitting my great grandmother. He used to come home drunk and attempting to hitting my greatgrandmother even with the 'machete' that he used to work with. I remember hearing from grandfather, Chuy, "thats her luck, thats what she gets for marrying a white man". The whole town and part of the family, assumed that she needed to endure that pain and way of life because of her position as an indigenous looking woman. But she never completely believe, or viewed herself as a victim.

She divorced him. and she leaved alone for many years until she died.

This may not sound as a happy story. But it is for me based on the context. I see my greatgrandomother Laya, as a pioneer woman that faced many obstacles and was treated badly for many years but that didnt conform with her 'luck'. She maybe ended up alone the rest of her years, but she chosed that life. It was her desicion, her power. She didnt hate my greatgrandfather. she just didnt want to be with him.

I remember her house. her smell. but mostly, i remember her long, long white hair. She used to be unique. extremelly thin and with a distict look of calmness that i will never forget.

I want many things from her. But as of now, I can only try by constructing with many stories, the idea of my perception of her, in my life.

I am an inconvenient woman. For some, for you. And for me because I keep fighting against me.

I went to a training today in which one of the professors, which is a brave woman, was talking about how invading other people’s home for therapy can create really damage for some families, instead of helping them. I so value the fact that that was coming from a woman in a position of some power, such as is her position as a professor, and Caucasian woman.

It got me thinking on the complexity of relationships, and how we can get effects over others without even knowing that.

I thought about her, and thought about my own assumptions of her before I start this program. Before I get into the program I did my research on the professors. I made assumptions about her. I thought that from all of the professors she was probably the one that I wouldn’t be able to relate at any level. That we didn’t have anything in common. I thought I knew all about her and was intimidated of her as well. She represented fears, and some of the general stereotypes that I was against. I was wrong.

After some time of getting to know her ideas, her previous experiences, and her way to interconnect personal experiences of fighting against labels, norms, and patriarchy, really relates to my own experience as a woman that is on her search of becoming closer to fighting some norms, that doesn’t fit with me anymore.

I like to interact with women like her. With women that have what I don’t have, women that have what I want.

Qualities that are at some place hidden in me, that I need to find out.

I am continually thinking about power and the relationship with power between women. I think on my own biases against her and biases that women that inspired me had about me.

I think on how other women may perceive me. And i think on the power that that perception may have on me. She told me once that i have a "desarming look."  I wasnt sure what that meant back then. But im thinking now that has something to do with this idea of being approachable, non judgemental. And im liking that idea. If there is something that i want to contribute to my identity is this piece of being just myself. with no pretensions. being natural and transparent about my intentions with people. In this sense, i guess im enjoying the fact that another woman gave me acompliment. And im really curious to have more ideas of other women about me, about others, about themselves, in this effort to construct our identities in ways that fit better for ourselves.

My Feminist March

I always receive my March's with a big smile. Regardless of what I have been through. And today is not the exception. I am (hopefully) going through another one of our multi break up. again. and again with the same. I don't know for how long, but this tons of little break ups really kill something on me each time. I feel almost a year older each time i decide to leave him on my past. Because that past keeps coming back. After crying all night, after feeling a great victim, I always make the desicion of staying alone no matter what.

Yesterday, after classes, I was about to die again. To be weak to not make sense. Once at home, i start crying on the shower, and under my blankets feeling powerless.

And I woke up. and March showed up.

It was a combination of March. of the Morning. of the coffee, and the lavender candle that make me feel again stronger.

I dont know for how long. and I dont need to know now. But today, March 1 received me alive. maybe lonely. but alive.

going back and back, from him. to him.
back to back.
and it does not feel right.
even though for now, this is only on my mind.

enferma

Hoy estuve enferma de la gripa. de una gripa consumidora de movilidad y de fuerza. de esa de la que me quejo tanto. Aun asi hice todo lo que debi hacer. Vi a todos lo que tenia que ver. pero mi cuerpo no da mas, quiere tirarse a la perdicion, a la cama.

Cuando estoy enferma me gusta la que soy aunque me quejo. soy mas lenta. no le doy prisa a las cosas y no me apresuro a cumplir con factores externos mucho. balance que quiero tener estando sana. Camino como zombie. la gripa que consume las ganas de moverme, pero solo las fisicas. Con el cuerpo congestionado todavia me muevo cog ganas de hacer mas, y dormir menos. Los dias me duran poco. Las Me pregunto por cuanto tiempo mas tendre esta energia. Espero que me duro todo lo que le ha durado a mi mami, toda una vida.

my way

after learning some of the ugly/nasty long term and side of effects of meds. I am thankful that I had and continue having other ways.

When I was 15 years old I was prescribed with drugs. The psychiatrist told my mom that I had an anxiety disorder after talking to me for almost 30 minutes. It was true that I bit my nails and I pulled out my hair. It was true because I lived with that for many years. But the psychiatrist, or the psychologist later on never bother to ask me why. They gave me Tafil. a med under the category of anti anxiety-benzodiazepine. (the same type of medication that was precribed again to me 3 years ago when experiencing an incident that they described as 'panic attack'.)
I remember at the beginning, I was so hopeful because I thought that would be the cure to my sweaty hands and bloody fingernails for extreme biting. It was getting to an “out of control” state as I hear some people said. This psychiatrist interviewed me in the Psyquiatrist Hospital of Tijuana. I remember clearly one thought: I did not wanted to be in that hospital for longer. I agreed to everything the doctor said and I even remember saying something along the lines of: “I would do whatever it takes.” I was seeing my first boyfriend of two weeks in a half. Juan Carlos. Juan Carlos was 17 and to his eyes, I was perfect. He kept telling me that he didn’t care about my hands. But I was really embarrassed. I didn’t want him to see or touch my hands. But that day, when getting the medication I had a hope. I had a hope of being normal and having a boyfriend one day that could hold my hands.

I didn’t follow through with taking the medications. I was lucky I was an adolescent and rebelling was required. I also left Juan Carlos. I also had my first drink. And stopped writing for almost a year. And I even though I tried to keep that ‘anxiety disorder’ under control to the eyes of others, there were some hidden pleasures that I couldn’t let go. Not yet.
Later in life the drinking becomes a problem. For me. And for others. And then later, even more later in life, I got bored of people trying to interpret and translate what some of the things I was doing actually meant. I got also bored of trying to identify them myself. I don’t care what they meant. I don’t care at all.

And i dindt took those meds 3 years ago either. Instead, I searched for different ways of being in peace, healthier, and in good terms with myself.

About 8 years ago I read something that reminded me myself at 15 again. And I felt really sad. I felt as if something was lost forever in me, I felt empty, alone. I left everything. Any abuse that was damaging me. But I left it on my own terms. Not on the terms the society asks people to left them. I realized that I was able to set my own limits and the way I prefer to be with myself and with others. It has been 8 years that I have no need to prove anybody that I’m good. Because I don’t know if I’m good. I am just doing what feels right. Right now.

On learning about the side effects of medications and in all the labels that pathologize people, I am really glad that I’m founding out new ways to be seen through the eyes of postmodernism. I am glad that I know now, that I don’t believe it was right the way I was labeled with an anxiety name on my body. I do not believe on labeling people, therefore, I know that it was a mistake that I was labeled once.

I found relief and hope in natural medicine, I have become one of those now. I take relaxing herbal teas, and continue my search into a more holistic way to be, with my body and my mind, because I know my body, I can experiment with whatever it feel right for my calmness. Since 9 years ago I do not drink to get drunk. Not because people asked me to, but because I want it this way. I don't need that on me. I only need whatever it continues to feel right to me. And whatever I continue choosing as part of my believes. Because some beliefs, are also changing in me..

I still have a long way to go. I still have a long way to talk. But as of now, my preferred remedies are working. I love to walk and hike. I love the pros and cons of my body. And Im trying meditation at times. I can sleep well now. I have finger nails and regular hair. And for any relief of stress, I have this space. I have the blank pages where I can just be. Where I can find the beauty of freedom that writing has always saved for me.

Making mistakes feels so good today.

repeat

At night is to easy to sleep now. Something must be wrong with that. He left, for now, and I know
That I should be sad. Very sad. I forced myself to not sleep for few nights. To cry. The tears are all gone because I have so much more. I know that I'm fighting against these dominant ideas that
Assumes that I should feel some way, or not. I know that I'm against all of that. That I'm against
my ideas of him, that I'm against wherever he claims are his ri
ghts. I know, I know. I know that he will be back. I know that very well.

But I dont know how much longer I will rewrite the same story. Over, and over.

In my last meeting today, a 4 year old asked his mom,

Why is she still here mom.., is dark outside.

In my last meeting today, a 4 year old asked his mom,

Why is she still here?  is dark outside.

el Cafe de hoy.

Alguien me dijo hoy que la vida tiene que tener curvas, pues de de otra forma se vuelve aburrida.
Mientras me decia eso, me imagine mi vida con el cuerpo de mujer. con curvas que yo no tengo. Mi vida en un vaso de Coca Cola.

Fueron palabras acertadas para mi un momento como el mio. Tan vacio. Las curvas de la metafora de la vida de las que el hablaba, se pusieron en linea con las angustias en decline de mis momentos estos dias.

Mi vida no es plana.

Mi vida no es curva.

Mi vida es soy yo. no soy mucho de nada . pero en mucho me vuelvo agua.

Hoy fue el cafe y mis momentos en el, los que me ayudaron. Manana no se. Talves sea otra curva la que me vuelva a mi misma.

Mi amigo tambien me conto, durante el cafe, los dos nombres de ninos que mas le gustan. Camilo y Maya. Mi amigo tiene muy poco de ser amigo mio. Pero el compartio sus curvas de la vida y  sus nombres favoritos.

Hoy fue un buen dia en el cafe. a pesar de que mi curva ha estado en declive.

Anti despedida

Quiero tirar mi telefono y que con el se vayan mis recuerdos. Quiero que no se respiratory. Sanamente para no quitarme esta ansiedad de escribir. Pensamientos estancados. Retorcidos. Impaciencia que el llama, en silencio, conducta bipolar. Hoy me grito. Loca. Con derecho. Feliz. Y melancolica.