10 Year Cycles

Nostalgia has always been a haunting presence in my life. Too often let my mind wander into the what ifs and I hone in on key moments, key people. At age 41 you’d think I get over this nasty little habit, stop feeding the bad spirits so that they recognize they can’t have a home in me but then again at age 41 you see the cycles so much more clearly.

Tragedies, history, trauma – I have come to believe are all cyclical and I wish that all the therapy and self care in the world would wipe that truth away – allow for clean endings and even neater beginnings pero la vida no es asi.

10 years ago I was writing about politics from a somewhat safe distance. My (measly) paycheck depended on it but in a different way than now. I could write about who was running for president, family separations at the borders and within, the politicians on both sides of the aisle talking out of both sides of their mouths and the nonprofits that propped them and their policies up – the same nonprofits that were once in lust with the likes of media makers (ahem bloggers, err journalists) like me with little repercussion except for counter posts, canceled contracts, blocked access to alleged insider information.

10 years ago I was equally as careless (or carefree?) about writing about my romances, my motherhood, my lack, my want, my desires. It was the the death knell for relationships but also the opening of other realizations about what (for better or for worse) I was capable of.

10 years later I have become capable of things I only dreamed of – I fantasized about moving west with/for a chain of lovers and here I am, in a house in Los Angeles . 10 years ago, the same non-profits ,whose practices I disparaged , are now part of my day to day.  10 years ago I imagined what it would be like to not fund raise (now crowdfund) for basic needs. I don’t have to imagine but there are still basic needs unmet.

I still haven’t written that damn book(s) -although I’m working on it. I still haven’t finished school – although I’m working on it. I still haven’t found that safety that romantic/sexual love was supposed to bring. That I think I’ve given up on. I’ve provided a decent life for my daughters but have also put them at great risk and now I seek a different type of safety. A different kind of security that can only come through deep heartache and learning from that heartache.

I’ve always given few fucks about certain things like rules, expectations but now from a place of precarious comfort and privilege I give even less fucks. I still have deep desires, deep hopes, and deep expectations of what I am capable of. I have proven to myself that jumping in the pool ( to steal a baby daddy’s quote) , holding my breath and hoping I will surface yields some progress but also costs so so much.

So 10 years later- the first day of a new month, when the veil between this world and others is transparent I don’t just ask the spirits, what they would do, but I ask my past self. And the answer is clear – as Audre Lorde said – it is better to speak. We were never meant to survive and yet here we still are. IMG_20181027_170314715_HDR

Compassion & Accountability

The last couple of days have felt overwhelming.

 

If I were being honest I would actually frame the mix of sadness, shame, anger, frustration and stuckness within the timeline of when #metoo ceased to feel kind of far away and stood screaming at me in my living room through the body of my adult daughter.

 

If I were being really real I would move the timeline back to an ex who was so angry at me that what should have been a simple return of a Yankees cap and some other things left in my bedroom at my mother’s apartment turned into something that I only called rape inside my head.

 

But I don’t know if I have the capacity to be that honest or real right now. So I’ll just focus on the last couple of days.

 

I don’t know Junot Diaz personally. We have never hung out except for that one time in the mid 1990s when I danced with him at a fundraiser for Puerto Rican political prisoners at Clemente Soto Velez and he was not (contrary to his recollection) part of the Justice Committee of the National Congress for Puerto Rican Rights. But as his star rose and as I hung on the periphery of the Latino lit scene and the not so periphery of the rising (and then falling) Latino blogosphere, I heard a lot of/about him besides all of his writing credits and accolades.

 

I heard about infidelities that on the real,  I shrugged off, based on my experience with Latino men who couldn’t keep it in their pants or talk/be outside monogamy starting with my father who left my mom and married and had kids with la otra to the times I was hurt by la otra, especially when I was la otra.

 

Then I heard other things that made me more uncomfortable and downright angry as he was getting more and more praise for being a brilliant star as a Latino writer and a Latino man. He was being so real about how awkward he was, about how he was a perro, and he was building a reputation as someone who wanted to share his experience of moving through the literary world as a person of color through mentorship. I had heard about him taking advantage of women who would go to him for mentorship, this included the kind of creepy piropo that made people uncomfortable and more. I also heard from other Latino men within the Latino lit scene that they too knew of this.

 

These weren’t my stories. These weren’t my experiences to share. So instead, using the small but kind of critical platform and reputation I had as a media maker (blogger/writer/social media influencer/whatever the fuck you want to call me) to warn people to pull back all the praise a little and be critical. I did this on social media, on blogs, in comments and in person.

 

Para variar (sarcasm), I was called a hater, una cangreja guilty of quitate tu pa ponerme yo syndrome, and jealous.

Cool.

 

Except not.

 

Over the last few days I have received sincere communications from people I respect (and love) apologizing for defending him so hard. And right before that messages from fellow Latina writers/media makers/journalists sharing their reaction to Diaz’s sharing his own sexual abuse story.

 

My response/sense/feeling is the same. It’s a question and it’s something I’ve been grappling with actively for almost a year to answer : how do we hold compassion for those men (especially Latino men) who were harmed as children while at the same time holding them accountable and responsible for the harm they have caused women (especially women of color)? How do we move through and eliminate a culture of silence that felt like it was too hard to have a  talented dique golden (male) child and be critical to how they behaved towards others who were especially vulnerable because they too wanted to be seen as writers of color? How do we challenge what is essentially a white supremacist literary scene that only allows for one poc writer to take the spotlight and others hold them up at any cost, at any sacrifice.

 

Accountability is beyond acknowledgement. Junot as more people are coming forward has publicly stated that he accepts responsibility.

 

Cool.

 

Except that’s not enough.

 

Where is the atonement and repair work that he will do with himself and the communities he is a part of?Acknowledgement is not an apology. It is not a commitment to do that hard work of healing trauma that caused other trauma.

 

How many of us are part of other communities (ie the non-profit world, the academic world, media, organizing ) where there are charismatic men of color who are known to some as abusers and because of a real fear of being locked out/called out we don’t say anything and even worse, award them (I can think of some off the top of my head which means that I too am complicit).

 

How do hold compassion for those that have caused harm while making sure there is accountability when they call harm to others/ourselves? Is this even possible?