The 'Shoulds' of Life

#52Essays2017
Week 8

When a couple dates for longer than a few years, they're asked when they are getting engaged. Once they are engaged, they're asked when they're getting married. Once they are married, they're then asked when they're having a baby. And believe it or not, once the first baby arrives, they're asked when will that baby have a sibling. I too, was guilty of asking those questions.

Those automatic, rote, habitual questions, are exactly that. Habitual. We ask them because in our minds, and in most cultures, it's the order of events in life. However, as innocent as these questions may seem, they shape minds, they set in stone a template, a scheduled plan that 'should' be followed. We find and date several significant others, time and time again, until 'the one' arrives. Once he/she comes into our lives, the pressure is on. We count down the days to engagement. The counting becomes even more intense after the engagement up until the wedding day. And then baby comes. And another, and maybe another. These human beings follow life's plan down to a T. 

Good for the ones that really envision their lives this way. Those who dream and truly know that that is what they want. 

But I am sure that there are many who think they want to walk down life's most common path, but really don't. Those who are influenced and pressured, and 'should' all over themselves given the examples set forth in their families, and constant questioning once they reach a certain age. Thus, they think they want what most want, but realize they actually don't later on in life. Those who rather live their lives traveling alone or with someone else, or simply love their solitude, enough to not want to have another human being next to them 24/7. Some are strong and true to themselves, and know early on they don't fit in the popular cookie cutter. Others realize a little later that they went down a path that has been paved over and over again, and decide that it's time to change routes. 

My husband and I have been together for almost 13 years. 2 years out of the 13, married. Given the pattern of events in my life, the next step would be kids. However, we have recently realized that children is not something we see in our future. At least not at the moment. Both our parents want grandchildren. We are asked time and time again when kids will come. The famous questions, that put little pressure to those who have an expected and adequate answer, but somewhat annoying to those, like us, who answer differently, leaving the other party a bit baffled with little to say. 

So given the stage in which we're in, should we have children? in the eyes of the world, yes, in our eyes, no. We shouldn't do anything we don't want to do, regardless of the pressure, regardless of the set-in stone life patterns. I've never been good with routine, normalcy, and typical. I am recently starting to embrace that side of me, and discovering and/or creating myself in ways I hadn't before. And I'm lucky to have someone by my side who accepts that about me, and is learning that he too, can see beyond the normal. 

Will we have kids? Maybe one day. And when, and if, that day comes, it will be because in my heart that is exactly what I want. 

A Letter to My 18 Year Old Self

#52Essays2017
Week 7


I get easily inspired by life's happenings and my surroundings. A beautiful photo, a quote, a movie, nature, songs, the taste of apple pie. Whenever my senses capture beauty, my heart responds with overwhelming fluttery palpitations, my mind goes a little wild, and I even get teary-eyed. Today morning I was inspired by a blog post. The author wrote a letter to her 22 year old self. As I read, I remembered I did this two years ago. However, mine was a tad different; I wrote a letter to my future self. I asked my future self questions. I told her I was doing as much as I could now to be where we wanted to be in the future.

I put into writing, in the form of a letter, where I was at that moment in time, and the promises I intended to keep, and still do, for a bright future for me.

Given that I've written a letter to myself in the future, and constantly write to myself in the present, I think it's only fair to not abandon the 18 year old girl that would have loved to read a letter that gave her the pep-talks and advice she lacked. She would have appreciated it so much.


Dear Angie, 

How are you dreamy girl? I am writing to you with the irrational wish of rewinding 10 years, and seeing you from a corner in your room opening this letter while you sit on your desk working on a ridiculous college paper, instead of using your dexterous fingers and artistic mind to create something beautiful, which is what you really want to do. Seeing you read it, and cry, and laugh, and feel a sense of relief that you're not that crazy. That your heart and mind are not faulty. You're just a little different, and normalcy isn't your thing. But different is beautiful, and you'll be ok. 

How are you liking your boring forensic psychology classes? I kid. I kid. I know you don't find them too boring. But deep down you know it isn't for you. 
You'll change your major two more times. And even go to grad school, and have a career you'll be very proud of. But the pride won't suffice. Because, it's not your heart's calling. Throughout these robotic years, you'll also have moments of crazy happiness and beautiful, impulsive mistakes. Hold them close. You'll do what makes your parents proud. You'll do what you think is right. You won't have time to create. You'll desert art. I know. I'm ashamed of it too. You'll continue to live for others. To put others' happiness before yours. And because of that, you'll hurt. You'll put yourself in second place, time and time again. You'll abandon you. Us. 

The neglect will be so extreme that years later you'll wake up one day and like a bucket of ice-cold water thrown at you, you'll shiver and gasp for air when you realize you don't know who you are, and the life you are creating for yourself is not the one you want. It isn't YOU.  

But you'll be ok. You will figure it out. Trust me, that confusion and feeling of helplessness will be the best thing that will ever happen to you. You will cry for hours, and days, and be confused out of your mind. I wish I could be there to console you. To hug and wipe the tears of the younger me. But I won't. I do promise you'll get out of it. You'll get back on your feet and like a warrior, a tiny, 5 foot 1 inch warrior, with a strong, wild and deep heart you'll start listening to it.

You'll listen to the beatings of your heart and will have conversations with it. Listen to what it tells you, it will introduce you to the depths of your soul. There will be painful moments, not because you won't like who you truly are. We love her. You'll feel pain and discomfort, because the journey can get bumpy, as you've never been here before. You will feel like you wasted so much time, so how will you ever get to where you want be? But you will. I am still working on it now, and trust me, we're getting far. 
You'll be ok, Ang. Trust yourself. Love yourself. Hug yourself. Give your soul all that it asks for. We deserve it. 
See you in 10 years :)

Love, 

Angie

The Onion Journey

#52Essays2017
Week 6


Ever since I started focusing on myself, I've reintroduced myself, to myself, quite a few times. "Oh hey, writer Angie!" "Well hello photographer Angie!" "hmmm, nice to meet you dreamer AND doer Angie" "Hey there, not so shy, pretty extrovert Angie" "How you doin' adventurous Angie?" and it goes on.

At first, I thought, 'I'm becoming all these things that I love'. But now I know, I'm unbecoming everything I was not, and freeing who I've always been. It's like I am onion who stuck its little hand out somehow and started peeling away. Peeling away layers of crunchy, non-edible, stubborn onion scales. Reaching the inside fleshy layers that are fresh and true.

The peeling of this onion will never end. I am sure of that. I think I will never fully and completely know myself, my capabilities, my talents, my passions, my likes and dislikes. As long as I'm living, I will grow more and more layers. But these layers will be true to me. These are onion layers that produce no tears, as they are not bitter. Quite the contrary, they're the ones that are good for everything in life. Good enough to give the best guacamole a touch of magic. And good guac is good for the soul. That's the type of onion I am turning out to be.

Why are we not taught to discover who we are? To learn who we are, and BE just that. I mean, no one does that better than ourselves right? Instead we are told what to do, how to do it, what to think, who to be. We are clothed in scaly, heavy, undesirable onion layers from early on.
It is so early on in life that we are given a mold and are pushed, shoved and squeezed into it, that we grow up thinking that that's who we are. Some get lucky to have been given a mold close enough in size and form to who they truly are, and so shoving into it wasn't so difficult. Therefore living in their given mold is bearable, happy even. But others, most I dare to say, are so tightly and painfully squeezed in, that life somehow, some time, kicks you hard enough to liberate you. But we are then left in a limbo trying to figure ourselves out.

Now, that's when I come in to tell you, it's ok. You weren't taught how to do it. Don't beat yourself up for it. Be glad that life is giving you the opportunity to create your own template. Or if the onion analogy suits you best, then life is giving you a thin and long arm that will stick out of your onion and start peeling away.

You will feel lost. Confused. Lonely. Perhaps even angry, thinking you at least had your life figured out before. But having your life figured out when the person living your life is not truly you, is bland, is fake, is not real. So go ahead, do some conscious and voluntary peeling, before life forces you into the journey.

This onion journey does not have a definitive destination, because you are so much more complex than you think. But I promise you, you'll never go on a journey quite like this one. Ever.

Paying Attention

#52essays2017
Week 5

This piece was published in the February issue of the online magazine www.hispanecdotes.com  :)


"There is ecstasy in paying attention" this line in Bird by Bird by Anne Lammot struck me a few days ago as I read it, highlighted it and passed my fingers through it. Over and over again. As I did this, I paid attention to how the line made me feel, the thoughts running through my head, how the highlighted line blurred the rest of the text and stood out in front of me. I went to sleep with that in my mind.

Days have gone by since. Days that would otherwise be full of routine and monotony, had it not been for paying attention. I have been overdosing on paying attention ecstasy. I'm paying attention to people. Especially in the bus, on the way to and from work. What I realized while carefully scrutinizing them is that love is the most salient feature. It pops out like the highlighted line in my book. This realization occurred after the first person I was paying attention to offered her seat to an elderly man, and soon after, a gentleman offered his seat to her.

I observed and said to myself "that alone tells me a lot about them. I wonder what they love. I wonder what love looks like for them" and BAM love was all I saw.

While paying attention I saw mothers with their kids on their laps. Mothers standing and holding onto poles while their small children who didn't even occupy half of the seat journeyed comfortably. I saw a teenager texting the entire ride with a smile on her face that I bet whoever saw her couldn't help but feel her happiness and smile with her. I saw a man with his hands on his face and worried look while rubbing his laps every now and then. I saw a lady leaning her head on the window and looking out dreamily. I saw a couple sitting side by side holding hands and leaning their heads against each other, and another couple who argued on their way down from the bus as if no one was watching. I saw a few bookworms reading 'Choosing Me before We', 'Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix', and a third I couldn't catch. I saw some selfie and mirror lovers, and heard a few singers. One who sang so loud and with so much passion that if he were to be on The Voice, he would definitely have my vote.

In every facial expression, body language, and action I saw, I learned what a small fragment of love looked like for many of them. Love for things such as books and music, romantic love, tender family love, self love, and lack thereof. Although love is deep within us and sometimes secretive, it is also visible.

I saw more than I expected to see. I probably saw what I see all the time, but this time I paid attention. I paid close attention to love.

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.