Ode to Solitude

Okay so this happened a month ago and I didn’t have time to put it up, so here’s my journal entry from Wed. March 5th 2014:

... After a big lunch we all decided to go into town to see the football game between Chilé and Germany. Mimi (another volunteer) is German. We went to a restaurant/pub where the game was playing and we drank beer. Germany won 1-0, and Mimi smiled, the only celebration she allowed herself in a bar full of Chileans. Peter and Hugo went to have a smoke while they grumbled about the game and I went outside to join them. A short, thin, 40-something year-old woman with long, black hair and a certain timid, rat-like quality came out of the bar- or she was walking down the street holding a small bag of flour when she stopped by our table hesitantly. There was an energy about her that I was wary of, so I didn’t make eye contact. 

“Holaaaa” said Hugo and the woman smiled and walked over to him and took the cigarette he offered her. After lighting it and inhaling she said,

“Soy Soledad y estoy sola.” (“My name is Solitude and I am alone.”)  I asked her where she was from and she said Pucón, the neighboring city. After a few minutes, Peter and Hugo went into the pub and left me and Soledad alone at the table outside. She sat across from me and held out her hand and flashed a rodent-like smile. I didn’t know if she wanted money or what, but she asked me where I was from and kept her hand out-stretched. So I told her New York and hesitantly gave her my hand. She held it firmly. Peter and Hugo started wheeling Guayo out of the pub towards the car. 

“¿Te vas?” (“You’re leaving?”) asked Soledad. I looked at Hugo and told her yes, it seemed so, and her grip on my hand tightened. “Llevame.” (“Take me.”) she said and looked at me with a lifetime full of lonely, heartbroken eyes. 

“A donde?” (“Where?”) I asked. 

“A... ¿Pucón?” she replied as if she were trying to guess the right answer.

“Perdona, señora, pero no vamos a Pucón. Suerte.” (“Sorry miss, but we aren’t going to Pucón. Good luck.”) I said and gently tried to wrestle my hand away. Peter and Hugo began to tie Guayo's wheelchair to the roof. Soledad let go of my hand and quickly got up to help the guys, giggling as they threw the ropes from one side of the car to the other. When it was done, she smiled and held her hand out to Peter. [Quick note about Peter: He is Hugo’s father and his name is also Hugo, but he is called Peter because when he was younger he wore a medallion and had long hair. People said he looked just like Peter Frampton.] Peter took her hand and she looked at him with those same eyes. 

“¿Te vas?” she asked, and I saw him look down at the hand she held hostage. When he let go there were tears in her eyes. She looked at me again, and as a final attempt she put the bag of flour in my hands without a word and waited, staring at me. Mimi emerged from the bar and looked at me like “who the hell is this chick?” then she saw the flour in my hands. I returned the bag to Soledad and said thank you, we have enough, but it's been a pleasure. Tears ran down her cheeks as we piled into the car. We drove off and Peter and I stared at Solitude as she got smaller and smaller, crying on the curb with a bag of flour as her only company. I tried to shake off the darkness hanging over my chest, so I put on my headphones and put my music on shuffle. Eleanor Rigby came on and I listened to it all the way through and thought about how plagued this woman was by her name. All the lonely people, where do they all come from? All the lonely people, where do they all belong? 

 Soledad carries her name like a cross on her back, walking through life with an aching abandoned heart. Grasping on to any kind of companionship she sees, she watches love slip through her fingers yet again, and leaves heavier each time with a loneliness that I may never be able to comprehend. 

The circle of life

        It’s amazing being self sustaining. It is how we are meant to live. I helped make adobe today. Mixing straw, dirt and water I made rectangular bricks that, once hardened, will be used to make a wall. The sheep and llamas are sheared every year and their wool is used to make yarn. I went to the garden, pulled a carrot from the ground, washed it and ate it and something about that felt so right. It makes me think about all the baby carrots sitting in plastic bags at the grocery store. Where did they come from? Were they shipped by plane or train or truck? Who pulled them from the dirt? How did they end up at this Winn-Dixie?  I know that the food we eat comes from the earth one way or another, yet a simple little fact like that is easy to forget when you’ve spent the past 13 years living in New York City where it’s so easy to consume. There I can go to a deli and pay $12 for a handful of lettuce with nuts, eggs, raisins already chopped up and served in a plastic container that I carelessly throw away in the nearest trash, strutting away in an outfit, shoes and make-up that were made from materials that have some forgotten origin, delivered to me in a bag with a pricetag made of paper from some tree that disappeared and was never mourned. 

         Humankind has done some very destructive things. I took a hike the other day through a national park right outside of Santiago. From the top of the cordillera you could see a thick layer of gray smog just sitting on top of Santiago, an unmoving cloud of pollution. Climate change and global warming is a real threat. There are too many signs and too many warnings for us to say “We had no idea” when shit hits the fan. There are too many good people in this world that sit by and do nothing. But then again, humans are extraordinary. We’ve found ways of cultivating the earth, we live on land but we fly through the skies and we sail on the seas. We have so much intelligence, so much technology and resources and the power of knowledge. So isn’t it so backwards that there are sick, hungry people? How did we become so detached from the earth? How did we get to a point where one could live in over-abundance while others right next door struggle to survive? 

        I have spent my life receiving gifts that I’ve been too blind to appreciate. I’ve never gone hungry, I’ve always had a roof over my head, I’ve had access to education, I’m intelligent, I have big bright future ahead of me, and I have a great family that is ready to pick me up whenever I fall. I am extremely privileged in many ways. I never did anything to deserve it, and I get such a guilty feeling when I look into the hungry eyes of a homeless man sitting on the curb. I think: here I am, ripping my hair out over which college to go to, and this man doesn’t know where he’ll find his next meal. I’m no better than this guy, why do I get to choose my future when he is left with no choice? Maybe life isn’t fair, and we just live. But I was born with some sense of justice, or maybe I learned it, somehow I know everything happens for a reason and what goes around comes around. The universe is showering me with gifts now and that just means I will spend my whole life finding ways of giving back. 

Perspective

I am now in Chilé. I arrived almost a week ago to the farm in Villarrica.
While at the bus terminal, waiting to be picked up by some farmer I’d never met before, I went to buy candy bar and a newspaper to pass the time. When I went to pay, my wallet was no where found. My wallet, containing a travelers check, nearly $300, my lil sister Fredi’s school picture, a map of Central Park, my school ID’s, my bank card, and a picture of me and my family and on New Years: all gone. I began to flip out, I checked all my bags, every zipper, every pocket, six times. I went up to the woman at the information desk, she called the bus driver to check my seat. I searched the floors, the garbage cans, my bags and pockets for the seventeenth time, and that kind woman at the information desk called the driver again. Nada.
It was then that I realized I was totally on my own and I had no one to blame but myself. I felt helpless, distressed, I was close to crying. I had no money, and as far as I was concerned I would have to live in that piss-stained terminal for the rest of my life. So I begged God, if there’s a God, to help me find it, please, I’ll never be so careless again, just please, please bring me my wallet, help me.
“Yadira?” asked a woman, must be in her sixties or seventies. “I’m Illani.”
Illani piled me and my backpacks into her car, and I instantly felt better. Okay, I thought, I’ll have a place to sleep and eat, I’m not alone. [I mean, don't get me wrong, I love being alone, being independent and responsible, it makes me feel powerful. But as soon as something goes wrong, I just want my momma.]
Illani and I spoke in the car. She’s a scientist, attended Berkley majored in botany. She met her husband in Chilé in the 60’s. His name is Eduardo Rojas Ladron de la Guevara, (not related to me, but related to Che Guevara). His nick name is Guayo (backstory: when he was a kid, his friends couldn't pronounce Eduardo, so they called him Guayo.). He was a neuro-physiologist, very well known in the science world.
In the 70's there was a dictatorship. Pinochet came into power in Chilé, people were being killed in the street, or arrested for no reason. Things were going downhill fast, so the lovers fled the country and went to Europe. There were a few scientists in Germany that desperately wanted Eduardo to work with them. They asked him to come and they offered Illani a job too. By then Eduardo had trained Illani in electro-physiology. The couple became internationally recognized.
She ended up researching diabetes, and absolutely loved it, stayed in the lab for days without looking at the clock. They were entirely engrossed in experiments and data, answering one big question that burst open a spring of even bigger questions, and in that way they spent their time chasing discovery with butterfly net and a pair of safety glasses.
"Yes, we've had a wonderful life. He was a brilliant guy."
“Was?” I asked.
“Well, he had an accident a few years ago.”
He didn’t have an accident really, someone else did. Ten years ago he fell asleep on a plane.  Maybe the plane jerked, or maybe she didn’t see him, maybe she was new at the job, or maybe she was distracted and tired herself. Whatever the case, the stewardess ran her drink cart into Guayo's head by mistake. It broke part of his skull right above his left eye, got infected, and soon infected the left lobe of his brain, destroying his ability to articulate his thoughts or initiate any action.
Sometimes we forget how mortal we are. We keep looking for ways to live forever and it's so insane that someone so brilliant ended up that way. Someone that dedicated his life to science, to discovery, to medicine had his whole life changed. Just because a stewardess had butter fingers, just because he was sleepy, because he was sitting in the aisle seat and not the window seat.
Guayo’s now in a wheelchair, and he can’t walk or speak. He has to be fed, bathed, and changed daily.
Still Illani told me that she was lucky. Lucky because he laughs, lucky because he always finds something to be happy about.
After that I felt ashamed that I asked God to help me find my wallet.

A rant

Racism is such an ugly thing. It makes you hate people you don’t even know. It closes doors, it hurts people. It’s so widespread. It’s a disease that so many are afflicted with and they have no idea. Sometimes it seems innocent, like it’s just ignorance; there is no harm in it, but where do you draw the line? 

It's difficult to admit, but if I’m going to be honest, I see it in myself. I put people in boxes, I categorize them and label them without realizing it. It is only when they surprise me, when they behave in a way that doesn’t fit the mold I put them in, that I realize that I caged them in the first place.

I saw something small today. In a living room, about to head out to a soccer game, a boy told his girlfriend to change from shorts into long pants. When she asked why he said, “En la cancha hay muchos negros, no quiero que te miran” (“The field is filled with blacks, I don’t want them looking at you.”)

She shrugged passively, and went to go change.

I wasn’t sure I heard him right. “Y por que va a cambiar? (“Why’s she changing?”)

“Vamos a la cancha ¿entiendes? Hay muchos negros, miran y llaman a las chicas.” 

(“We’re going to the field, understand? The blacks come to watch, they stare and holler at the girls.”)

“Porque son negros? (“Because they’re black?”)

“No, porque son desagradables.” (“No, because they’re disagreeable.”) He said, like the last word tasted bad.

I looked around the room, and his friends nodded, “Sí, es verdad.” (“It’s true,”) one said, and picked up their conversation about futbol.

It was a moment, and it flew by so quickly. I was too baffled to grab on to those words and shove it in their faces to show them how mistaken they were. I watched the girl come back in long green pants, and there was just too many things wrong with the past five minutes for me to process. So I left and secluded myself to my room and I paced and paced. I sat on my bed and I couldn’t help but feel hurt and angry. 

I am many things. I am a woman, I am Latin-American, I am North American, I am a New Yorker,  I am Caribbean, I am a beautiful mixture of blood lines and skin tones, and I am strongly opposed to asparagus and racism. 

My abuelo is Caribbean, born in Trinidad. He has very dark skin, and so does my mother. 

My mother is one of the smartest, most profound women I know, due in part, of course, to her father’s intelligence and insight.

My boyfriend’s mother is from Jamaica. His name is Evan and he also has dark skin.

Evan is the most honest person I know, hands down. He’s humble and true to his word, and that’s really hard to find.

¿Desagradable? Disagreeable, unpleasant, distasteful, obnoxious, unkind: these are words that do not come to mind when I think of my mother, my grandfather or my boyfriend. 

If that boy today saw my boyfriend walking down the street, would he would put him in the “disagreeable" box?

I suppose that’s why it hurt. My grandfather, my mother, my boyfriend, these are all people I love, people I cherish and honor, people I would do anything for. The fact that some stranger might look at my mother, a woman I look up to and respect, the woman who raised me to be a strong and thoughtful human being, and find her "disagreeable" just by casting an eye on her beautiful brown skin, makes me angry. It’s so unjust and despicable it makes me furious and I wish I could brush it off, I wish I could call him an ignorant bag of shit and forget about it. But I can't. It’s too easy to do that. By brushing him off, would I not be subjecting him to that same judgement to which I am so violently opposed? What he said was disagreeable and obnoxious to say the least, but still, how can I ignore him when he is breathing and laughing, moving and speaking, just like me? I can’t say I’m better than him, I’m not better than anyone, we are all the same. We all sleep and cry, we eat and shit, we are all living, we are experiencing our lives at the same time. How can I dismiss him if he is a brother of mine?

But what do I do? This disease is raging throughout the world and poisoning the way we think, the way I think. What's a little Yadi to do?

Blog about it, I guess.

The Magnificent Tour [Guide]

        Another hot day in Buenos Aires. I stare the buildings, the Parisian architecture standing proudly, and I marvel at the creamy columns of marble and stone and wonder how they don't melt in the heat. 
        The humidity has puffed my hair into something that resembles a rat's nest, despite all my efforts to tame it. Fed up, I tie it in a pile on top of my head to keep my neck cool. 
        I enter El Teatro Colón, one of the oldest theaters in Buenos Aires. Stained glass ceilings, Grecian statues, old costumes displayed on mannequins, this place is gorgeous. 
        The guide is not any older than 24, thin as a rail, flat, blond hair that hangs limply just past her shoulders and glasses that make her eyes look enormous. I can tell by the way her big eyes shine when she talks about the statue of Aphrodite and Cupid, and the way she floats up the marble steps on her tiptoes, that she loves her job. I like that.
        "Are you ready to be transported to another dimension?" the guide asks in Spanish,  a mysterious little smile on her face, like she's about to tell us a secret.
        We enter the theatre. I see a sea of empty seats, a stage so wide I wondered how it was possible that a curtain could cover it. I look up. The ceiling is so high that Goliath would feel like a dwarf, and I realize I'm not breathing. 
        The guide asks us to sit down. Dazed, I find my way to a velvet seat in the back of the crowd and I let my eyes wander back to the ceiling. A circular mural with different scenes painted upon it twinkles at me. I close my eyes fill my lungs with air, I can almost smell the sawdust, hear the chorus of angels singing, the orchestra rehearsing one hundred years ago. Through my daydream, I hear the guide explaining the purpose of the vents under the seats.
         "Not only does it serve as a form air circulation, before we had air conditioners of course. Does anyone know what else the vents do?" Dramatic pause. "Well, the space beneath you is hollow, like a guitar, which naturally amplifies the sound, along with the oval shape of the theatre." 
        Brightly lit ballerinas are are dancing across my mind to a sonorous, invisible orchestra, with angels and snow and nymphs and-
        "SO! Whoooo is going to try out the acoustics of this magnificent theatre?" asked our little sprite of a guide, stretching out an elegant, thin arm, as if to display the theatre's magnificence.
        Ohmygod, me. Me. 
        Everyone turns their head and looks at... me? I realize then that my hand is flailing childishly in the air and I'm practically shouting "ME. Me! I want to sing! Me!"
        Everyone looks at me expectantly. I decide to stand before fear has time to rope me to the seat, and I sprint to the stage. I spin around and say in perfect Spanish: "I will sing you a song in English."
        Silence. The first song that comes to mind is "I Heard Love is Blind" by Amy Winehouse, I know the words like the back of my hand, so I begin. 
        I have everyone's attention. That's really awesome. I feel the adrenalin in my fingers and toes, and there's blood pulsing through all of me, I'm alive. As long as I keep singing, fear can't catch me, not today. I feel bold. I'm in a beautiful theatre and I'm singing a song I love.  I like being bold, I should be bold more often. If Amy's watching from that painted mural, I bet she's proud of my boldness.
       I finish the song. Silence. People start clapping and about 10 out of the 30 people on the tour stand up from their seats, and I think "Damn, the sound really is amazing in here! I hear clapping in the balconies!" and when I look up there's 20 people in the balcony to my right on a separate tour, and they're applauding me! I'm gassed, I feel like a hot air balloon, I'm smiling and my cheeks are hot and I jump down from the stage and bow awkwardly.
       The tour ends. The lovers that asked me to take their picture in front of Aphrodite come and shake my hand. This smile is beginning to make my face hurt. 
       I begin to exit on my cloud of happiness. The guide stops me at the door. 
       "Keep singing," she says earnestly, and I just want to smother her cute nerdy little face in kisses.
        Instead, I say: "I will. Thank you for the magnificent tour."