Immigrants_We’re doing the job.

I do not subscribe to the belief that my experience is The Immigrant Experience, and yet: I am an immigrant. Thus, mine is an immigrant’s experience.

Now, my playgrounds were both in private and in public schools. Surrounded by the well-off, no doubt about it. And although there was that brief time of unemployment in the early 2000s, my father has always had a job where he has rightly risen as time has gone on.

But that’s not the point. The point is that although I do have three part time jobs as a full time undergraduate student, with student loans, I have had some beautiful privilege.

Sure, I’m a woman, Mexican, English (although my native) is not my first language, I’m LGBTQ, and I fit the bill as mentally-ill. But in the Contest of Privilege, I’ve got the best one on lock. My home was happy and healthy, and I am not poor.

I did not grow up in poverty, working menial tasks on the street to buy food. My father did not come as a temporary migrant to do the hard labor that is the picture of Mexicanness in the US of A. I am not the first in my family to graduate university, or graduate school, or medical school.

So when I came to the US as an Immigrant under an H1 visa provided by the need for special skills labor under NAFTA, I was mostly here legally.

But you know who was this person? This poor, hardworking girl who put herself through grade school, then high school and into higher education? To have 7 children, lose 2, and have the other 5 become professionals? Whose father entered the US and was returned a handful of times, while working and toiling to send money back home?  Who saw, not a Better Life, but a chance at a Life instead of existence.

No, it wasn’t my mother, but my grandmother.

That’s her life’s story.

And where in 1946 my great grandfather found himself in Chicago as a manual laborer. Here I am in 2016, an undergraduate linguistics student at the University of Chicago.

Three generations later, 50 years, not even one full lifetime and the world is exponentially changed. Except that that story never really changes, does it? The white, Trumpian, Estadounidenses cling to their immigration laws, and their ideas of nationality and home and country. And don’t they realize that it was only in 1848. That their Southwest, was ours. And I don’t mean the country of Mexico’s, although that is true. I mean that that was ours. They came later. And they stayed, and we were still here. And more of us came later. But they believe this place to be uncontestedly theirs. And their sneer at the Luiseño, and the Navajo, and all the real native born, because they’re either poor or ‘unfairly’ rich with casino money.

And I understand, suddenly. Why the “Israeli-Palestinian” conflict is so entrenched. And one of those red-capped Americans said once of it, “I just don’t understand what’s so special about some land.” And isn’t that just hilarious. Just some land. They say as they have so much to say, about just some of their land.

And history will be kind to me, as I intend to write it. But how much of me will be enough for you? Because as much as you’d like to equate your laws with morality itself. There is nothing illegal in our countries about leaving, and then in the time it takes to step over a line crafted by the rich for their own fortune, suddenly our existence offends your so-called inalienable rights. 

But we have no interest in your rights. You can keep them, or fight to take them from your neighbors, all we have interest in is in living. And while you’re busy getting puffed up about being right and how oh no you’re not racist you just believe in law and order. We’ll be busy doing the very things we’re fighting to do. Having babies, and raising families. Getting a title, and passing the bar. Working hard at work worth doing. And inching our way onwards and forwards in the never-ending pursuit of absolute happiness. 

There are plenty of arguments to be had, and so much policy to come. But let me ask you a question: How will your life be improved if everything you desire to transform in this country is come true?

What will change, for you? Not for ‘your country’,  not for some religious or political ideal, but for your life. What do you imagine being able to do differently?

Because when I transform the world in my dreams, I can marry whom I wish, I can walk where I may, I can feel valued, I can embrace my community as an equal and I can shed my fears. And that is where I’m going, as the great granddaughter of a migrant and a First-Generation Mexican-soon-to-be-American. Creating this new land with, and through, my life.

bipolar ii.

So. Yeah. I have self diagnosed. Which is not ideal I know. But I am so fucking sure that I am it’s kind of a testament to how intensely I have rejected the idea ofneeding  mental health help that I havent really considered it before. 

Thats a lie. I did consider it one year ago. I thought fleetingly “What if?” And I googled the symptoms, and read and thought, nah. Well sure, maybe some but thats just normal emotional ups and downs. And then I considered it a few seconds more and then I thought, Dont be silly. And I proceeded to close the webpage and toss it away. 

And I didnt think of it until two days ago. And then just after some intense depression and this super frightning “adventure” (read:hypomania) I went on… I looked up the disorder once again. And as I read the symptoms… the only one I didnt identify with was: hallucinations. And then I clicked on Type II and it was like this most amazing Oh my moment when I just identifed so intensely with each and every symptom. And then I just felt like I could never go back to the before part of this story. 

Because here’s the deal: I am more terrified of not having Bipolar II than I am of having it. 

Its not like I want it, but a name (adiagnosisiguess) wouldnt change anything about me. It would just give name to whats already there. 

So if I do have it then, okay. 

But it I dont. Then I’m just supposed to Be Like This for the rest of forever? I cant handle that. 

Then I’m just weak. That the way ive always been is the way im doomed to always be. And if everything that there is is just Normal, then what the fuck is my problem. And why cant I handle it myself? I’ve done it all alone so far, and I guess the worst bit is that I’m still asking myself why it’s different now? If I’m bipolar then I’ve always been bipolar. And I’ve always been Just Fine. 

So why arent I now?
So right now I’m holding a proffessional diagnosis far out as a light at the end of the tunnel. Someday it might be my relief. Or it might be my undoing. 

But you know what really convinces me? 

My mother has always given me grief for being irritable. Laughing one moment, and ready to fight her the next. And sometimes she’s joking, and I laugh. But sometimes she looks at me and is really worried, and get this faraway look in her eyes what she’s thinking of every other time I’ve ever snapped at her. And she’s realizing something. And I still just laugh. 

I’ve been self harming since I was 13. And I tried tragically unsuccessfully, to kill myself when I was in middle school. My friends know that sometimes I’ll ‘fall off the face if the earth’ and not speak to them or go to school or class or leave my bed or shower or eat. Sometimes for a week or two. But sometimes, I do weird shit for no reason and I cant keep up with my thoughts and the world is weirdly technicolored. And I sign up for all if the things and be able to handle it all. And its not all bad. Sometimes I’m just Ridiculously happy for no good reason. And its ten thousand times better than being high. And it hits me at the weirdest times. And I can be incredibly productive and creative and im sure I’m going to do Great Things before im even 21. And nothing will ever be bad again. 

And then.  I. Crash. Or sometimes I just forget the extremes. 

Extreme. Thats always been a core part of my identity. A person of extremes. Incredibly Obsessive. Insanely Apathetic. 

But I’m just so painfully. Excruciatingly. Hopelessly paralyzed. Bc I cant go see a professional. Because what if they tell me that. This is normal. Just like in hs, when this was all just Part of Growing Up. Just hormones. Why should it be any different simply bc im past 18 now?
 Because what if I’m not bipolar? I just need to exercise more and eat right and have a sleep schedule. And then I’d be Just Fine. What am I supposed to do then. If I dont go ask someone. Then I can get through all if the bad with at least a small sliver of… hope. 

Hope that maybe its not just me.

The Binary. 01000010 01101001.

I feel like we are up obsessed with the binary. Whether our wish is to destroy the illusion that there is an either/or, or whether we are instantly polarized buy anything we dare speak our minds about. Because we must declare an allegiance. If we are or are not one thing or another.

In school we spend our time using her college education to either hate the institution educating us, rightly so, or defending and praising and becoming of the institution, rightly so.

If there is one absolute truth I believe in: it is it absolutes hold no true. “The truth resists simplicity.” And where I believe that to feel the truth is very simple, when you move it into the realm of argument or opinion, or application… That is when the real trouble begins. 

When did identities become distinctions? We’ve always had our demographics, and some were chosen and some were thrust. But in our ever feral search for more autonomy and power and control we define ourselves again and again and again. In places where no one is asking us to. But we do it anyway.

There are now more categories, more slots to fit into, but most importantly and- I believe – more other nest to define and more people to separate ourselves from. And we as humans are not mature enough to be separate without being competitive. And when there is competition a Victor will be crowned, and where there is a victor and where there is our Ego. We will decide that some are more than others.

And I despair. 

And I rejoice. 

There is so much, there is too much. And of all of these things, which will win… I wonder? Which will endure long past the other?

But maybe we ought to take a page out of those who wish to crush this binary of thought. And rejoice in the gradation, in the shades, and the space between. And all that is the most prevalent within us all and around us all, the gray. 

Still: don’t get me wrong. Don’t misunderstand me.

I know why. 

If we both lived in the fog: then we would both be the same. 

And where’s the fun in that?

I had an idea.

I was alone. So very alone for three weeks. I fell into deep depressions and high trips of devine inspiration. And I did all of the things. Let me just say that I sure hope thats worked it’s way out of my system becasue. Dios mio. I can never ever live alone as long as I live. 

Or I might end up dead. 

I am a person of extremes. Prone to obsession, and blessed with the stanima for Proper Tenacity. 

I sleep for 15 hours. And wake for 36. 

If I’m going to commute for work… God damn if it’s not gonna be for three hours straight. Every day. Working a 70 hour week? How about i dont need to get paid. 

My diet means no more carbs. Whatsoever. 

If I decide I want to learn How to Kill a Man. It’s gonna be thoroughly. With every, single, weapon, I possess. 

These entries are never quite what I expect. Usually metapragmatic of it is enough to fill a page.

And if I decide I want to do Something other than nothing. Than gods be damned, imma take on 4 jobs only 2 of which pay. 14 hours of class, 7 hours of exercise, 30 hour weekday. And how about- just for funsies – I also try to jumpstart 3 alternate career paths at the same time? 

That sound good to everyone?

^The referent idea I had, I forgot. 

Up Next: Fucking Fan Fiction & #Millenials

Silk and steel armor.

The year is 1890, and the world is new and bright. This is the edge of time, and everything is wonderful. And women wear corsets.

I first wore a corset when I was fifteen. For all of the wrong reasons. I wanted to stop being fat. And so I ordered one online, and when it came, I laced it as tight as I could handle. And I went to school. It felt pretty fantastic, not to suck in my stomach in every conceivable moment. As the day wore on, though, in the scalding eternal summer-like heat of California. Soon I escaped to the bathroom for respite from the black cheap pseudo-satin. I tore the thing off of myself, with a hand to my stomach, breathing in gasping breath one after another. My hands rubbed at the angry red impressions and the relief at the freedom of it was pleasure.

Still, as soon as my breathing was done, I put the thing right back on. Not even bothering to untie the back, I let out all the air from my lungs as I could manage and pulled the fat of my belly with abdominal muscles that should have been a six pack under the fat from the constant tightness I always held there. It was a fair trade, I thought. A flattering figure, for some pain and discomfort. Wasn’t that how beauty worked? Waxing, shaving, plucking, high heels, tight pants, itching bras. These were the makings of a girl. And I was cheating, using this thing. An extra cost was implied.

This was five years ago. After wearing the thing for about a week straight, then stopping when I was to begin swim practice and be unable to hide it. I left my corset wrapped in the back of my sock drawer for a while. Pulling it out every now and again for special events, once for my sister’s Halloween costume. I debated taking it to university and did, if only because I would rather have it and not use it, than want it and not have it.

Then, trying to squeeze into a much too tight – very fitted dress, I donned the thing once more. It worked. And it wasn’t all that unpleasant in my apartment bathroom. But two trains and a walk later, it hurt. Still, I endured the vice all the way home – a walk, a train and two buses later. The angriest of the red marks being on the tenderest bits of my waist on either of my sides.

A month ago or so, I bought a corset online, this time I could afford the $90.

I write.

When I was twelve, I began a story in my head.

My head was full of Percy Jackson, and the Mythology Unit we were studying in the sixth grade.

I sat outside, stared into the moon, and began a story of Artemis and her huntresses. I summoned characters that were everything I wanted to be, scenery that I wanted to see, adventures I was desperate for.

Then, I began to write. I wrote and I wrote. I wanted to publish one day. Still, I wasn’t very serious about it for what would become years. If inspiration struck, I would write it longhand – in the middle of class, or in my head as I finished up swim practice.

Sophomore year I met Carliene. She was the first writer I ever met. And instantly we clicked in a way that feels like a marriage of sorts, a true binding of souls. Wow that sound so cursi, but, truth. It’s been said, were she not straight, we would already be engaged. She had a million stories in her head. I had, really, only one.

But man were we the same in that one way. In all others, we were opposite. No. That’s not right, we aren’t opposite. We are complements. Like purple and yellow on the color wheel, vanilla and dark chocolate coffees, white with dazzling blonde hair, and brown with striking black hair. I could write essays on why we are a perfect pair, but I’ll quit my love-letter-worthy-ranting (for now.)

So, I wasn’t crazy. In writing, anyways, what a relief.

Then for three years I wasn’t serious about my writing at all.

I’ve called it my LilyStory, which is to that First Idea (when I was 13) what my wristwatch is to Big Ben.

Finally. I’m ready to write it. I’m ready to write

The Importance of Things is Important.

Damn. I’m not half-bad at this writing thing. I’ve been reading my past entries and don’t feel like cringing.

It’s been almost exactly a year since my last entry. And boy so much has happened.

But this isn’t a diary: this is where my 1a thoughts find watering hole.

Something has been bothering me. I lost a couple of things when I packed up my apartment. Well, it’s unlikely that I lost them- they were stolen. Probably not maliciously, but nonetheless. But my problem isn’t that I lost them. It’s that I didn’t care.

Honestly, I was annoyed and I wished I had them. Them here being a very pretty glue gun my mother bought me, and my set of Cards Against Humanity $25.  But I didn’t really mind it that much.

The Importance of Things is Important.

Majority.

So, it’s three in the morning and I have work tomorrow. I bet you expect me to say that in a way in which I am self-deprecatingly lamenting my complete disregard for sleep. But in reality my shift doesn’t begin until 5 in the evening, so it doesn’t really make much difference at what time I go to bed.

I’ve been forming the words I would write in my head but haven’t written them. I don’t know why– that’s a lie.

It is because I am increasingly paralyzed. I am paralyzed because I feel the weight of choices. One I never had occasion to feel before. It should be freedom I feel. Graduated high school- no more obligations until school- UChicago- in the fall. What I feel is wildness. I feel as though I myself am both the feral wild creature and at the same time its master. A few days ago I was sitting at Chase bank with one of the reps. My mother to the left of me. A presence but mostly silent – and the lady speaking to me about bank accounts and overdraft fees and spending limits. I had gone to set up a direct deposit for my new job – and I had just come from orientation where I signed my name – my legally binding 18-year old signature to a gazillion documents. And while waiting in the lobby of the bank I was setting up the appointment to take my driving test for my license.

I sat there with this nice Asian woman to my right speaking in a clear and distinct voice, my mother barely on the periphery to my left and a stack of papers placed very ceremoniously spread out on the desk in front of me.

And I felt it.

En Español

Ustedes no me conocen en español.  No saben como me puede vibrar la voz, y como la tiniebla y el resplandor de la luz me puede pintar el sol de otro idioma. Aveces yo tampoco se eso, algo que  es aun mas patético que la otra cosa. No. Ustedes no pueden saber nada los ahogados o del crepúsculo. Un naufrago como el no podréis entender. La patria y la desempeña de palabras no es algo que se siente con un sentido desconocido. Y la única razon por la que ustedes conocen la otra parte de mi es por el idioma que me domina en el día, Es tanto el tiempo que paso en ese vientre de conocimiento que aveces asta me han convencido deque halla nunca perteneceré,  Pero he solo de pasar un buen tiempo en el mar un poco mas sucio y tal vez un poco mas salado, he solo de tomar un buen trago bien largo de mi otro ser y me doy cuenta de que las palabras se han escondido en mi cerebro aun desconocido y extranjero de mi ser. Pero da una lastima que usted no han podido, no han querido, y no me conocerán en español.

Faith and Religion and Church

I have this deep craving for a religion, a faith. I want so desperately and badly with an intense ache- to have a god. To have a God! One I believe in! I am so jealous of the people I see, both friends and strangers- who have that in their lives. In a way it feels like missing my childhood. Both for the obvious reason – that when I was a little girl I was very Catholic, my social life consisted entirely of church. But also for one not entirely as obvious.

I’m not making any sense.

It’s like this-