Why Do I Write?

#52Essays2017
Week 4


"Tienes que ser alguien en la vida" (you have to be someone in life). Someone meant: a person with a successful career. Economically stable. Independent. Prestige. Status. A corporate America job, a doctor, a lawyer, an engineer. When I was young, I felt proud that my parents pushed me, knew even that I was going to be someone. Because I dreamed. My dreams were wild. My 'home' was huge. My possessions were out worldly. But as I got older I started to realize those dreams hurt me. Because at that moment in time I wasn't that someone. I wasn't someone. I was no one, simply because I didn't have those things. I started realizing my parents weren't someone either. They weren't the someone they wanted me to be.

In between the emphasis and praises of my A+'s and 100's in school tests and home quizzes created by my dad, they supported my artsy side. I sketched, read, wrote and decorated countless journals, created stories in my head and acted them out, I did clay sculpting, later on photography. When I was a child, my dad was a carpenter and brought home pieces of wood for me to draw on. He would later lacquer them to make them into wall art.

When I was 10, my dad entered me into a drawing contest, to join an art program. I was sent the pamphlet exam by mail. The rule was to sketch two very complex and detailed pictures that came in the pamphlet, down to the smallest detail. It was going to be graded on similarity between original and sketch, lines, shading, and all the technicalities of sketching. I worked so hard for it. I felt important. I felt like a true artist. My dad of course, gave me his own grade. I mailed it in, and waited impatiently to receive word. The days seemed eternal. My impatience to receive my results was greater than that of a child having to wait for 12 o'clock to open Christmas presents on Noche Buena.

I scored an overall grade of 97% and in the letter I was congratulated for my work and talent. BUT, participants had to be 14 and older. I was devastated. I wasn't someone yet because I was too young to have the career that would make me someone, but I also wasn't someone in what I loved the most. At the end of the day, it was just a hobby. They supported it, but they reminded me time and time again it was just a hobby. "Un artista se muere de hambre y solo es reconocido cuando muere" (an artist goes hungry and is only recognized when he dies). So, yes, it was just a hobby.

Hobbies that faded as I got older and embarked on the 'becoming someone journey'. The journey was so time consuming and exhausting, it didn't allow much free time. I went to Hunter College for psychology. I loved my time there. I was exposed to so many different people, cultures, knowledge, ideas and opinions. I wanted more. I didn't want to do the bear minimum. Someone would do more. Someone should do more. I joined two research labs. Graduated with two thesis, sat on stage and had a special recognition during the ceremony alongside a small group of graduates. I felt proud. I still do. But even after graduating from Hunter I still didn't feel like someone. I thought it was silly of me to think I would feel satisfied, or be someone with only a bachelors degree, so I decided to become a speech and language pathologist and went to Columbia University for grad school. It was a tough two and half years. 6 years overall of excessive studying, reading textbooks, not reading for leisure, sleepless nights, and little room for creativity.

I graduated. I was now an Ivy Leaguer. I still didn't feel like someone. What was missing?

Am I proud of what I've done? Absolutely. Do I enjoy what I do? Of course. I love the kids. It's a rewarding job. But it wasn't in me. As a child I didn't dream of being a speech and language pathologist. I didn't line up my dolls and teach them strategies to improve their language skills, or stuttering. I did dream of performing in front of an audience. My dolls were my audience.
I did dream of drawing and painting murals. I did dream of acting. I dreamt of being an artist in all its shapes and forms. All day, every day.

But I didn't just dream. Because I was actually good at it.
I sketched cartoons and gave my drawings out to friends in middle school. I even came home with orders of characters I had to draw and give out the following day. I wrote short stories and skits. I created a crazy life which I would play, or better said "live" without anyone knowing. So was being a speech and language pathologist my dream come true? No. It wasn't the someone I wanted to be. It was the someone my parents wanted me to be. It was someone for them. It was the someone that would make them proud.

I'm not being whiny here. I'm not miserable. I promise. I'm getting to the 'why do I write part'. I enjoy my job. I love my schedule and all the free time I have to do all the things I love and thought were merely hobbies. At the end of the day it was my choice. A choice I made influenced by my parents, by society, by what I thought was right. But MY choice after all. But it is also my choice to finally listen to the little girl who KNEW what she wanted. To the little girl with a crazy imagination and dreams who should've been my biggest, most important influence of all.

That's why I write. That's why I photograph dogs, and all things beautiful. Because it's art. I lived and breathed art. I suppose I can say I stopped living and breathing for a while. But I am filling my lungs again. Because that's the someone I was, am, and will always be. 

The last tree on earth...

Here I stand, deeply rooted, strong, impermeable, but alone. They're all gone. Not one stands tall beside me. They're scattered on the ground slowly disintegrating. Because of this, the humans are gone as well. Fools. They got rid of everything that kept them alive without realizing their demise would be the consequence. I saw many fall in front of me, gasping for oxygen, scratching their necks. Begging silently, as there was no air to use their voice. It was comical really. How can you implore for something you consciously dismissed? They're gone. But they brought it upon themselves.

My brothers and sisters did not. I extended my branches to touch theirs one last time, as near ones fell. And my roots elongated to send off those far from me. I stand alone now. And although I should stand tall in pride, I wish my roots would have been ripped as well. My leaves and branches will no longer sway in synchrony with theirs. In fact, they won't sway at all, as the air I produce does not suffice. My leaves will die, and perhaps regrow alone, with no one to witness the beauty. Because I and only I will witness my own death and rebirth cycle after cycle, until earth can hold me no longer, and then and only then will I feel more alive than I do now.

But how do you know pastor?

#52essays2017
Week 3

At the young age of 9 I had my first religious skeptic experience. As far as I can remember, this is when the questioning began.

Church was right in the corner, across our apartment building. If I stuck my head out the window and looked to the left the “holy” place was visible. ‘Blessing’ me 24/7. It was a big brick house, turned Evangelical Baptist church. The congregation wasn’t as large as catholic churches’ congregations. I knew because we stopped going to a catholic church 2 years before. My mother passed by the church once, decided to go in and loved the way the pastor preached. “It’s as if he’s having a conversation with you. He talks about life. Not like the catholic church we go to.” That’s all it took for us to go from one Christian denomination to another.

I dreaded leaving my dog-brother Wolfy every Sunday morning. Leaving him on weekdays for school, was dreadful enough. But skipping church was not an option. Every Sunday morning my brother and I arrived at church 1 hour before my parents for bible classes. It was in the second floor of the church, and the teacher was a loyal church goer. I didn’t dislike nor did I like the classes. I listened, nodded, made some friends, and went downstairs an hour later to meet my parents and listen to the 2-hour sermon. It was my Sunday morning church routine.

This particular Sunday was different. It was the inception of my questioning. The sermon went on and on about the terrible things us mortals can do to forbid our entrance to heaven. And then he went too far. The pastor hit straight home.

“Animals do not go to heaven” He must have said this about three times. Every time he repeated this, as if it were a known fact, it punctured my eardrums, travelled to my limbs and heart and made them tremble. Tremble in anger.

Right there, behind his podium, in front of approximately 100 followers, all nodding in synchrony, all nodding in agreement, always accepting what he said without question, he continued “Animals don’t go to heaven because they have no souls. If there is no soul, there is no place in heaven for it”.

Have you died pastor? Have you been to heaven to know who or what inhabits it? How do you even know there is a heaven? Has a deceased family member of yours walked down from cloud-made stairs, talked to you and showed you pictures?

All these enraged questions went through my head. I was convinced he was the one that had no place in heaven.

Angry 9-year-old you may think. In that moment, yes. But Wolfy was my brother. Wolfy gave me peace like no one in my family did. He loved me unconditionally. He understood me and brought me joy. He saw me cry, and stayed by my side during all my moments of anxiety and sadness. He played a role in my alternate “life”, unlike my human family members, where every now and then I decided whether or not they could be in a scene. Wolfy was a part of it without question. He never judged. He never had any malicious thoughts or actions, unlike us humans do. He had a soul. By far a more pristine and pure one than the pastor’s.

There was no way I was accepting not seeing Wolfy in heaven, if there was one and we were to go there after death. There was no way I was accepting a comment like that without questioning it further. After the sermon was over, many walked up to the podium to personally say hi to him and his family. My mother was always one of them. As we approached him, he hugged my mother and me, and asked us how we were doing.

 “Hi pastor, how do you know animals don’t go to heaven?” Straight to the point, no beating around the bush. My mother pinched me, but I didn’t care.

 “Because it says so in the bible” he said it while shaking his head and chuckling, as if thinking, ‘what a cute kid’

Ahhh! The bible. How didn’t I think of that.

 “Where exactly in the bible is it?”

 “I’m not sure now, but it’s there” he smiled

 “But where?”

More chuckles.

“Because, from what you’ve said, and from what I’m learning in bible class, God created earth. He created paradise before he even created humans. The paradise he created was nature, oceans, forests, desserts…. there is no nature without animals. And if heaven is paradise, like what he created before us, animals will be there”

With his eyes wide open and taps on the shoulder he replied “when I find the passage, I’ll let you know”

And that was it. I never received an answer. I did get scolded at home. But I was proud to have defended Wolfy’s reserved spot in heaven. Maybe there was a straightforward passage. Maybe there was something vague that he interpreted that way. But even if I had been gifted a bible with a bookmark on the page with said passage highlighted, all I would’ve had to do was look at Wolfy’s eyes to know he had a soul. And if there was anything or anyone more deserving of a heaven, it was him.

I had my dog-brother Wolfy for 13 ½ years of my life. He’s been gone for almost 6 years now. And if he isn’t in heaven waiting for me, I rather go where he is.

Achilles Heel

#52essays2017
Week 2


It was genetics. She came from a family of worriers, and living with her father who did just that, day in and day out, didn't help the situation. Genetics and learned behavior intertwined perfectly to make her into a living, breathing hot mess of emotions and feelings.

A hole in her stomach and a fast beating heart were part of her everyday physiology. A foggy mind filled with worries about her family members, especially her older brother, invaded her brain to the point of body weakness. Although her brother was 6 years older than she was, she always felt a need to protect him, look after him, be there for him whenever he needed someone. She was that someone by default, at her own expense. Even when she wished she wasn't that someone, it wasn't something she could control. Her mind and body acted on its own without permission, making his problems and burdens her own. She not only worried about him, but the effect he had on her parents, affected her as well. She simply didn't want any negativity circling her family. Had she been given one super power, it would have been to liberate them from all negative feelings, and carry it all within her. She could handle it. They couldn't.

When they were young, her brother's academic habits, forgetfulness and careless behaviors were issues their parents had to deal with. She worried every time their dad would call them to the living room to check their backpacks. She felt nervous when he came home with incorrect grocery items, even when given a list. When they were older, his late nights with friends kept her up, pacing in her tiny 10x6 ft room, praying until he came home.

Once, when he was 18, he rollerbladed to his girlfriend's house to visit her; it was a daily routine. This particular day, he didn't come home for dinner, as was established. He didn't call. There was absolutely no word from him. By 11 pm, their parents went out looking for him. She knew their worry. She felt it. She saw the horrifying images that her mother was seeing inside her head. Their father went looking for him in hospitals. Their mother walked up and down blocks while crying and praying. She stayed home, looking out the window, hoping for a phone call. Her body felt hot and numb, and her heart beat was so loud, she was sure her brother heard it from wherever he was. He arrived at 12:30 am. She saw him from the window, his body becoming larger as he came closer. As soon as he stepped foot into the apartment, a punch to the face from their father welcomed him in. Her brother was home, the blow to the face hurt him, so he was alive and well. That's all that mattered. Her soul came back to her body at that moment.

These worries weren't only hers. Her parents also worried for him more than they did for anything or anyone else. They knew he was absent-minded, careless, and irresponsible. In their eyes he needed more help and guidance than she did. She was responsible, she was strong. She didn't need them as much. But it wasn't only help and guidance that he received. He was being enabled. His traits and behaviors were being reinforced, and new toxic personality traits were being created as a result. She learned from early on to empower the toxicity.

As he grew older his ways affected his marriage, his work, his life in general. He didn't see it. He didn't realize he was the problem, because in his head everything bad that happened in his life was the result of an external factor, never himself.

She suffered with every one of his downfalls. Although he didn't. His own problems never affected him as much as they affected her.

He is now 34 and she is 28. She is learning to take care of herself, after 27 years of life. She is learning to disconnect and keep her distance from everything that harmed and harms her still. The learning process is a long, painful and beautiful journey all at once. One that she is proud of. She lives for her, sees things with a different lens and perspective, she takes deep breaths when life happens. But not when HIS life happens. He continues to be her achilles heel.

Before, she hoped this would change. She no longer hopes, because one cannot live off of philosophies without practice. She will continue to apply into her life everything she is working hard for. In due time, she will be ok, and his misfortunes and happiness won't equal hers. Because one is responsible for their own happiness and peace, and it is time to hand him back his ability to live his own life.

She will continue to love them, that's not in question, but she will love herself harder. Because she needs to be there for herself. Because being selfish was never an option, but she knows now that selfish also means self-care.

She was told she didn't need the support her brother needed. In reality she did. But that's ok. It truly is. She trusts that life knew exactly how it needed to play out for her. And now the rest is up to her.

But darling, 

in the end you've got to be your own hero, because everybody's busy trying to save themselves.

C.T

'Real' Life

#52Weeks2017
Week 1


Embarking on something new. Writing a story/essay a week. These pieces will no longer only exist for my eyes, in my journals, but also for the world to see.  #52essays2017

Here goes nothing…

The first of 52

She remembers living in her imaginary life. Constantly. Everyday, for most of the day. Hiding it from everyone. Keeping it to herself, like her best kept secret. It was a treasure only she knew about. A treasure the world would have devalued, or viewed as concerning, had they known about it’s existence. She remembers being another person; with different thoughts, different looks, having other things, more things. She loved this person so much, enjoying her own company, and never wanting her to leave. She loved herself in real life, but she idolized who she was in her imaginary life, because she chose everything about her. Her name, her looks, family, friends, home. She remembers the moments of annoyance when rudely interrupted by reality, snapping her out of her perfect little life. These were the moments she decided if her parents or sibling was ‘good enough’ to play a role in a scene in her ‘life’, without them knowing. She remembers new family members and friends, drama, problems, and plot twists being added to her imaginary life, with every movie or dream that brought about new ideas.

Her mind was wild and free making her ‘life’ every bit as she wished it would be. She remembers happiness and excitement every time she ‘played’, or better said, lived secretly. She only stopped playing when real life impeded the secret implementation of her imaginary life. She held on to this ‘life’ for countless years, until early adolescence barged in, making this kind of imagination shameful, and priorities changed from secret lives to friends and boys. Perhaps she should have continued to ‘play’. Perhaps her real life was only real because it existed to outsiders, who knew nothing about HER reality. Perhaps ‘real life’ needed that spark of imagination to continue burning for the sake of her sanity.