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.

New Backyard

Scrolling and staring, I did not expect to see a picture of my living room, all of a sudden. Our piano, with its lamp and globe, and seashells strewn across the top: just as I left it nearly 5 months ago. 

Free piano to a good home. 

I was transported to a moment, 13 years earlier, when my baby sat on my lap, pounding the keyboard with her chubby hands. The window nearby was open to enjoy some evening air, and to share her musical stylings with the neighbors.

Let me explain. The two younger kids and I have sojourned to a new continent, to see what life might hold for us in Colombia. The dad of the house, stayed with the house, to manage its transfer to a new family. He and the dog of the house are now plotting their journey to Colombia, where we hope to celebrate Christmas together in a new home.

Let me explain. This all started about a year ago. My last visit to Manizales, Colombia made us determined. We wanted to live there, I mean here. I mean, in another part of Colombia, but still.

Let me explain. Wait. There's way too much to say in one post. 

How do I sum up the entirety of growing a family in a home and feeling the myriad changes as we all bust out of that home and disperse to our respective fortunes? How to convey the feelings of nostalgia and excitement that seem to get along so well with each other in my head? How to describe the experience of taking two kids, born in the that house, so far from it we may never see it again? Seems impossible.

It might have to be enough that all of it just happened. There, in our home for 20 years, we grew vegetables, fruit, eggs, bakers, gardeners, artists, scientists, and musicians. Some of those things are still yielding bright beautiful blooms that continue to surprise us. Even though the titular backyard of this blog made most of it possible, it was never about that particular patch of ground. The same songs are being played on a different piano.

Memories are lovely, but looking forward is living. 

Which was the educational experience we've been after all along. 

Hard to Swallow

(TW: this post contains a story about choking. It was hard for me to write, and it might be hard for some to read. It's also a little gross.)

What's worse than biting into an apple and seeing a worm?"* I asked him, during snack time at my new place of employment: a bilingual school in Colombia. My student looked up at me with wide curious eyes and asked the requisite joke follow-up, "What?"

Seeing as how I was actually eating an apple at that moment, and considered it rude that I was talking to him while chewing some of it, I decided to swallow quickly before telling him the punchline. 

A second later I realized I should have chewed a little longer, but figured it was too late. I would feel that mouthful going all the way down. Not fun, but I'd survived such discomfort before; and as long as I delivered the punchline, the suffering would be my secret.

Except...

It didn't go down. It stopped. I gave a little cough to clear my airway, and realized, I could not breathe at all. I could feel the piece of apple lodged firmly in my throat, blocking my ability to breathe.

I made a "just a second" gesture and walked away from my students, seeking desperately to be away from people while I dealt with the consequences of my foolishness. Dropping to my knees behind a sign, I spat all of the apple bits out of my mouth, and tried to gag or cough up the large piece obstructing my windpipe.

Nothing. 

I started to turn purple.

A co-worker saw me and patted my back roughly, asking if I was okay. I lifted an arm and flapped it feebly.

The edges of my field of vision dimmed.

He ran for help. I was fading when I heard the school nurse shouting instructions behind me.  Her arms wrapped around my torso and her fist dug suddenly under my ribs. 

The Heimlich didn't do the trick. 

I felt her gloved fingers jam into my mouth, probing back as far as they could to activate my gag reflex. That worked. Sort of. The deadly little apple bit moved a millimeter, allowing a tiny precious stream of air to flow around it. I came back, able to breathe a little. She managed to find a ripe banana and convinced me to try swallowing a small piece of it. I did, and the apple was pushed down the right tube, on its way to my stomach, with the heroic banana chunk.

This was on the second day of school. 

Afterward, the nurse tended to me, gave me water, advice, and asked how I felt. 

How did I feel? My throat was raw, my ribs were bruised; but what hurt worse was my pride. 

I told her I was okay, but mortified. She looked horrified. "WHY?" she asked, incredulously. "All that matters is that you are safe and alive!" I agreed and felt silly for focusing on how embarrassed I was. "All that matters is that your kids' mom is okay!" Yes, yes, I knew that too. 

As the day went on, my kind and friendly colleagues, some of whom had witnessed my near demise, and some who had heard about it, checked on me frequently. Concerned faces, sympathy, relief that I was okay: I knew I was surrounded by genuine care, and all of it made me feel worse and worse. I tried to avoid people for the next few hours.

Afternoon arrived and the nurse found me, asking how I felt. I gave her a quick thumbs up, but she looked worried and started to tell me how to care for myself at home afterward. She said I should call or message her if I needed anything.

If I needed anything. 

Another lump blocked my throat, but this one was of my own making. Tears filled my eyes and I spent a second trying to figure out why.

Why, when I should have been grateful for caring coworkers, and a good end to a bad event, why was I burning with shame?

Once again, the nurse got right to the problem. "I know you have a hard time asking for help..." she started. 

My thoughts: What? You don't know me, lady! If I need help, I can ask for it all by myself, (provided I can breathe and speak.) Besides, it's not an issue because I do my best never to need help. 

I'm very independent.

Turns out, she wasn't talking about just me, but me and mine. My culture. We (and Germans) have a reputation, among people here, of suffering under the delusion that we can get through life on our own. Many of the Colombian folks I have spoken with have tales of foreigners coming here and nearly perishing from the common cold, or traveling with garbage bags, all because they were so reticent to solicit or accept help.

She asked, "What do you all think? That people who accept help are weak?"

I thought for a minute. 

In that minute, I flashed back to one of many childhood memories that is drenched in searing Oklahoma sunshine. My mom and I were on the side of a busy road, under construction; walking to school, where I had just started 3rd grade. She had decided that was the day I would walk the rest of the way to school by myself. Big chunks of upturned red earth all around, cars whizzing by, I panicked as she told me I'd be going it alone. I must have protested because I vividly remember squinting up at her as she told me firmly, "Rebekah. It is important for you to be independent." So I was. I walked along the road alone, picking my way around the construction zone without issue. I felt stupid for wishing she'd stayed with me and kept in mind that I didn't need others as much as I might think at first. 

Over the years, I had been grateful for that lesson, and tried to live accordingly. Working hard, enjoying some privilege, and playing it safe made collaborating with others purely a choice; rarely a desperate need. Making something from nothing, defying odds, standing on my own feet, with bootstraps for pulling myself up? I guess? My point is, it wasn't just my mom. These qualities are admired where I come from. She was preparing me for the life she knew I should be able to live.

Something dislodged in me as I answered the nurse, "When people need help, I want to help them. But, if I need help, all I can do is think of the mistakes I made that put me in that vulnerable situation, and blame myself for needing anyone." 

Her eyes reflected a level of compassion, mixed with revulsion at viewing oneself so harshly. She told me that I was going to have to get used to people being very involved and helpful with everyone around them here. I knew that, it's one of the reasons I wanted to live in Colombia in the first place. What I didn't know was how hard it would be for me not to hate myself for ever truly needing it. 

So, is everything figured out, fixed, all better? Not exactly, but I'll be here for at least a year. Maybe, during that time, deep programming within me will move a millimeter and let me breathe, even when I don't think I deserve to. 

*joke answer: Biting into an apple and seeing half a worm.