Here’s where the story starts …..Aquí es donde comienza
Upon completing undergrad, I was told by many that it’s a common experience to have postpartum depression when leaving school.
As you can imagine, I did graduate but I failed irrevocably.
I wondered if I should feel ashamed or if I should crawl back into the fists of the sandbox in my backyard and cry to my mother. “No, Mom, I don’t know how to save the world just yet. I don’t know how to cook an egg over easy, and I still haven’t finished my new book. Maybe those damn nostalgic nights are to blame.”
But this wasn’t quite the case because I was still writing–just not about the things that would matter to a scholar who only cared about grammar and linguistics.
“Pero cariño, you were awarded a medal. You were the top-performing student in your major. Si ser escritora y dedicarte a las artes es lo que quieres hacer, hazlo. You were born in this county, you have no excuse. No te rindas sólo porque no es fácil.”
I try to taste her words, but the nectar of belief seems to slip right under.
“I love you, Mom.”
“I love you too, Mija”
My parents left their homeland with the fear that their children might lose touch with their roots—forgetting the language, never learning to cook traditional dishes, or striving to look different from their ethnicity. It is my goal to ease this fear by honoring their sacrifices and embracing my heritage. I want to show them that I deeply value where I come from and that I carry our culture proudly in everything I do–especially in my writing. This dream of becoming a writer came from somewhere, from a collection of people with love, passion, and pride.
Being a writer constantly makes me reflect on the things that make me the most vulnerable.
Being angry at somebody, forgiving or crying–engaging in things that give me pleasure–I’m cut open.
Writing is the only thing that doesn’t cut me open. I get to say what I want and feel what I do without actually saying it.
I don’t enjoy circular narratives and I’m glad that growing up has given me a poetic and quirky take to my own voice–and to the love I share with others.
I write and create characters who are confident and connected within themselves—even if they feel like they’re not. Through them, I guess I feel indifferent to what I feel in real life.
Some things are hard to write about. After something happens to me, I open my pink journal and pull out my hidden ashtray. I try to form words to explain this pulsing feeling inside me but nothing comes out clean. It’s just dirty words with messy feelings. I never write anything quite how I want to—but during this gap year, I’m pretty honest about it all.
I became tired of lying in my own diary.
Being in your twenties fucking sucks. I’m left to my own devices, and I can’t seem to find the remote control. It’s frustrating that I feel sometimes nostalgic for times in my life that I hated living through.
I’ve been having different days lately. Some days I’m small and sad. Some days it’s peace and more and some days it’s a silent mending as tiny broken pieces are put back together.
In any form, I don’t mind the quiet. I’m learning that the quiet is part of the sacred mess that growing up is. It’s the part of aching, mending, and of becoming whole again when part of your old life and routine are gone.
Sometimes I don’t want the quiet to leave, because it makes me an inch closer to what I used to have—seeing my college friends five times a week, eating endless scoops of ice cream at work, or snacking on the sweet pastries my co-worker would bring to class—getting lost in multicultural literature and lighting a stinky green stick with Jess in between periods, I think about it all the time.
I miss it—in a young, desperate, and human kinda way.
I hope I get accepted somewhere. I’ve applied to six schools with prestigious writing programs—but who knows? Maybe I’m just a girl who needs a warm mug of Champurrado and eight hours of sleep.
