It’s gonna take a little work

The slightly L-shaped bedroom. Three big windows facing the small parking area right next to the ominous unintended back garden. My wildest home of them all. The one I ever lived in but never had. This was not my first time in The United States of America, therefore a certain spark for the newness was lost, not there anymore. The breathtaking sweet iconic moments, dazzled by its infrastructure, franchises, or great public parks. North America brings a great many challenges for any immigrant, but this was a two-story house in suburban Worcester, right in front of Interstate 29.

I was, nonetheless, driven by a force of spirit aimed at — what at the time felt hilarious to call– colonizing back — reverse colonization. Now it seems odd. Yet, at the time, adorned by a self-righteous grin, my mission embarked me on a journey. A demure celebration in Spanish. To erode the epicenter of another predominantly white institution. To push it into blossoming diversity through language. I was there to teach Spanish.

Eyes closed. It takes no effort to recall the early days of that year-long stay in Massachusetts. August 2019, arrived at the last weeks of a moderate summer, my days were spent filled with small rituals to transition into adulthood. An intentional retrieval of all there was to reconfigure, make sense of my new. More specially, of the I there was a chance for me to become.

The unintended back garden gave a sense of wilderness shaped by suburbs, extensive grass covering the hill, the great oak tree home to vigilant squirrels, and some highway transit in the distance. Laundry duty became much less of a dread. Those summer days of birds chirping and the incandescence of a well-lit room made mornings much more effortless. Don’t ask me why, but there is something about the three meals a day situation that is heavy on the side of responsibility. The very first sign of adulthood is eating breakfast.

Those days felt fresh and bold enough to handle breakfast, to enjoy breakfast. The main perk of being in America is not letting America get too much into your head. Capitalism will most certainly exploit every second of labor it can from you. Therefore, the first thing I did was eat. Feed me first. Brain cells need to be in the right place for a workweek to be a week, and not a couple of days. And so it was done. First, some coffee beans. I would grind — but not fully pulverize — for the precise amount of amargura on my cup. (bitterness / Como el chocolate, amargo, Amargo.) The aroma spread to every corner. Apologies to my German and Spanish roommates for the many times when an Italian press almost burnt the house to the ground. — My intentions were pure, my execution: dreamy and blind to time passing by — . Full disclosure: no people nor coffee grounds were ever harmed in the process. Okay. Perhaps a few coffee grounds were.

Second, a joyous cereal bread with avocado seasoned with salt and pepper. My Peruvian-based soul could not properly register how much of a luxury it is to afford avocado in America. Back home it is a locally grown good, only sometimes overpriced due to seasonal scarcity. American prices seemed ridiculous, however. Yet it was my food of choice for pampering. I was set. The two fundamentals of my adult mornings. On the happiest days, even a book would make an appearance.

Which leads me back to my slightly L-shaped bedroom. Where most of the book action happened. My first few thoughts going into that space were: This is a lot more space than I was expecting and let’s make sure there is great lighting. It had to serve all my purposes; it was, therefore, accommodated accordingly. On a corner right next to the door, the bed and a nightstand big enough to fit a teacup, my phone, and some books piled on top serving as the base for a reading lamp. That was the longer side in the L shape. At the very end of the shorter side, was my desk. Bed and desk on opposite sides: church and State.

My desk; where I buried memories of an old lover, applied to graduate school for the first time, read English and Spanish classics, and felt like a true writer. It was the birthplace of the reverse colonization (com)plot. It was my job to conduct practicum sessions in Spanish. Had to make grammar fun, vocabulary accessible, and polish student’s writing skills. The apathy of practicing any language at 8 a.m. comes without saying, yet a relentless feeling of triumph at their progress with Spanish fueled my fire.

The hardest part about teaching Spanish in a predominantly white institution is having to teach Spanish in a predominantly white institution. The second sign of adulthood is when you create a cheat sheet for the things you know will help you get through the rest of your day. I had four things. Here, an homage to the work in self. For me, it was music, poems, and walks.

Chronicles of sounds: On the craft of music-making

I carry a natural disposition to have guitars find me. Winona was mothered by another female coworker and me. At my suggestion, we came up with a name. It would encourage us to treat it with care and respect; since, after all, it was the boss’s instrument. Later in the year, I would find Leslie my guitar. During a trip to New York — the epicenter of any cheesy postcard — and, more specifically on a trippy impulse to look at what is probably the most expensive Guitar Center in the world, we met. That is Leslie and me.

A turquoise properly fretted affordable electric guitar came to my life on a random day of quests. My longing for the NYC experience explicitly included browsing around for an element of musical adventure. It happened exactly how I had dreamed it. On a regular day, full of mundane things, over very passive promenading. I knew from the very beginning a personal tour of the city had to include checking out some live music and instruments. Her whereabouts seemed like a life-long call conviction reaffirming to me how much of a safe space could be built through tones, rhythm, and shredding.

Only weeks after my return to Massachusetts, a portable 15 dollar amp made it into my bedroom. It had all aligned. That soft lighting I had created out of paper made wrapping for the lights decorating my window was transformed into bubbles for a soundly getaway. I craved those moments where I was able to long for a mashup of goddesses, memories, and honor them with a few major scales. My fantasies about what tracks I was going to explore with my craft became an exciting plan to come back to. What if I could be amazing singer Omara Portuondo’s lead guitarist to accompany the type of son carrying tradition and glory, yet with a flair of new opportunities for women? What if I could mix up the mythology and great spirit of perseverance the memory of Selena sparked with a hint of rocker energy? I even managed to build on some riffs, progressions, and lyrics of my own addressing the cleavages, ruptures, and fantasies for a queer-fem-topia.

One poem a day: On how to do mornings

Homesickness is more than a mere nostalgic reminiscence. It is more than a craving for a specific dish. It is more than missing your family and friends. It is more than contemplating your past life wondering if it was ever worth it to move away. Although, it is a very peculiar experience since only those who migrate are capable of grasping, to a fair extent, a sense of what homesickness is. Yet a primal quiver deep within, helps us walk towards survival.

I chose poetry. I chose poetry of people whose hearts beat at a pace of different times. I chose Alejandra Pizarnik and Cesar Vallejo. Authors that are troubling for my comprehension to this day. Yet the pocket-size poignancy of their literary work served as the precise, small dose to infuse the antidote to my homesickness. The exact amount of conundrum to remind me of my Latin American vein percolating. Para ponerse el alma y que pronto venga el día. (“To wear your soul in hope of The day to come”, as Cesar Vallejo would name it.)

Moving on: On the spaces we create

As soon as hiking became a social media phenomenon for marketable spiritual cleansing I reacted with a major cringe. To walk around incredibly photogenic natural areas as a way to connect with a higher self whose only altitude is self-involvement did not resonate with my experience. Before it became a glamorous experience we had walks, accessible to everyone and anyone with a body that could allow for it. The time and energy for casual promenading seemed like a small pocket of joy worth the trouble. I find my mother almost always being too tired to find it an enjoyable activity, and think to myself how much has been robbed from her in a lifetime.

You either break or repeat the cycle — I find all too often scaffolding myself. It is in the middle, with some compromise, that most find themselves. As a woman born in a place with rampant gender-based violence it was carved in me to address daily the mental flex of timing, wearing, and accompanying appropriately to preserve “my own safety.” Nonetheless, it was a personal mission to curate life for including moments to take some air and breathe. Next to our campus in Worcester was Cookson Field Park. A place with a bit of a path suggested as runners, dog walkers, and children looking for adventures in nature passed by.

There was nothing truly special about it, and more than a few things had been abandoned there. On the day I found it my mood was a mix of frustration, exhaustion, and a hint of anger. Bursting out the door in combustion, and looking for some clarity and groundedness. After taking a few steps around the suburbs, dread for the American postcard possessed me. Five minutes into one step after the other, a messy woodsy scenario presented. Every reasonable act of self-preservation should have stopped me. There was the chance of running into strangers, men, anyone with the potential of harm in an environment where finding help was highly unlikely. Or at least those were some of the thoughts my mind should have gone through, but did not.

I sat on a great big rock, me puse el alma, and the next day came.