Capítulo Colombiano

How do you see your life? Does it look like an epic novel, with concise chapters: clear beginnings and endings with proper story arcs in between? Is there some Great Will at work, placing morsels of consequences, good and bad, after each decision you make? Are you tumbling down a hill with the wheels wobbling off?

Big changes are afoot, for me and mine. We stand at an intersection of what was and what will be. 

This moment looks nothing like I thought it would, one year ago. Instead of preparing to celebrate a second Christmas in our new home, we are selling the decorations and going somewhere else. Some of us have already left. 

I am sad to leave Colombia. I am glad to create a loving home in Texas with mi Natalia, my kid, her cat, and our dogs. 

It's just, the mix of emotions has me wanting to define things; call our venture abroad something, so I can acknowledge lessons learned and put it behind me. Turn the page, so to speak.

I guess I'm going with the book metaphor. Okay.

So, if the last year and a half was a chapter in a novel, I'd think "That was unexpected!" I'd think the characters are tender, imperfect, and earnest (so also perfect.)  I'd wonder what will happen next. 

I'd want to read more.

Outer IV: Intro

 This is Natalia.

How do I explain this?

Better said: How did I already explain this?

Because I have explained this, to the people who are impacted.

I have said, "I love her, and she loves me."

Sounds simple, but I know better.

There are questions, and maybe concerns. I address those with the people most impacted.

For everyone else, it might have to suffice for me to say, This is Natalia.

I love her and she loves me.

Outer III:

TW: This post talks about hatred and violence against queer folks.

 Words, man. Right? What do they even mean? 

(She wrote on her blog, full of words.)

Like in my last post, when I tell the story of finally saying out loud that the job description of "woman" has never felt comfortable to me. I wear that moniker like I have always worn so many other aspects of female-ness, obligingly, but without wanting them, and eventually shedding them.

It was probably for the best.

I always hoped that it would be good enough to act in accordance with my nature, and let the results speak for themselves. Why should I have to tell people who I am? Won't they know me by what I do?

Want another story? 

In high school, I knew two guys who were friends. Let's call them Bobby and Steve. 

Bobby was shy. A big sweet mop-topped boy, who always had a smile. Steve was sharp. Lean, shaved head, outspoken, who also always had a smile. 

One day Steve came to school in a skirt. 

In Oklahoma. In the early nineties. 

It was a long rayon skirt that dusted the top of his Dr. Marten boots, paired with a t-shirt that read, I'M NOT GAY BUT MY BOYFRIEND IS. By midday, the look was complete, with bright fuschia lipstick. 

In Oklahoma. In the early nineties. 

Later that day, there was a pep assembly. We all filed in and took our place on the bleachers, so that we could do the orchestrated shouting and clapping. Sessions of collectively losing it and yelling WOOOOO! were punctuated by sitting and staring at cheerleaders and coaches, who convinced us, through coordinated dance moves and inspirational speeches, that we really were #1. 

As the hollerfest started to wind down and people left the gym, I got a clear view of all the golden boys: our team, which would destroy the other team and confirm our faith in the greatness of ourselves. They were seated together, and very focused on Bobby and Steve, who were on the bleachers next to the them.

Smack dab in the middle of Bobby's forehead, was a big fuschia kiss mark.

The athletes were riled, ready to take on any challenge, destroy any competition. But it wasn't the analogous set of high school athletes two towns over that had them so mad. 

The spittle rained from their lips as they fired obscenities and slurs at Bobby and Steve. You already know the words, right? I don't have to tell you. 

They were a small mob, faces contorted by rage, barely able to stay in their seats as they hissed the most hateful threats and insults they could summon up, for a boy who proudly kissed another boy.

In response, Steve stood up, waving two middle fingers in the air at them, looking delighted. Bobby, besmooched, sat beside him, smiling nervously.

According to the values instilled during my upbringing, gay was about the worst word that you could be. I learned it, believed it, and professed it. But I could feel that assumption undoing itself, as I watched the best of the best, acting so much worse.

Also, I had no idea. Nobody did. That in that smiley pair of boy friends, only one of them was gay, and it wasn't Steve. 

Dedicated to the memory of Nex Benedict, a non-binary student who was brutally attacked in the bathroom of that very high school.

In Oklahoma.  This year.

Outer: II

In my last post, I talked about making a decision. Say things or don't say things.

In another post, written two years ago, I describe how saying things went. 

Asked to tell the truth or lie, about being queer, I told the truth. It was the first step toward aligning what others knew about me, with what I understood about myself.  It was liberating and empowering, but it was just the beginning. I mean, what did I understand about myself? 

How about another story?

In 2014, I visited Colombia for the first time. It was a dream come true for this mom of four who hadn't left her backyard for over a decade. My own time, space, bathroom: it was unbelievably luxurious.  I worked, visited the gym, adventured, rested, and made new friends. Those four weeks felt like the culmination of a dream, with scattered seeds of new dreams sown.

Among my future dreams were many ideas, to return to Colombia, to live, work, inspire, and be inspired.

Not among my future dreams: getting my nails done.

So, when the hostess of my Airbnb called her favorite nail artist for a house visit, I was a mere spectator. Chatting in clunky Spanish, I  marveled at how deftly the artist adorned the hostess' fingertips with tiny sunsets of gradient color. Exquisite little palm tree silhouettes  stood in the foreground and gave the illusion of ten tiny tropical days´ end. I was completely enchanted and lavished the artist with my best attempt at Spanish compliments. 

Then she turned to me, looking expectant. 

The hostess informed me that she wanted to treat me to a manicure. It was my turn to be adorned! All I had to do was choose colors and themes, and enjoy the pampering and festooning that surely every girl longs for and could never refuse, right?

Not sure what to say, I heard a sprinkling of "no"s and "gracias"es escape my numb smiling face. 

The hostess sighed wearily, as though she were about explain a difficult  and obvious truth. 

She kindly said that I needed to do more, as a woman. My hair, my face, my clothes, were too plain. Being a woman, she said, was a job; one that I was not doing very well. The manicure was her way of helping me do better.

I stared at both of them, knowing that my androgynous presentation was intentional. The many reasons, I could barely articulate in English, so I had no hope of being understood in Spanish. When her lecture on my inadequacy as a female paused, I presented my stance in a way that I hoped would be both comprehensible, and close the subject for good. 

"I did not accept the job of being a woman. It was never offered to me, and I never accepted it."

Followed with a that's how it is sort of smile, I said no more. And neither did she.

THE END

But like I said before, it was just the beginning. Especially as I realized the dream of living, working, inspiring, and being inspired in Colombia. 

Having put into words that I did not accept automatic conformity to everyone's expectations of femininity has been helpful here, because it keeps coming up. Work dress codes and formal events in a country where the binary is so strong, have me showing up like

that's how it is.

Rather than feeling like a failure at a title I never asked for, I have long suspected I might be fabulous at being something else. 

to be continued

Outer: I

Before-school meetings, after-school meetings. Don't teachers do enough? Making it to their classrooms on time, possessing (at least slightly) more wherewithal than the pack of eight year olds with whom they spend nearly all day?

The answer: no. Not even teachers think that it is enough to teach. 

We have to meet about what we're going to teach. 

We have to meet about how we're going to teach it. 

We have to meet about if we're going to teach it. 

Collaboration, deliberation, and listening all fill the hour before kids come in and the hours after they leave, as we all try to find the same page and be on it. 

It was in such a meeting, that I made the decision to come out.

Third grade was learning about Alvin Ailey, sort of. 

He was a gifted dancer and choreographer, whose story stands on its own, and sheds light on social issues of his time. Sort of.  

It was decided, in that meeting, that for our purposes, Alvin would be an inspired black artist, but a very large aspect of his life would go unmentioned. It's not that we would lie. We just wouldn't say it out loud. Kids, probably wouldn't ask, so we wouldn't tell. 

As one teacher in the room put it, "We taught them about Jackson Pollock, and he was really not a nice guy. We don't have to present every detail about Alvin Ailey. We can say that his 'partner' was just his dance partner. I know as a parent, I wouldn't want my children's teachers exposing them to that." 

"That" was the famously known truth: Alvin Ailey was gay.

I sat there, not surprised. But, not comfortable. I wondered how much of that would have been said around me, if she knew more about me.

How could I explain a part of me only evident in my presentation? My life looked liked hers, with a husband and beloved children. 

That meeting was just the latest in a series of before and after-school shows where I had a front row seat to a colleague's disgust with an integral part of who I am. 

My silence was beginning to feel deceptive. Complicit.

Alvin Ailey could be edited, but I knew it was only a matter of time before I mentioned the as-of-yet unmentionable. 

In print and out loud: queer. 

Proud. 

to be continued

Pretenders

Hablas muy bien el español.

¿Yo?

¡Sí!

A, pues...gracias, muchas gracias. Es una meta más grande, gracias.*

*Always said with my fingers touching, just above my heart, to denote humility.

I noticed that I do this when someone compliments my Spanish. I thank them, cite it as an important life goal, and resist the urge to put myself down by substituting with a physical gesture.

Ever feel like a phony? 

Like you have nowhere near what is needed for the moment, but there you are anyway?

Ever see yourself performing so crudely, through a thick accent and butchered syntax, that you cannot believe that anyone could ever possibly believe in you? Okay, maybe that last example got a little specific to me, but whew. Striving for stuff is hard enough in one's native language. Doing it in a learned language is like the imposter icing on the fake-it-'til-you-make-it cake. It.

Sorry. Where was I?

Oh yeah, in Colombia.

In love with the adventure of building a new home and life in this beautiful place full of kind hearts.  Invigorated by challenges and achievements encountered daily at my new job. In a state of utter confusion, at times. In over my head, as usual. 

But more at ease about feeling out of my depths, maybe because of something I know, in Spanish. I know that right now, we are pretenders, and that's okay. Because pretender, in Spanish, can mean to aim. 

And doesn't that make a lot of sense? 

To aim at something is to head toward it, perhaps with all the confidence of having already accomplished it. But how else does one arrive? How else is the target hit, unless it is aimed at? Where do we go if we don't pretend we're going there first?

Our family observes the New Year's tradition of running around the neighborhood at midnight with luggage, to bring good fortune to the year's travels; superstitious fun or endurance test, depending on the weather. 

Twelve months ago, as we layered and packed, preparing to pretend again, we knew we were aiming to live in Colombia by the end of the year.  With so many more questions than answers, we dragged our suitcases down the street and took the obligatory selfie. All the while I wondered about what the next New Year's Eve would be like. 

That date was so far out of view, we could only head toward it, like arrows finding a target in a world of possible landings. It was an auspicious start and the trajectory has stayed true to our aim: to be together in Colombia, beginning a family chapter as immigrants. As outsiders. As newcomers. 

As pretenders.