Shedding Layers

I've been wanting to write this story for sometime now. Some mixture of fear, incompetence and sorrow holds me back. The details and are so vivid in my head, but I’m encumbered when it comes to conveying the sentiment. At once I imagine all the stylistic tools I might use to paint the picture and engage my readers, and then I'm paralyzed, bombarded by the irony of privilege I have to share a story that is not mine. I’m ill equipped to be the messenger; afraid to put pen to paper of the fumbled, failed system I live and vote in. 

I'll start by saying I am not close with Flor. While I am close with a lot of people, a lot of people that are brown, a lot of people that are immigrants in this country, I am not close with Flor.  In fact, I am Flor’s boss, and it suffices to say that her list of grievances with me is by no means brief.  Flor and I have had our differences on everything from the value of punctuality, to proper planting time in Colorado climate, to the definition of Racism, with a capital R. Nonetheless, there is one thing Flor and I both recognize all too well -  that I am her white, documented, privileged to be bilingual, privileged to be educated, privileged to be middle class American woman who went to graduate school and got a degree that says - at least in this society - that I can be a boss.  Despite all this, when crisis came knocking at her door, as it so often does to immigrants these days, I think I was an obvious albeit reluctant choice for Flor's first phone call.

Over the last couple years I’ve struggled with what it means to recognize my white privilege. And I’m aware that simply recognizing my white privilege is probably not enough, and that my "struggle" with my white privilege is the least of our worries, nor the focus of this article. And, since some dumbass hotel-owner daddy’s boy was just voted in as president, I’ve struggled to understand what it means to use my white privilege. 

I guess writing this is one attempt at navigating those privileges. I hope people read it. I hope white people read it. I hope documented citizens read it who only hear stories of "illegals" on TV. It's my small stake in the ground, but I hope sharing the story can enlighten a topic that's often left in the dark. 

It was one of those classic Colorado Spring days where the weather can't make up its mind; you start the morning wrapped in gloves and hats and puffy jackets, then find yourself frantically shedding layers once the mid-morning sun hits. Flor and I shared responsibilities at a community food market where I was rummaging through some donated seed packets, huffing and puffing at what seemed the biggest problem I would have that day - an over-zealous amount of donated flower seed packets to our food program...where we grow, well, vegetables.

Flor’s name popped up on my phone. "Second biggest problem of the day," I thought. Flor is late, again."  Reluctantly, I answer, primed to field today's excuse. 

Screaming. Static. Did she drop the phone? Is the baby okay? "I can’t hear you Flor." 

“Se lo llevaron.”  They have taken him.

A few months ago I went to Flor’s baby shower. Mexican baby showers are, among other things, a hell of a lot more fun than American ones.  I sipped champurrado as I watched Flor’s partner Jose, with all other males in attendance (Mexican showers happen to include the guys too!), strap a Kleenex box to his backside and begin twerking relentlessy to Reggaeton, putting up a fair fight to win the championship of twerk-the-ping-pong-out-of-box-fastest.  Basically, the best booty shake wins.  After scarfing down homemade Mole a little later, I got a shot at a championship of my own - wrapping Flor’s belly with toilet paper, with little baby Karlita growing inside.

When Flor called me that morning she and baby Karlita, now four months strong, had just practiced their wave goodbye to Jose as he left for work.  Sadly, Karlita wouldn’t see her Daddy for another four months.  As he walked to his car that morning for work Jose met the fate of something more than 11 million immigrants in the U.S. face as a daily fear.  Two men jumped out of an unmarked car, tackled Jose in front of his family, and dragged him into the backseat before speeding away, leaving behind the cacophony of confused screams I was now hearing on the other end of the phone. 

No reading of rights, No request for identification, No notification to the family.

The months that followed were tiring, bitter and heartbreaking. Flor lost her best friend and partner. Karlita, her brother and sister lost a father. Our community lost a volunteer. A construction company lost one of their hardest workers. And ICE checked one more box on their list. 

And me? On top of an unexpected deepening relationship with someone I would forever be connected, I gained an aptitude for seeing our feeble, dysfunctional, inhumane immigration system for what it is. And just maybe, I learned a little about what it means to use my white privilege.

Jose’s case, sadly, is somewhat of a poster child of immigration in the US. But while his case may be typical, Jose has nothing in common with the abstract image of "bad hombres" our feckless President likes to tout. And here is the point I really want to make: Jose is not a rapist, nor a murderer, nor an abuser of drugs or alcohol. He doesn’t have tattoos on his face or form part of some gang or drive a truck loaded with cocaine hidden in the rafters. He's not even a believer in the use of swear words. 

Jose is a father of three with a spic and span record, a sweet and simple smile. Jose works multiple jobs building the infrastructure the Colorado economy is booming on, paying taxes along the way, volunteering in his free time. He drops his kids off at school on Tuesday mornings and cheers the Broncos on Sunday afternoons. So what was he doing getting tackled on his front lawn that morning?

Seven years ago Jose rolled a stop sign a couple blocks from his house. When he was unable to show a proper driver’s license - undocumented immigrants don't have social security cards, which means you can't get a driver's license in some states - he was arrested on site. After a look at the color of his skin, the cops suspected he may be in the country without citizenship or travel documentation, and when he couldn’t verify otherwise, he was passed off to Immigrations and Customs Enforcement - the infamous  ICE. 

At the time, under the Obama administration, Jose was not considered a priority for deportation thanks to a spotless record and reputation in the community. So, Jose paid a bond and promised to show up for infrequent court dates, check in with an immigration officer, and maintain a clear criminal record. This is how millions - eleven million - of immigrants are currently living - under an endless, diffuse fog of uncertainty and consideration as somewhat "criminal."

Watch your step. You could lose it all at any time.

Through a chain of panicked calls with pro-bono lawyers lending sparse consultation, Flor and I finally figured out what triggered the morning's debaucle.  Jose’s ex-wife, the original signatory to his bond,  didn’t want her name associated with the case any longer. When she pulled the plug, no one told Jose, and now the bounty of the bond had to be recovered. Hence,  the two men in the unmarked car outside Jose’s house - bounty hunters. 

From my crash course in immigration law that morning, the most plausible next step I could string together was to post a new bond. "Simple" I was told.  It turns out scraping together $7,000 and a new signatory in one afternoon is in fact pretty simple when you’re part of a deep community like Flor and Jose's. A mere handful of hours after that screaming call in the morning, I was holding Flor in one hand and a cashier’s check in the other as we sped through rush hour traffic to reach the Department of Homeland Security before it closed for the weekend.

I lied to Flor. As I held her hand in the car, I told her it would work. The lawyers I spoke with are top notch, I told her. They help people with this stuff all the time. We have the money, we have the signatory, we're going to get there. I actually believed what I was saying. I had a trust in the system. Of course I did. 

I watched her stare out the window, tears rolling down her cheeks, her mind toggling between  worst case scenarios and maternal obligations. Aunt Patty was sent to pick up the older kids from school; she’d figure out what to tell them later.

Homeland Security is everything I thought it would be. A dense concrete jungle in the plains East of Denver. Metal roofs scorched from the sun; high walled fences lined with barbed wire; an oversized American flag the only adornment for miles, hanging lifeless in the sky. Up to now, I hadn’t fully realized why I was asked to join the ride. I was bilingual, maybe I could help translate. I was Flor’s boss, maybe she trusted me. 

But the moment Flor handed me a piece of paper with Jose’s full name and Alien Number on it, I got it.  Flor - and all of her immigrant community accomplices and supports - was powerless. She couldn’t even walk in the doors of that drab building. She and Jose, the father of her children, were now separated by a literal and figurative wall, 20 feet high, and she wasn’t even allowed to ask if he was on the other side. 

Flor was entrusting me with a piece of paper, the size of a bookmark, that could determine the next phase of her life. I glanced in the rearview mirror at our friend Antonio who was driving. He only offered a raised eyebrow, like "What were you expecting Kristina?"

I do my best to steer clear of stereotypes, but honestly the security guard was a trope for ICE Gone Wild. Bald, muscular, and towering at least a foot over me, Mr. Captain America laughed in my face when I presented myself. First, we had the wrong bond amount, off by about $50. Second, we had no legal representation. Third, I called Jose by his second name, Jose, instead of his first name, Alejandro. This somehow furthered Captain America’s suspicion of me as ignorant and Jose as criminal. I realized how having four names -  Alejandro Jose Miranda Ramirez - instead of the standard American three, can determine your worth in a critical moment. 

I literally have no fucking idea what I’m doing,  Sir Captain America. 

“Listen,” he tells me, “I get it." Captain America finally broke down a bit, told me he respected me for trying to help someone out. He said he couldn't share anything about Alejandro/Jose’s case specifically... (You don’t say?) ... "But I can tell you that if he's in here, he is a Bad Guy.” (Don’t you mean bad hombre?)

He chided me for watching things on TV and assuming the cops are the bad guys, fantasizing about things I don't understand, thinking ICE is just out there raiding houses and tearing families apart. I thought, isn't that literally  what happened this morning? 

"We’re just doing our job," he told me. "We’re taking bad people off the streets that don’t belong here.”

Captain America was not the person to waste my time on. He drank the kool-aid. To him they’re all the same – brown men with too many names and suspiciously clean backgrounds. Or maybe he just needed a paycheck. Either way, Captain America wasn’t contemplating any systemic inequities he may have been perpetuating. And it’s not his fault, he didn’t make the rules. 

I listened respectfully, asked lots of questions. I think I behaved myself. But all my questions led nowhere. I weaved my way through a maze of deficient soldiers in the system too proud to admit they didn’t actually know how it all worked. 

Despite our efforts, there could be no new bond set, certainly not that afternoon. Alejandro/Jose was in line for deportation. Got a problem? Hop in the cue with 1,000 other immigrants trying to see the judge. In the meantime, know that the father of your children, your partner, your co-worker, your taxpaying Broncos fan will sit tight in a detention center cell resembling a prison. Indefinitely.

The weeks that followed were a hurricane of confusing phone calls, translating – in more ways than one – the legal system barring Jose from his family and his life. Flor navigated the challenges of motherhood, rising rents on a suddenly single income, and therapeutic support for her 14 year-old daughter freaking out. Amidst all that, she  tracked down Jose’s past employers who were now reneging on IOUs - assumed deportation is a great excuse for forgetting a paycheck. Her limited income was used to buy essentials the detention center refused to provide - toothpaste and deodorant to name a few.  And whatever was left went into the attorney piggy bank to try to get a lawyer supremely motivated to get Jose in front of a judge. She had it all thought out to Backup Plans B, C, and D, only to have the hurricane whirl up again and toss her plans to the wind.

I wish this story was unique, and I wish I had never heard it before. Unfortunately for us all, it's happening every day. Flor learned her exceptional crisis navigation skills when her father was deported just a few years ago. A police officer became suspicion of her undocumented father, stalked him for months,  parked  outside their house for hours at a time. The scare tactics eventually worked and Flor's father,  tired of living in fear, stepped out of the house to give himself up. He was handcuffed immediately, and no one even flinched when he was arrested without cause by an officer operating outside his jurisdiction. Flor’s mother was also handcuffed during the debacle, to a fence, citing her "hysterical rowdiness" as justification.

One of the most admirable things about Flor is her ability to sail gracefully through these things. She is an expert in resilience. She is a woman who has overcome a long list of societal challenges to be where she is. Leaving a violent city rid of opportunity, seeking growth and opportunity on the other side of an unknown border, surviving an abusive relationship, charging ahead as a single mother to provide for her children, and most recently, leaning on her natural gumption to become a Promotora and help her community grow food. A few months ago Flor was promoted to a management position at our organization, including a raise that allowed her to quit her two side jobs. She’s set to receive her GED later this month along with a Level 6 English proficiency certificate.

I guess the thing that baffles me is that I can imagine myself here. I have petty exes who withheld information to spite me. I’ve driven without a license, and rolled more than a few stop signs. I’ve faced the sometimes beautiful, always enigmatic social service systems that are supposed to help us out of hardships. And, I guess, I've found myself strong enough to take a risk or two.

But the problem is, I also can’t imagine myself here. I can’t imagine being brave enough to cross an entire countryside and a treacherous border, alone on foot and on trains, through drug lords and human traffickers, fueled only by the conviction that things didn’t have to be this way, that there could be more and better. I can’t imagine getting up everyday to live and work in a world where I was constantly told I didn’t belong and I wasn’t welcome. I can’t imagine being stripped of the opportunity to go to school, and of the teachers who told me I could grow up to be whatever I want. I can’t imagine swallowing my pride enough to get my GED and learn a new language and culture in my forties. I can’t imagine being a mother through it all. 

And the real problem is, I can’t imagine it because I don’t have to. And neither did my mother or her mother before her.

The last year has been a torment of uncertainty for Flor and her family. Sparing the details,  Jose was finally released from detention and back to his home after four months. He currently sits on yet another equivocal waiting list until the next court date, that just keeps coming. As I write these final words Flor and her family are back at the drawing table for Plans E, F and G as they anticipate a final order of deportation in June of this year. 

I still can't see how this punishment of endless life on pause is supposed to cure our ills as a country.

While its taken me a while to put pen to paper, telling this story has helped me find myself back at that morning, frantically shedding layers as the Spring sun comes in the window. I'm shedding layers of the immigration system, too. The structurally unsound institutions keep churning, Captain America keeps flexing his uninformed muscles, and the judges list grows longer every day. At the same time, we keep losing community members, friends, volunteers, architects, fathers, Bronco fans. And here I am, still encumbered by sharing a story that's not mine to tell, but navigating what it might mean to use my privilege to elevate a point that needs to be made. Like I said, I was a reluctant but obvious choice for Flor that morning. I admire her for many things, but perhaps this is the most laudable: her expectation of me - to understand my privilege, to use it, and to tell the stories that matter, because I can.

What I found in Mexico

Dear Mr. Donald Trump, 

I recently had the fortunate experience to travel to Mexico. Just as a crazy 20-something, hippy elitist liberal like me would do, I took a month off of work to bike through the backroads of Oaxaca and Chiapas. I spent one month pedaling - the bicycle kind, not the begging kind, don’t worry I’m not one of those hand-out mongers you love to hate. I have some opinions on those folks too, but we’ll save that for another letter.  Anyway, I thought with all the things you’ve had to say about Mexico and Mexicans lately, I might have some insight to share with you.

So I went to Mexico and here is what I found.

In Trinitaria, a small junction town otherwise forgotten by the mapmakers, I found Don Julio, security guard at the elementary school. On none other than NewYears Eve, Don Julio opened the gate to our bicycle gang so we could camp within the safety of the school grounds. Don Julio’s wife brought him pollo con arroz at midnight to celebrate and make sure he was well and full while he finished his shift. As our headlamps lit up our humble camping kitchenette, Don Julio looked on in either amazement or peculiarity as we prepared, in true camper’s style, a New Year’s feast of pasta, black beans and fresh guayaba. In the end, he caved and shared a bit of the boxed wine we had brought along to celebrate. 

Somewhere on the way to Huatulco I found Ruben, a generous man who upon viewing me damaged and derailed on the side of the road, proceeded to strap my tired bicycle to the back of his taxi and tote me over the mountain and over to the mechanic in the next town to fix her up. I found in Ruben a man who suffered the all-too-common ailments of a changing climate and its effects on his agricultural investments and generations of hard work. He had tried his luck with the American Dream but opted to return to the homeland, opening up a little shop with his wife on the side of the highway and raise some cows for milk and cheese production. We imbibed in his juke box, and his beer. 

In Niltepec I found a Feria. You may not know what these are, Mr. Trump, because I don't fancy you as the type of man who would ever want to attend a cultural event such as the local village’s fair, but I’ll spare you the details and tell you they’re even more thrilling than your town hall rallies.  I found single mother working alongside her daughter, cooking up the most delicious Tlayudas on the planet and serving up a smile, red lipstick and all, to her customers. In this close-knit, small town of maybe a 1000 people, I found a community proud enough to use their tax dollars to throw themselves a gigantic birthday party in their central park. I found little girls dancing on the toes of their fathers to a live meringue band, proud teenage boys playing the brass instruments on stage, grandmothers unabashedly dawning their traditional garb of their Mayan heritage, and all of them welcoming three bicycle-toting outsiders with wide open arms, inviting us to join the party.  I thought, perhaps, us Americans built on principles of diversity and freedom, could learn a thing or two from these people about inclusion.

In Rincon Bamba, I found Catarina, a mother of two, community leader and unknowing humble Feminist. She was diligently sweeping up the dirt-floor patio and burning the day’s trash away outside the pueblo’s preschool where she worked as the Oaxaca sun slowly set over the rolling, coastal hills of her homeland. We slowly pedaled over and began to recite our now well-rehearsed explanation - yes, we are actually traveling on bicycle, we need a place to camp, we have all of our own equipment. Before I even had time to proudly deploy my Spanish subjunctives, she responded “En mi casa, sera, por supuesto.” Catarina’s husband, Gregorio stood a bit behind her, listening onto the conversation humbly, to whom Catarina apparently did not need to ask any kind of permission.  Catarina, Gregorio, and their 4 year old son Emiliano walked us from the preschool a few calles over to their house where we would set up our tent under their thatch roof, rinse ourselves off in their wash basin pulling water from the well, and eat fresh papayas Gregorio had harvested that morning from the plantation where he works seasonally to supplement the humble income he gets from growing corn on their land. 

As the night breeze set in, along with a gust of routine exhaustion that kicks in around 8:30 every night after a long day of riding, Gregorio swung in the hammock and told me his story of crossing the border, stories that unfortunately have become all to familiar in my traveling. With the changing climate as it is, the corn harvest just doesn’t seem to be enough anymore. And with NAFTA as it is, flooding subsidies into farmers’ arable land in the North only to feed our diabetes-ridden populations with more corn syrup, Gregorio couldn’t compete. He thought he’d follow the trend and see what he could make for his family ‘en el Norte’.  They saved up, found a coyote to smuggle Gregorio across the border, and hoped for the best as Gregorio sought fruit-picking jobs in Florida and Virginia. 

But what Gregorio found up here in what we like to call the homeland, well it wasn’t enough to keep him around, working hard all of those long hours and contributing into our local, state and national tax system.  Despite the $3/hour (illegal in its own way), it just wasn’t enough to keep him away from his family - Gregorio returned home after only a year, trading in the economic gamble for emotional security of family and friends.  I thought, perhaps, the Conservative movement of America could learn a thing or two from Gregorio and his family values.  In Gregorio I found a proud, playful father of two strong sons. I found a genre-busting, non-machista man who cut fresh papaya for his wife, serving her at the table while she entertained guests, and washing the dishes afterwards, smiling on after her as she dominated the conversation with her dreams and community development goals. I found a man who woke at 4:30AM to beat the coastal simmering sun as he tended to his farmland and earned a living for his family, never complaining, always pulling himself up by his own bootstraps through the muddy waters of globalization and social injustice.

In Ocozocoautla I found three municipal policeman so proud of their city they put us up in central park and watched over our bicycles and our tent from sunset to sunrise. In more places than one along the journey, I found firefighters who opened their grassy space for us to camp, showers to clean ourselves, a chance to slide down the pole, and even a happy birthday serenade one night!    In almost every stop along the way I found incredible chefs, some professional some simply undiscovered geniuses, adding a pinch of beauty and a touch of love in every dish, from chilaquiles to mole, con orgullo. In every place I found passionate people, engaged citizens, communities fighting for something, for anything. I found teachers demanding justice for the 43 students in Ayotzinapa, I found Zapatistas expressing civil resistance to globalization, I found indigenous fighting to maintain their culture. 

So, Mr. Trump, I am just writing to share my humble opinion. I did not find those rapists and murders you speak of. I don’t doubt there are a few out there, and I’m grateful for all the kind people who protected me from danger along the way. But then again, at every stop along the way I also found a Mexican asking me about my culture’s violence, about the perpetuating gun violence in our country and the mass shootings that keep popping up on global news channels from thatch roofed houses to your Miami mansions alike. It seems, perhaps, we have a thing or to to learn about ourselves and our debilitating culture as well. 

On the contrary to you and your fellow candidates’ beliefs (this one’s to you Ted Cruz!), I went to Mexico and I found warm, inviting, helpful, hard-working and brave people. I found an endless lineup of characters I will never know to name that gave me a place to camp, a shade tree to rest under, a cold slice of watermelon, or a bike pump. I found hospitality, kindness, charity, generosity, and inclusion - many values we may aspire to replicate here in the United States of America. I don’t know how to solve the immigration crisis, and I’m not going to pretend that I do. But I thought at the very least it should be known that the Mexico you tell us to be afraid of, to build walls against, whose immigrants you tell us we should equate to the criminals, well I just couldn’t find it.  

Have you ever been to Mexico yourself Mr. Trump? I recommend it.  If you keep your eyes open long enough, you may just find out that you’re an arrogant, unintelligent, soul-less asshole that is an embarrassment to our country. 

De donde viene la miel?

I was glad to have access to the Mazda 2013 – that’s right, we now have to distinguish between our two Mazdas by year because we have two of them. I can’t believe how much we achieve and it all gets overshadowed so quickly by the next big thing we have to do, project we have to redo, crisis we have to solve, grant we have to win.  Right now I’m feeling insecure about my work, and a lot of pressure to kick some major ass this week and impress Curt. 

So last Saturday I took that Mazda 2013 and drove down that route that has become so common to me, like a piece of “home” here, outside of Xela, past the rotunda, round the corner to the Cantel and Zunil, coasting out of those beautifully green highlands and into the tropical heat of the coast. I played podcasts and Radiohead music and hung out with this crazy head of mine and all of its thoughts. Oh how I love the solitude, whether it’s with coffee in the clouds or a cold agua pura in the coast.

I stayed at Noes house that night, although there wasn’t much to report. Its crazy how much slower life moves out there in the rural farmlands of the coast. Its quiet. Its like being at grandmas house. Theres not a lot to do but sit around, play with the kiddos, eat a little bit and swing in the hammock before you go to bed. I wonder how different it will all be in another generation – will these hammocks still swing or will they be replaced by western-imported recliner chairs? Will the kiddos’ favorite satuday night game still be scooting across the concrete floor? Will the chickens still eat the scraps thrown out beside the pila? At the same time that the life moves slow, the industrial evolution is happening ever so fast. The cocacola sold down the street cheaper than water, the television blaring Toy Story 3, the neighbors that just pulled up in a 2014 Hummer. Its like this place, and perhaps all the rural places of the world, are some giant mixing bowl where all the great fads of the world slyly sneak their way in, for better or for worse – what I wouldn’t give to see some raw food fad slip into the local scene.

It doesn’t always make for a good mix - the Catholic priest steadfastly upholding community morals on Sundays, trying to maintain attention while a Miley Cyrus concert blares on the television at the tienda next door. We have passed the point of return – there is no preserving that ideal bucolic life in some static vacuum. I believe that. Change is the way of the world, and the best we can do is vow to aid and abet in making the most peaceful, just and environmentally sound new mix of rural life.

Noe Estrada is one of the best smallholder farmers I have ever met.  An orphan of sorts, raised by grandparents and earning his first quetzales working long hours on a foreign-owned plantation. Noe stuffed those $2/day earnings deep into his teenage pockets until he had enough to buy a piece of land for himself, the parcel he currently calls home with his wife and three daughters. 

But this is no typical 18 acre plot suffering the ails of chemically-drowned, monoculture corn farming. Noe grows corn, sesame, Chaya, avocado, limes, a variety of local herbs and even sweet potato. And unlike the rest of the farmers on the block, Noe is not subject to the cruel limitations of the once-a-year market run by coyotes (middlemen) who pay – if you’re lucky – $0.12/pound of corn.  Noé kept stuffing those few quetzales in his pocket, saving enough over the years to build himself an irrigation system. He plants a new corn crop every two weeks, allowing him to collect a continual corn harvest throughout the year and enjoy a hefty price increase for his corn in the dry season. And when the coyotes still refuse to offer a good price, Noe uses his corn harvest to make elote, a local favorite sold to his neighbors throughout the year.

“Why limit yourself to such a fluctuating, unproductive crop?” Noe tells me, speaking of the tradition of monoculture corn across the region. “Diversify, that’s what I tell my neighbors.” Enter the most beautiful, perhaps smallest and most productive part of Mother Earth’s great ecosystem: honeybees.  While beekeeping and honey production may be one of the most lucrative options for smallholder farmers in the region – few inputs required, low labor costs, low competition – most farmer won’t give it a shot for fear of the infamous behavior of the bees, explains Noe.

Noe was not scared. Working on a sesame harvest one year for some extra cash, he met a fellow farmer and friend who was raising bees. “I’ll give you one box, with ten panales and a Queen. Just try it.” his friend said. That one box turned into two, and the next year two boxes will turned into four, and soon Noe had his own little colony of honebees. Today, Noe has three different forested areas where he keeps colonies of bees, a total of about 150 boxes full of queens and worker bees working ceaselessly, producing a sweet, simple, healthy and pure product that he can sell locally to his neighbors and for export – literally tripling his annual income. 

On love at the moment. Maybe brave love someday.

 

I live in Guatemala. I live in Guatemala as a single, white, 28-year-old female who is confused about what she really wants in a relationship at the moment. Or maybe this 28-year-old single white female knows what she wants but is too afraid to admit it. This article is a little bit about what its like to be a single white female in Guatemala, and a little bit about what its like to be a 28-year-old empowered female in the 21st century trying to define words like dependence, love, trust, vulnerability and casual. 

In 2012 I got a cigarette put out on my ass. That’s right, some asshole 18-year-old who wanted attention from his friends outside of a bar one night put his cigarette out on my ass, burning a hole in a pair of my favorite jeans, among other emotional damages. In 2013 that same ass of mine was grabbed a total of 6 times in the street, with sporadic additional events to the likings of a few public masturbation occurrences, some tongue-sticker outers, and even a ‘!Que rica tu pusa!’ from a passerby – How exactly does he know how delicious my pussy is?  In 2014 thanks to pepper spray and an increased level of both self-confidence and absolute disgust in the male race, I have managed to escape any major sexual harassment issues – that is, until I was recently robbed at gunpoint in the middle of the day at 2 o clock. But let’s be fair, that probably had nothing to do with gender. 

Sometime around Fall of 2013 came the Fall of Kristin’s love life. In the midst of the catcalling, the disgusting words whispered to me on the dance floor at the salsa club, the realization that independence and empowerment were not the laws of attraction in this country, I voluntarily decided to crawl into celibacy. I’ve had a healthy list of lovers in my twenties, I thought I would give conservatism a try for a while. And something about the way I had been treated as a female in the past year and half made it sound pretty delicious to avoid contact altogether. I made it nine months. That’s right, NINE MONTHS WITHOUT SEX. And I learned a very important lesson, among others, that sex is a very healthy and natural thing. The clitoris is the only organ in all the history of human organs to have one sole purpose: TO HAVE AN ORGASM. That’s right ladies, pleasing your clit is an act of evolutionary worship to the gods that made you. 

So I started off the new year right. ON a trip back to the States I founded a pleasant, bearded beauty to who kissed me at midnight and added another notch to the belt of Romantic Sexual Adventures with Beautiful People.  A few other mostly meaningless (at least in the long run) interactions later, and a string of bouts with emotionalism over the fear that I might turn 30 without ever having a healthy, real relationship, I met Fernando. He is the artistic, expressive, deeply loving type that does yoga with me, reads me poetry, and sips dark, bitter coffee while watching the sunrise peak over the Central American mountains. We started over a sunlit-filled morning building a compost pile, followed up with afternoon strolls through the farmed hillsides of Xela, and with wine buzzing through our bloodstreams we traced the contours of each other’s naked bodies, singing the praises of the life, beauty and wisdom we see in the other. This is that kind of relationship that’s based on a foundation of beautiful friendship. 

But the inevitable occurred, of course. That ever-present questioning of monogamy, of dependence, of trust in another human being. Sometimes I wonder if we’re all too intellectual for our own good, like we can’t recognize and accept simple happiness when it’s starting us in the face. As I struggled with whether to let myself want a real relationship or not, Fernando struggled trust. As we both struggled through vulnerability, we chose the path of least resistance – pulling away from each other. We began to stroll in and out of each other’s list of life priorities like we were strolling through the market, the colorful array of fruit our emotions, often indulging and too often poorly valued.  

Then, along came Mauricio. I met Mauricio through common friends and my poor little heart fluttered at the thought of good-looking, intelligent, well-traveled Guatemalan with a Golden Retriever named Marley who might be interested in a girl like me. A couple drinks and cumbia dances later I discovered two things: 1) Mauricio is the best sex of my life. 2) Behind the initial facade, Mauricio is a party-boy, play-boy who owns two local bars, drinks and smokes too much, in his own words “can’t figure out how not to hurt people’, who got divorced last year after cheating on his wife – a story that unfortunately seems to be the norm among Guatemalan men.  

But I repeat number one for emphasis – Mauricio is the best sex of my life. And the feeling is pretty mutual. So, I thought, what the hell. Maybe Mauricio is the perfect sexual partner – its easier to do this whole numbness of emotions when you know you’re not interested in the guy as a long-term partner, when you’re not really desperate for him to call you or meet your friends or ask you about work. It’s kind of the chicken or egg first conundrum – I’m not sure if the lack of feelings or the immaculate sex came first, or which one causes the other, but I like it. I don’t want to think about consequences and responsibility and goodness – I don’t want to think. I want fingers running through my hair, I want tongues on skin, I want unashamed, unafraid erotic indulgence, sex for the sake of sex. Mauricio will never go on a hike with me, or fall into the endless nuances of Walt Whitman’s poetry. So I’ll keep looking for the guy who will, and in the meantime I’ll imbibe in sensual dreams, orgasmic adventures, and erotic exploration on the kitchen counter, the back patio, the public bathroom, the dance floor, the…. Oh god. 

 Regardless of what Fernando would say, what would I do? What would I like to do? It is as much my fault as it is his. I don’t know what I want. I look at Fernando and there is something in my that KNOWS it will never work. If we explore the mas de nosotros, it will fail. And I’m not ready for it to be over, so I keep avoiding or putting off the mas. But you can’t have moments like this, love like this, beautiful expression like this, and NOT confront the mas. Sooner or later the mas is going to bite us in the ass. And I think its going to hurt me a lot. Is that just the risk? Is it worth it? 

So there I am, going back and forth between these two men, these two “casual” relationships, neither of which are what I think I really want in life. With both, I continue to numb my feelings. It’s like I have come to believe, somehow, that this is what it means to be an adult in the 21st century. And the truly scary part is that I’m getting better at it every time. I’m getting better at playing love and leaving. I’m getting better at not feeling anything. I’m becoming numb to the nervous, butterfly feelings that define what it means to have a crush. And why? 

Yesterday I woke up at a man’s house. We are not dating. He has never seen my house, he’s never met my friends. He has never bought me flowers, or even a fucking drink for that matter.. But I woke up at his house. I woke up to snuggles and kisses and morning sex, and then a long talk about how he really isn’t over his ex-wife, nor is he really over what he did to make her his ex-wife, and how he’s not really looking for anything ‘serious’. Of course of course, I say. Me neither. 

Women have come so far in the world. We have careers, we are CEOs, we vote for presidents and governors, we have babies in our late thirties in life or possibly never, we wear scandalous clothes, we climb mountains, we change policy. And yes - we have casual sex. Society is starting to wake up to the idea that women just may have the same sexual desires (shall we call them needs?) as men, and what may have began in the sixties has revolutionized itself to a woman of the 21st century who actively participates in the hook-up culture.  I am a women who is taking advantage of these advances, not only in the sexual sense of course. I like to think of myself as an independent, progressive, new-age woman. I live on my own, in Guatemala. I am 28 and single, I pay my own bills, I take weekend bike rides on my own, I choose not to take birth control,  and of course I choose who I want to sleep with. 

But whatever happened to a little bit of chivalry? Traditionalism? Whatever happened to respectful relationships? I am a single 28 year old female and I Have never been taken on a date. I have never had a nervous, awkward first date, in which flowers or dinner or a movie might be involved, in which the obvious questions are asked and hopefully lead to a somewhat deep, stimulating conversation, in which the night may end in a simple, “Wow. This was fun, we should do it again sometime.” 

I love my independence, but what if I want healthy dependence too? Does it somehow make me a non-independent woman if I decide I want a little traditional romance in my life? Perhaps the question is: Does independent mean being alone? Or can/should it mean the ability to be alone, but with the empowered decision to choose not to be? Are men afraid of independent women? We send them running in the other way for the weaker, sweeter, seemingly softer female breed, running away from what somehow gets judged as intimidation and radical feminism. 

I think love has to be Brave. I want a brave love. I want multiple Brave loves – with my friends and my family and a life partner someday.  I think Brave Love can’t be lazy.  Brave Love stares the awkward first moments of giddiness and nervousness right in the face, and holds those precious moments dear.  Brave Love recognizes and realizes the insecurities and the ever-changing emotions, and idolizes them, puts them on a pedestal and honors them for making life real with its feasts and famines. Brave Love is not sure. Brave Love is confusing. Brave Love is hard. Brave Love is not one decision, in one moment. Brave Love is a constant decision. Brave Love is vulnerable.  Brave Love is boring, in oh such a beautiful way. Its boring enough to pick weeds on a Saturday morning over coffee. Its boring enough to platicar en silencio. Brave Love has the right effort. 

The day I got robbed at gunpoint

I always thought that would be a harder sentence to write. I always thought it would be more shocking, more dramatic when it happened.  But here I am at Lake Atitlan, giving myself a weekend off, looking out over the serene waters encapsulated by three Central American volcanoes, thinking how strange it was that I was robbed at gunpoint three days ago.

I was carrying my phone in my hand, I knew better. The funny part is that these things always seem to happen on my best days – those sunny afternoons where I’m imbibing in the juxtaposing grunge and glory of my Guatemalan life. I finished lunch with a good girlfriend on my rooftop terrace, munching on fresh greens from my garden and soaking up the mountainous view.

A few minutes after bidding Mellissa goodbye on the corner, I heard footsteps. Running footsteps. These footsteps have come to be an omen to me – they usually mean some little teenage shit running up behind me ready for a hit and run ass grab incident. I swung my ass towards the wall, thinking I was going to beat this one at his own game today. Then, there it was, a cold, heavy silver metal in my face. I remember the gun glistening in the strong sun shining down that day, the same sun I was basking in only a few minutes before.Then, a click-clack. What do they call it? Cocking your gun? Although he never touched me with it, I could feel the cold gleaning off the metal of that heavy contraption, sinking into my skin.

“Give me your fucking phone!” In English, perfect English, in the middle of Quetzaltenango, Guatemala. I threw it.  I’ve learned after the fact that this was actually quite a smart tactic, the throwing, unfortunately I can’t say I did it out of strategic premeditation but rather out of complete fear.  “Why did you fucking throw it!” Again, the perfect English. Who was this guy? Then came the cold again, breezing its way onto my face, my hands, my insides. Why was there so much screaming? Where was the gun? Was he pointing it at me? Did I just piss this guy off even more?

“I’ll fucking shoot your ass!” And there he went, running off around the corner, off to god knows where probably to never cross paths with this gringa again. I dropped my keys. I dropped my purse – the purse that was in my hand, that he failed to notice in the adrenaline of all his rage, his cold. A couple walking behind me kindly picked up my things, slowly, carefully, like if they touched me I might explode. “I’m fine,” I said, gulping down any vulnerability trying to seep out. Then I noticed a hand on my shoulder, and I noticed it shaking. I was shaking. “I don’t think your fine,” he said. He walked me to my office. I did not want to be in the street any longer.

I cried. I shook. I hyperventilated. This is fear. This is what real fear feels like.

In the aftermath, I couldn’t ask for more support. It has never felt better to have a hug, to snuggle in bed with a friend, to receive love. The Australian accounting volunteer was a life-saver – buying me a shot of tequila to put the lump the size of texas forming in my stomach to rest, and then walking me to the police station to try to find some solace in at least declaring something official. My friends brought me sushi and wine, my parents told me I was a “tough girl”, and lots of love in the form of phone calls from everyone. As a radical introvert who was stripped of her joy of solitude, I haven’t had to be alone once since it happened – which has been surprisingly nice.

The police station experience was nothing to write home about – a half hour wait in line before being “attended” by a blasé female cop, more interested in flirting with her toned co-worker leaning through the window than asking me what my assailant looked like. She didn’t even record in the official report where the incident happened. Desensitized. Oh, another armed robbery at 2 in the afternoon on a busy street? Sorry, I’ve got a football score to check. Even the bartender that provided the tequila – whose job by the way IS to shoot the shit with customers and console their clients – didn’t blink when we told him our special occasion for daydrinking, didn’t even say the words ‘sorry to hear that’.

Its funny what happens in my brain when this stuff occurs. There is no anger, no want for revenge or justice. It’s a contemplative sadness, its some existential question of the root cause. Who is this guy, what is his story, and what would drive him to be so violent with some innocent girl on the street at 2 in the afternoon. The yelling, that was the worst. The coldness seeping not only off his gun but his soul – the desperation one must feel to treat someone like that. Did he see me? DId he see my face? Did he like seeing me shake like that, in fear?

In retrospect, I know this was miniscule, my first bout with real violence. A man screamed at me and shoved a gun in my face, 30 seconds and it was over. But something happened in the aftermath of those 30 seconds. Its like seeing that fear, I begin to feel the fear of all the victims of fear, of all of humanity. I know it’s a grandiose statement, but its what I felt. When I was hyperventaliting, crying, shaking, wanting to vomit out the ball of evil building in my body, this is what I was feeling. Humanity’s fear. The Palestinian children going to sleep to the serenade of Israeli bombs outside their window. The Central American children falling in line behind the Coyote on their way to climb through the tunnel to the other side of the US border. The millions of women around the world afraid to say No to their husband, hiding the abuse under raincoats and sweaters. I feel a pain that is universal. I feel a pain that is not mine, but collective. And I hate it. I hate that violence and I hate that fear and I hate that pain.

Empathy is an incredible human emotion. Its somehow motivating. You know I keep thinking I see this guy around town – in the bank, on the street corner in front of the bakery. I think about what I would do if I had the chance to confront him. I don’t want to kick his ass. I want to ask him what his circumstances were. I want to find out why there are guys like that running around and change the situations that drive them to that desperation and anger in the first place. I want to stop the pain that humans face from unnecessary violence and fear.

The day I got robbed at gunpoint could have been a much worse day. I am privileged, protected, loved, supported, and extremely lucky in so many ways. The day I got robbed at gunpoint was an experience. As my dad told me, I survived, and now its something I can learn from. My friend told me this beautiful thing the other day, how your memories in life, your experiences go through a cycle with you. They happen, its shocking or painful or intense, then the emotions around the experience lesson and it becomes a scar, and then slowly that scar fades away and the experience actually becomes part of the fabric of your self. Its not a mark on your emotional body that always reminds you of some fateful day, it’s a piece of you, it is you, it becomes part of who you are. The day I got robbed at gunpoint is a day that hasn’t had time yet to turn into a scar, but its already part of me, its already forming its way into the fabric of my self, teaching me something.