“Pride”

“Pride”

It was the summer of 1978 and I was in Mexico City. Dad had left me and my sister Lil in the care of his family. His parting wish was that we not only get to know all of our aunts, uncles, and cousins but that we learn Spanish and understand what it meant to be part of two cultures.

In the years since that legendary visit, the lessons learned continue to fill me with pride. That doesn’t mean I haven’t been at odds with my American and Mexican identities in the years, but at 50, I am glad to be that perfect mollete of American & Mexican ingredients.  Back to 1978…

I was already a voracious reader and I brought along quite a few books to help me deal with the shyness that was still my want at that age. As the weeks went by, my shyness lessened, but I had my moments. One weekend, Tía Beba and Tío Pio headed to their ranch in Celaya, Guanajuato. They were this amazing duo, a matriarch and patriarch culled straight out of Tennessee Williams by way of Gabriel Garcia Marquez. She was fair, blonde and every inch a Ms. DuBois. He was dark, silver-haired and a caballero from an era long passed. Their passing left a gaping hole that swallowed the entire family alive in the end, but that’s another story left to be told in the future.

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I didn’t want to go to the ranch that day. I preferred to be left alone in the hotel we were staying at outside the property since construction was still shaping up the main house. For whatever reason, I chose to read my book, a novelization of the NBC mini-series “Holocaust,” in the lobby. I’d seen the series earlier that year and the novel was no less vivid or engrossing. I was so immersed in the book, feeling this overwhelming horror and sadness over the plight of the Weiss family. That this happened in the 20th century scared me speechless.

As I continued reading author Gerald Green’s adaptation of his screenplay, the degrading atrocities experienced by European Jews tapped into my own burgeoning abilities of imagination and empathy at that age. I pondered, “What if that were me? What if that were my family? I felt a fear I did recognize. At that moment, the light fixture hanging from the ceiling chose to fall and shatter upon reaching the tiled floor. It only took seconds for me to get up and call my family to come get me. I didn’t want to be alone anymore.

Nearly 40 years later, I woke up on July 27 to feel a similar sense of fear and dread felt on a summer evening in Guanajuato. However, it didn’t leave me speechless. Quite the contrary, anger surged within me. We were still dissecting 45’s petty and bilious speech at the Boy Scouts of America Jamboree. The scorched Twittersphere and media landscape is still digesting Trump’s infamous decree that transgender men and women are barred from enlisting in the military. Imagine the cruel joke that is the trash fire known as the Trump Administration doubled down on further eroding the protections for the LGBTQ community:

“The Justice Department has filed court papers arguing that a major federal civil rights law does not protect employees from discrimination based on sexual orientation, taking a stand against a decision reached under President Barack Obama.

The department’s move to insert itself into a federal case in New York was an unusual example of top officials in Washington intervening in court in what is an important but essentially private dispute between a worker and his boss over gay rights issues.

“The sole question here is whether, as a matter of law, Title VII reaches sexual orientation discrimination,” the Justice Department said in a friend-of-the-court brief, citing the 1964 Civil Rights Act, which bars discrimination in the workplace based on race, color, religion, sex or national origin. ‘It does not, as has been settled for decades. Any efforts to amend Title VII’s scope should be directed to Congress rather than the courts.’

The department filed its brief on Wednesday, the same day President Trump announced on Twitter that transgender people would be banned from serving in the military, raising concerns among civil rights activists that the Trump administration was trying to undermine lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender rights won under previous administrations.” — From the New York Times article, published on July 27, 2017.

The Pentagon has no intention of changing its criteria on transgender enlisted officers just yet. The intervention sought by the White House and Department of Justice is also going to take the time to resolve and will be challenged in court. But Trump’s daily Twitter coffee and cigarette dump succeeds in playing to his support base of intolerant miscreants with such power, the message is too loud to ignore. That’s what strikes fear and anger is so many. It is being digested and accepted by those who want to see the LGBTQ lose its protections sectors of this American society seeking to blame the dreaded “Other” as their sources of woe.

Once he took office, Trump’s Orwellian desire to erase any and all achievements of President Barack Obama was just the start of his all-too obvious agenda of hate. The media still blasts his “achievements” with tongue in cheek, snide glee reserved for the second rate reality star that he is. Too many of the electronic and digital media sites are breathless in their constant, “Oooh. Look what he’s doing now!” If I wanted to watch a monkey throw shit out of his cage, I’ll go to the fucking zoo!

It’s infuriating, but not nearly as maddening as the lack of balls shown by the Democrats or the lack of concern from the Americans who DIDN’T vote for him. And how about the center ring of this circus manned by the Unholy Trinity of Kellyanne Conway, Sarah Huckabee Sanders and, just added to the cast, Anthony Scaramucci?

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When cabinet members take to giving interviews to The New Yorker and utter statements like “I’m not Steve Bannon, I’m not trying to suck my own cock,” you have to wonder if this is really our new normal — more — is this the start of the fall of the Great American State? You have to ponder the “show” that is being carefully curated and unveiled every given day. Cock sucking statements issued by Scaramucci is just a distraction. The Boy Scout Jamboree rant is just a distraction. The real show is what’s happening in between, slices of tasty sandwich meats topped with savory cheese but only available to select few. It’s not designed to satisfy us all.

The cowardly acts perpetrated by this administration are tailor made with the skins of the LGBTQ community because of the bias that already exists against them. It doesn’t matter the race, color and creed because being gay/trans/cisgender strikes that chord of terror-fueled intolerance in many people. But what the rest of us need to realize is that being silent makes us complicit in the eroding of precious civil liberties. Don’t think for one moment that Trump’s wrath won’t include you at some point.

This era of complicity is shaping up to be the personification of “First they came…,” the legendary poem by Pastor Martin Niemöller, first published in 1947. Europeans, especially Germans, saw the signs of an imminent genocide at the hands of Adolf Hitler. In the end, over six million men, women, and children would lose their lives. Silence allowed scores of husbands, wives, daughters, sons, fathers, mothers, doctors, artists, writers, scientists, all major contributors to society, to be eradicated without mercy. How many do you want to see claimed if Trump and his acolytes continue the brandish their brush of white wash on this country? Perhaps they won’t be murdered, but they will be stripped of their American identity, a crime in itself.

When I first started this essay, it was meant to be an examination of being gay, a piece inspired by the month of Pride festivals all over the country. Other life events took ownership of my thoughts, of course. Then this week of infamy started. It has dredged up a few unsavory realities about my earlier life. Like how I grappled with the desire of wanting to be white. I didn’t want to be treated differently because I wasn’t born into the tribe of Muffy & Trip. Or, how I stayed in the closet for as long as I did because for some being gay made you a carrier of AIDS, which was viewed as a punishment by those who felt it was “killing all the right people.”

We are born how we are born. Choice exists in what we learn in terms of how we live our lives. Men like Trump prey on those with weak minds with the isms that define the darker side of being human.  It is when we are most distracted that the thieves storm the castle, and not always at night. It is here why stupidity has a habit of getting its way.

This is the time to be heard, not succumb to a herd mentality.

This is the time to be strong, not weakened by being divided. This is the time to be out and proud, not hidden or silenced.

This is the time to be a true American.

This is the time to have pride, in ourselves, in our nation, in being a human being.

Tomorrow should belong to WE, dammit.

 

“Christmas wrapping…” — #bahhumbug

“Bah, humbug” no, that’s too strong
‘Cause it is my favorite holiday
But all this year’s been a busy blur
Don’t think I have the energy

To add to my already mad rush
Just ’cause it’s ’tis the season
The perfect gift for me would be
Completions and connections left from

Last year, ski shoppin’
Encounter, most interestingimage
Had his number but never the time
Most of ’81 passed along those lines

So deck those halls, trim those trees
Raise up cup’s of Christmas cheer
I just need to catch my breath
Christmas by myself this year

Calendar picture, frozen landscape
Chilled this room for twenty-four days
Evergreens, sparkling snow
Get this winter over with

Flashback to springtime, saw him again
Would’ve been good to go for lunch
Couldn’t agree when we were both free
We tried, we said we’d keep in touch

Didn’t, of course, ’til summertime
Out to the beach to his boat could I join him?
No, this time it was me
Sunburn in the third degree

Now the calendar’s just one page
And, of course, I am excited
Tonight’s the night, but I’ve set my mind
Not to do too much about it

Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas
But I think, I’ll miss this one this year
Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas
But I think, I’ll miss this one this year

Hardly dashing through the snow
‘Cause I bundled up too tight
Last minute have to do
A few cards a few calls

‘Cause it’s “RSVP”
No thanks, no party lights
It’s Christmas eve, gonna relax
Turned down all of my invites

Last fall I had a night to myself
Same guy called, Halloween party
Waited all night for him to show
This time his car wouldn’t go

Forget it, it’s cold, it’s getting late
Trudge on home to celebrate
In a quiet way, unwind
Doing Christmas right this time.

“A&P” has its provided me
With the world’s smallest turkey
Already in the oven, nice and hot
Oh damn! Guess what I forgot?

So on, with the boots, back out in the snow
To the only all-night grocery
When what to my wondering eyes should appear
In the line is that guy I’ve been chasing all year

“I’m spending this one alone,” he said
“Need a break, this year’s been crazy”
I said, “Me too, but why are you?
You mean you forgot cranberries too?”

Then suddenly we laughed and laughed
Caught on to what was happening
That Christmas magic’s brought this tale
To a very happy ending

Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas
Couldn’t miss this one this year
Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas
Couldn’t miss this one this year

 http://youtu.be/nud2TQNahaU

Are we ever too old to dream? — #starsandmoon

 

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That Salamancan glow of summer faded too damn fast. Who am I kidding? I let it fade. Instead of just transferring it back home, I sat around with a look of petulance, bemoaning the American Way. Stupid. So stupid.

Once you’re knee deep in your 40s, I think you’re supposed to be painfully aware of the distance between “then” and “now.” By now we should realize our lives are constant examples of forward motion. That is until we allow ourselves the live in a state of arrested development. Remember, I’m just the guy who cain’t let go. Yet, I’m also the guy who will embrace change when I am left with no other recourse.

I left my job during the summer of 2013 to find a better self.

I returned to the classroom in the fall of 2013 to restore a better sense of self by studying Spanish again, this time at East Los Angeles College.

I ventured to Spain in the summer of 2014 to live out loud with what I learned being a student again, continuing my studies at the Pontificia in Salamanca. My self-esteem was in the process of being rebuilt, gaining strength and perspective. My voice was finally registering with so much hope, creating a narrative of optimism.

Then I went home.

I relapsed…no..willingly wallowed into a pit built with self-pity and binge eating.

I’m sitting here in a hotel room in Primm, Nevada. Watching these words flash across the screen, words given power by my hands. All I can think is, “What the fuck is wrong with me?” Why am I still chasing the same damn demons that I’ve let dominate my life since childhood.

I want to be liked.

I want to be pretty.

I want to be skinny.

I want to be happy.

I want…I want…I want. What the hell? What more can I want, Veruca? I have everything! Yet, why is it so hard to say “I have” and acknowledge the good amassed in this last year? Why return to the scene of my crimes against my own humanity?

We are living in a culture that has turned self-reflection into a business. But I think we are deluding ourselves. It is just a different brand of narcissism, this still being unable to be still. As I sit here with my thoughts, so late into the evening, I can’t help but ponder the obvious. It’s the doing that matters, not paying lip service to a dream you’ve opted to stall because you’re so chicken shit. But what happens when you realize you’ve outgrown the dream itself?

I can compose a narrative on a whim, revising it in my brain like a chewed up wad of gum, mulling it over and over until it loses all flavor. As we wade further into September, I am facing a reality I’ve been too afraid to acknowledge.

Maybe it wasn’t about MY being someone. Maybe it is about inspiring someone else to dare to express themselves in a way that affects us ALL in such a profound manner, it prompts change. That’s a dream worth chasing at any cost because it isn’t about me anymore.

I don’t want to see language devolve into statements constructed with 140 characters or less.  I don’t want a filtered image on Instagram to be the defining record of our time, an image without context or nuance. I convinced myself to be ashamed that I worked this hard to reach only the middle. Truth be told, not all of us can be LeBron. That lofty status is reserved for those who are truly touched by the hand of God. I represent something between extra and ordinary, like so many of us who have the desire to make our time on Earth matter. It’s about the little legacies we leave behind without fear of judgment that counts. It’s accepting that we are SOMEONE, even if it is to a party of one.

What I have discovered at this juncture of my life is that I am deserving of a patch of blue, a landscape of green, a sense of peace and quiet within. I have understood that I possess enough good in this life to allow the optimism I carry inside to not be obfuscated by the chaos of people who only see what they want to see. I don’t want the status quo of being a proxy anything to anyone anymore. Nor will I allow myself to build a fortress of empty calories, sponsored by the folks at Emotional Eating and designed to hide me from the world again. It’s about knowing that we all carry the stars and the moon in our hearts.

Let’s remix this business…

“I met a man without a dollar to his name
Who had no traits of any value but his smile
I met a man who had no yearn or claim to fame
Who was content to let life pass him for a while
And I was sure that all I ever wanted
Was a life like the movie stars led
And he kissed me right here, and he said,

“I’ll give you stars and the moon and a soul to guide you
And a promise I’ll never go
I’ll give you hope to bring out all the life inside you
And the strength that will help you grow.
I’ll give you truth and a future that’s twenty times better
Than any Hollywood plot.”
And I thought, “You know, I’d rather have a yacht.”

I met a man who lived his life out on the road
Who left a wife and kids in Portland on a whim
I met a man whose fire and passion always showed
Who asked if I could spare a week to ride with him
But I was sure that all I ever wanted
Was a life that was scripted and planned
And he said, “But you don’t understand —

“I’ll give you stars and the moon and the open highway
And a river beneath your feet
I’ll give you day full of dreams if you travel my way
And a summer you can’t repeat.
I’ll give you nights full of passion and days of adventure,
No strings, just warm summer rain.”
And I thought, “You know, I’d rather have champagne.”

I met a man who had a fortune in the bank
Who had retired at age thirty, set for life.
I met a man and didn’t know which stars to thank,
And then he asked one day if I would be his wife.
And I looked up, and all I could think of
Was the life I had dreamt I would live
And I said to him, “What will you give?”

“I’ll give you cars and a townhouse in Turtle Bay
And a fur and a diamond ring
And we’ll be married in Spain on my yacht today
And we’ll honeymoon in Beijing.
And you’ll meet stars at the parties I throw at my villas
In Nice and Paris in June.”

And I thought, “Okay.”
And I took a breath
And I got my yacht
And the years went by
And it never changed
And it never grew
And I never dreamed
And I woke one day
And I looked around
And I thought, “My God…
I’ll never have the moon.”

“Stars and Moon,” music and lyrics by Jason Robert Brown

 

Composed on Saturday, September 6 at Buffalo Bill’s Resort and Casino in Primm, Nevada — Posted on Sunday, September 7 from Wayne Avenue Manor in South Pasadena.

Ice Ice Bucket Challenge, baby.

Ice Ice Bucket Challenge, baby.

Hmm. Maybe every cause, every other disease, every injustice, every moment of civil disobedience, every maligned group, every compromised amendment, every cut school budget, every bullied kid, every soon to be extinct animal, every consequence of global warming, every damn woe that contributes to our failing society should include an Ice Bucket Challenge. Then maybe we’d all finally give a shit about the world we live in.

Tuesday, August 19. Posted from Wayne Avenue Manor

 

Today, as every day, I’m going to throw “Caution to the Wind”

I wear my heart on my sleeve
And I find it hard to leave and let go
I don’t know when to bite my tongue
The world just kind of floats
And I supposed I’m only young
I’ve got room to grow
I’ll cut to the chase
I’m finding my feet
In this rad race I’m just trying to suceed

I’m gonna throw caution to the wind
I’m gonna send love
I can’t handle my heart, or water
I want to stay afloat
I wanna go the extra mile this time
I’m gonna throw caution to the wind
I’m gonna send love
I’m gonna send love

Getting to know the ropes
Then I’ll hold the job
And even when these high hopes
It’s hard not to stop
And if you go let up here I swear
You won’t have to knock on door or despair
I’ll cut to the chase
I’m finding my feet
In this rad race I’m just trying to suceed

I’m gonna throw caution to the wind
I’m gonna send love
I can’t handle my heart, or water
I want to stay afloat
I wanna go the extra mile this time
I’m gonna throw caution to the wind
I’m gonna send love
I’m gonna send love

Source: Becky Hill, “Caution to the Wind”

“Finalmente, el MediaJor sí tiene quien le escriba” — (Dias 30 y 31)

“Finalmente, el MediaJor sí tiene quien le escriba” — (Dias 30 y 31)

“Muchas veces las crisis se ven como algo muy negativo, y con mucho miedo. Y al final, la palabra crisis es sinónimo de cambio, de transformación, de limpieza, de quitar telarañas, de quitar vicios adquiridos, y reformular, reconstruir.¨ — Pucho, Vetusta Morla

Desde la noche de la ultima parranda en Salamanca, tengo días de estar tragando cada pedazo de comida como si fuera limosna. De Salamanca a Barcelona y el regreso, desde Madrid hasta Nueva York y Los Angeles comía mis sentimientos para aliviar el remordimiento de salirme de España. Pero todo tiene su final, como el tema de este serie de blogs. Por fin ha llegado el momento de escribir el ultimo capitulo de mi aventura en Salamanca – y lo tenia que escribirlo en español.
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Puede ser el “jet lag” esta jugando un poco con mis sentimientos. Dure como 15 minutos en mi escala en JFK cuando la ansiedad me pego bien fuerte. Estuve de nuevo en el pecho mi país maternal y me sentí como el hijo recién llegado de un conflicto. Pero la experiencia de Salamanca y el resto de España no era conflicto. Era un reencuentro con cosas que valoro con tanto de mi ser. Pienso en detalles de la vida real, cosas tan substantivas son como el pan fresco que Manoli nos daba con cada comida.

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Se que tengo que vivir estos próximo días en una manera muy tranquila y no romantizar lo que me ocurrió en España. Pero como puedo regresar a mi vida normal cuando pienso en:

  • Los comentarios de Manoli cuando comimos todos juntos, incluso los de Brianna y Krystal porque fuimos una familia
  • Los dichos de Manoli como: “Lo que escupes al aire te va caer y lo tragaras”
  • Los opiniones de estrellas del cine americana: “Julia Roberts tiene una boca como la Plaza de Toros
  • Sus sopas de alubias, lentejas y su preocupación con la frescura de la fruta que compraba de la vecina.
  • ¡La tortilla española!
  • La voces claras y dulces de sus nietos
  • Escuchando las risas autenticas de Krystal y Brianna cada día sobre nuestras experiencias y vidas
  • La mujer en El Corte Inglés quien sacó su móvil de su sujetador cuando pagaba el saldo.
  • El taxista de Barcelona que soñaba en visitar Los Angeles.
  • Cenando en Chueca y charlando con Montse, una noche tan divertida que perdí el tren.
  • Las mañanas caminando por la Plaza Mayor en Salamanca.
  • Mis cafecitos en la cafetería de la Pontificia.
  • Las manías de mis profesores con “Los chinos” en la Pontificia. (Y no en una manera negativa.)
  • Las diferencias entre el castellano y el español de Latino América. Como dijo Palmira, el futuro de español no esta en España. El desarrollo del idioma será controlado por el oeste, los Latinoamericanos.
  • Los sentidos de humor y respeto que encontré con Palmira, quien realizo un ambiente segura y autentica durante nuestras charlas reveladoras en la clase de conversación.
  • El amor intenso de Dr. María José Boyero cuando hablaba de gramática y literatura que me dio animo para vivir de nuevo.
  • Samuel, la sorpresa y, al final, el regalo de España.

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No es cuestión de visitar un país para conocer su gente. Tienes que vivirlo con ellos. Tienes que vivir sus tradiciones, compartir su comida como su cultura. Así puedes sentir el apego que existe cuando entiendes que eres parte de cosas tan cuotidianas, se sienten como si siempre eran parte de tu vida desde el principio.

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Creo que las consecuencias de este viaje a España tendrán efectos no voy a reconocer inmediatamente. Pueden llegar hasta el fin de esta semana. Puede ser al final del año o nunca. Tengo tantas emociones que quiero expresar en este momento. Siente como una corriente eléctrica sin rumbo. No puedo salir de este país tan bello sin decir algo. Este mes era dedicada al estudio de gramática y literatura. Sería una tontería en no ofrecer un “blog” escrito en español. Yo sé que voy a cometer muchos errores. Solo te pido disculpa. (¡Te juro que mis calificaciones de ser “sobresaliente” no fue broma!) Como mis razones en tener esta aventura tan inolvidable y transformativa, pienso la sinceridad de esta nota será bastante. Como las lunas escritas por el autor mexicano Juan Rulfo, tú eres mi lector y testigo a una vida singular.

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Soy americano, de primera generación. No nací como hispanohablante, me convertí durante mi colegiatura. Sentía una pena tan enorme, a veces soñaba de una vida diferente donde el mundo me llamaba ¨George” y no ¨Jorge.¨ Que falta de respeto porque llevo el nombre de mi padre. Pero el disgusto que sentía por dentro era como un purgatorio. Mi identidad era falsa, manipulada por la cultura dominante de los Estados Unidos. Este rechazo de mis raíces mexicanas no era algo tan raro. La fuerza de la cultura americana contiene elementos que no son basadas en la naturaleza. Sino son algo de ciencia ficción, realizadas en un laboratorio oscuro e insidiosa. Pienso en el doctor Frankenstein, revolcado por una locura en dominar todo el mundo sin pensar en las consecuencias.

Muchos compran lo que está vendiendo los Frankensteins de los medios, la publicidad, el gobierno, todos. No juzgo los que no pueden rechazar la mentira de valorar el sueño americano. No juzgo los que confunden ignorancia con nacionalismo. Solo juzgo los que piensan que no importa mantener dos identidades. Lo que se gana en ser bilingüe, esta mezcla cultural sobresale saber otra idioma. Es mantener lo bueno de ser humano. Es la ingrediente especial que realiza una receta tan poderosa y incomparable a lo resto.

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“Well, we wish we were happier, thinner and fitter,

We wish we weren’t losers and liars and quitters

We want something more not just nasty and bitter

We want something real not just hash tags and Twitter

It’s the meaning of life and it’s streamed live on YouTube

But I bet Gangnam Style will still get more views

We’re scared of drowning, flying and shooters

But we’re all slowly dying in front of fucking computers…”

From “Scare Away the Dark” by Passgener (Michael David Rosenberg)

Como me han sorprendido mis amigos – mis lectores — por su apoyo y sus reacciones a las Confesiones de este mes. Mis observaciones han llevado a algunos comentarios interesantes, añadiendo más leña al fuego de mi deseo de liberarme de las redes sociales. La ironía es que ninguno de estos Confesiones habría alcanzado a nadie si no fuera por Facebook. Un dilema, ¿no?

Al final, no importa cómo se registraron mis pequeños terremotos del alma. Lo que sí sé con certeza es que expresé lo que tenía que expresar sobre este viaje. Para aquellos que leyeron todo y también ofrecieron un comentado con interés, te doy las gracias por la creación de un diálogo. Eso es lo que significa ser una comunidad, compartiendo ideas y teniendo en cuenta el discurso para darles forma a algo profundo y útil.

Esta conexión era real. No creo si no evolucionamos, nos convertiremos extinta porque no somos relevantes si no tenemos “followers” o un mogollón de “likes.” No necesito la validación que proviene de un botón, porque quiero que me lo dices en persona. Ya que son palabras de apoyo o un “cállate la boca”, se trasladaron a sentir algo tan fuerte seria una pena no hablar.

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Esto puede ser una generación que piensa el iCloud esta llena de lo importante, pero tengo noticias para ellos. Imagínense un momento cuando todas las luces se apagan y no se puede subir cada imagen de tu narcisismo. ¿Dejaras de existir? Sócrates tenía muchos seguidores, sin necesidad de Twitter y dio forma al mundo en los siglos venideros. Así lo hizo Jesucristo. Ellos no tienen que cargar sus teorías o ideologías. Ellos sabían cómo hablar con la gente, cara a cara, y la gente escuchaba.

Eso es todo lo que necesitamos hacer. No temer a nuestra propia voz o la reacción. Lo importante es hablar y cuestionar y compartir. Para poner una cara a todo. Es curioso, yo no pensé que tenía que ir al otro lado del Atlántico para conectarme con personas totalmente desconocidas y sentirse parte de la raza humana de nuevo. Pero lo que es una maravilla para sentarme y hablar con la gente que vive con ganas de ser escuchados. Qué sensación es el privilegio de sentarse en un aula y tener conversaciones reales, compartir ideas y experiencias. Y en un idioma diferente, joder!

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Temo que mantener este impulso será duro de nuevo en Los Ángeles, al igual que los muchos planes de dieta que he luchado para mantener durante años. ¿Es justo decir que tengo un cerebro sin grasa? ¿Que si soy capaz de derramé de todo el exceso de peso provocada por años de ser parte de la cultura de consumo de la Nación de comida chatarra y información de relámpago y conjetura?

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Lo que he perdido no tengo ninguna razón para encontrar o querer otra vez. Lo que he ganado es todo lo que necesito en saber como afrontar el futuro. Tengo mi maleta y mi pasaporte listo para ir, por si acaso. Gracias España. No puedo esperar para ver a dónde voy a ir después. Tengo México en mi sangre porque mi familia Mexicana es algo que me da fuerza y valor en este mundo. Pero España siempre estará en mi corazón porque ahora representa esperanza, amor…y vida.

Hasta luego.

Martes, 29 de julio. Escrito en Barcelona, Salamanca, Madrid y South Pasadena. Subido desde Wayne Avenue Manor.

Jorge Carreón Barcelona (Week 4, Days 29 and 30)

Jorge Carreón Barcelona (Week 4, Days 29 and 30)

“Barcelona
It was the first time that we met
Barcelona
How can I forget
The moment that you stepped into the room
You took my breath away

Barcelona
La musica vibro
Barcelona
Yella nos unio
And if God is willing
We will meet again
Someday” — Freddie Mercury, “Barcelona”

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When in doubt, I’ll always go with a showtune to cue exactly what I’m feeling. Today, when I sat in the humid confines of Barcelona’s airport, listening to angry Germany dads tell their families to, ahem, “Hurry the fuck up,” I felt “Dreamgirls.” You know, the big closing number, when Deena Jones and the Dreams sing their final song as a group. It is hard to say goodbye. Now it’s past 2am and I am also sitting here feeling somewhat helpless, wondering if these last entries properly close out this series of “Confessions” from Spain. As I just finished packing, I realize how these last days were like someone pressing the FF button on my remote. It’s all moving so fast and I can’t seem to retain any sense of focus.

I have all sorts of feelings going on right now. I miss Samuel because we didn’t get a chance to really say goodbye. He spent the weekend doing what men should do, and I feel kind of, well, icky. Trust me, I didn’t have some “Green Card” fantasy. I liked how I felt with him when we were together and it would have been awesome to close this out with some “Love, American and Spanish Style” fireworks. Instead, we just “What’s App”-ed it up, texting ourselves into oblivion. Sorry, but emoticons don’t do shit when you’ve spent real time with someone who gets you. I remember why I hate surprises, and Samuel was a major one. I will never think about Spain again without thinking of him.

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Barcelona was meant to be to this great, big bear hug goodbye of a trip. It wasn’t. Instead, it magnified what I can’t stand about the tourist experience. Rushing around, standing in line, sweating and not giving any of this great city its due. Part of the reaction is due to my desire for a more tranquil life, which is what made Salamanca such a revelation. The history, the calm and the absolute beauty of it all made me feel so centered. Yet, the effects of studying and my Madrid life proved a lot more overwhelming than I anticipated. Once I landed, I went to the hotel and…slept early.

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I made a valiant effort to enjoy this excursion. But, Barcelona made me feel anxious and burnt out thanks to the urban pace and the packed crowds found at its tourist centers. This wasn´t what I wanted. Even the Gaudí of it all is designed to be shared with someone, not witnessed alone at breakneck speed. Hell, who chooses to see a Spanish version of ¨Les Miserables¨ on their last night in Barcelona, for fuck´s sake? Or how about the entire bus load of Brits who stepped off the tour to see the Barca football complex? Hahahaha. But I still enjoyed the Catalan flavors to be found in Barcelona, so complex and singular. This is a city to return to with purpose and I will come back to give it the respect and attention it deserved.

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Sigh.

I´ve been doing that all weekend. Sighing at every monument, at every church, with every forkful of paella, at every park and at every person smiling as if this is their best moment ever. All of this feels like a last dance with a lover you know you may never see again, or at least not soon enough. The distance between me and this beautiful country has been widening since late Thursday, right when night turned into early Friday morning. I could see my lover´s back beginning to retreat further into the horizon. Nothing I could say would make him turn around, nor should he. Ours was a love affair to remember, the kind you write about like a Mary Chapin Carpenter song.

“Tonight I’m thinking of someone, from 17 years ago. We road in his daddy’s car down a river road. Come on, come on. It’s getting late now. Come on, come on. Take my hand. Come on, on. You just have to whisper. Come on, come on. I will understand.”

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This adventure was meant to be this way. One big slap of life across the face, a wake-up call to arms and better living ahead. It was so good to feel something so electric, so real. None of this was planned. None of this was made to order. It happened because I woke up and stepped into the world with my eyes, and more importantly, my heart wide open.

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I’ve been taken aback by the support and the reactions to the “Confessions” this month. My observations have prompted some interesting comments, adding fuel to the fire of my wanting to liberate myself from the social networks. The irony is none of these “Confessions” would have reached anyone if it wasn’t for Facebook alone. A quandary, no?

In the end, it doesn’t matter how these little earthquakes of the soul were registered. What I do know for certain is that I expressed what I needed to express about this journey. For those who read and/or commented with interest, I thank you for creating a dialogue. That is what being a community is about, sharing ideas and allowing for discourse to shape them into something profound and useful.

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This connection was real, discounting the reality being forced fed to us that social media is our only real unifying detail. The young have given it credence, that people like me are of an age that is dying out. The spin is if we don’t evolve, we will become extinct because we are not relevant if we are not being “followed” or “liked.” I don’t need the validation that comes from the push of a button because I prefer that you to tell me in person. Whether you offer words of support or a “Shut the fuck up,” at least you were moved to feel something strong enough worth speaking out.

This may be a generation that thinks “I Post, Therefore I Am.” But I have news for them. At one point, when all the lights go out and you can’t post a GD thing, guess who will be able to weather the storm better? Better yet, think of this historical reality, providing a context for a generation that finds looking back has no bearing on the present or future. (Context is on life support!) Socrates had many followers without the need of Twitter and shaped the world for centuries to come. So did Jesus Christ. They didn’t need to upload. They knew how to speak to people, face to face, and people listened.
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That’s all we need to do. Not fear our own voice or the reaction. The important thing is to speak and question and share. To put a face on it all.  Funny, I didn’t think I needed to go across the Atlantic to connect with total strangers and feel part of the human race again. But what a marvel to sit down and speak to people eager to be heard. What a sensation and privilege to sit in a classroom and have real conversations, sharing ideas and experiences. And in a different language, joder!

That’s why it’s hard to say goodbye. I fear keeping this momentum will be hard again in LA, like the many diet plans I’ve struggled to uphold for years. Is it fair to say I have a fat-free brain? That I shed all the excess weight brought on by years of being part of the consumer culture of the Fast Food/Fast Facts Nation?

“It’s a need you never get used to. So fierce and so confused. It’s a loss you never get over the first time you lose.”

What I’ve lost I have no reason to want again. What I’ve gained is all I need to know to face the future. I have my bag and my passport ready to go, just in case. Thank you Spain. Because of you, I can’t wait to see where I’m going to go next.

I love you.

To be continued….

Sunday, July 27.  Written @ Barcelona Airport, posting for the last time from Manoli’s House in Salamanca, Spain.

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