gbynvr

[gbynvr]

41.

In my last post I discussed all this immigration stuff in my life, and I’m not apologizing for it by any means, but I do want to emphasize I am so incredibly aware of the fact that my life isn’t sad and I am not some sort of victim. Despite any struggle I’ve seen unfold for me, I hold on tight to the knowledge that my life is full of so many more blessings than most of the human population can even hope for on this Earth, and I need to make sure that is said, because I have people that have sacrificed everything for my life to be the life that it is. And I do not take any thread of it for granted. I am often baffled with why I have it so good and others have it so bad. I won’t ever know why I have been a receiver of so much generosity and love and self sacrifice, but I do know how much I value it.   

[gbynvr]

40.

I have the beautiful honor of having a pen pal.

He lives over 2,000 miles away, but every time I receive a letter from him it feels like he’s whispering all the words right into my ear.

There is something so precious about that… About how words on paper in the handwriting of a friend can be etched onto your heart as you read them silently to yourself. There’s something so personal about it.

Recently I opened a letter from him that ended with “Gaby, I want to hear more about DACA from you, if you want to, because I just don’t understand how this could be something that hundreds of thousands of people are having adversity against with this government, there is no compassion… I’d love to hear your story on life when you moved away from Peru until now that you’re working and pioneering, whenever you have time to spare a few sentences.”

Well Haz, I have some time and I’d love to spare more than a few sentences, if you’ll have them. (as I mentioned to you privately I will be touching on everything else in your letter via our normal postal method of communication, and I hope you don’t mind I’m answering this part of your letter on my blog, but it’s been a while since I’ve blogged something other than a poem, and I’m itching to write about this, so it seemed appropriate).

When I read that part of the letter, my heart throbbed, because I surprisingly don’t get asked about this… not in the way I feel I want to be asked about it, and not from people that really care. No one looks at me and asks “hey, how has your tumultuous cultural and illegal upbringing been for you, how has immigration shaped your life, how are you dealing with this piece of crap DACA thing?”

And I don’t want that to discredit the people that have tried to provide love and compassion to me in regards to my legal situation, but honestly I’ve never felt like my american friends get it, or care, or really want to understand, and that makes it easier to bury any emotional complication regarding this issue deep inside me. Which is sometimes quite toxic.

With the exception of Shannon, who has legitimately wept with me and taken time to sympathize with all my internal confusion on being an immigrant, many of my white friends don’t have time to listen to my insecurities, and even if they did, I can see in their eyes they don’t care. And that’s okay, because a lot of it I can’t explain to myself. So much of me is carved from my perception of the world, and that vision can sometimes be cynical, it can be sad, and it can be ungrateful, and I know my white friends can’t and shouldn’t have to hear about that.

But with Hazael, I know he asks because he cares. I know that what I say is of importance to him, and I have no doubt every word will be valued. So I’m dedicating this post to all my troubling insecurities and forgotten fears, many of which are still present but ignored. I’m not going to spare my feelings, and I will not apologize for blaming certain experiences in my life for my insecure feelings. I want to be honest so I can understand more about myself.

Here goes.

Recently I posted a poem here titled “CITIZEN”. I wrote this after my USCIS biometrics appointment, if you don’t know what that is, look it up… This poem did a decent job of describing the bits of me that feel afraid or broken, or maybe angry at my live’s situations. I suggest you read it before reading the rest of this. 

Though the appointment wasn’t traumatic in any way, it still encouraged me to write. 

It went as well as it could’ve gone, I hate those things even if at the end of it I was handed a cotton candy bag, I hate anything with a legal authority.

You can’t expect much from places like that anyway, run by big white men who are more privileged than you and look down on you. You can’t expect dignity to be shown to you in an place where their job is to bring up all the things that make you legally undignified… That being said it went fine. In and out, picture, fingerprints, twenty minutes, done.

To them, it’s another sad DACA kid going through the legal motions, to me I’m trying to do everything right… to me every step is thought out, every smile, every “thank you, have a nice day” every polite gesture. To me, I’m always making up for the fact that I’m illegal, at least in official situations like a biometrics appointment. I’m always the best I can be because I have to prove that I’m worth taking a chance on. I’m worth your empathy, I’m worth your kindness… whilst in the back of my mind wondering, “Am I?”

And it’s been this way for as long as I can remember. That feeling of climbing a rope that has no end. That hopeless idea of what normalcy is behind my fake life built on pretend normalcies of things that could at any moment end. It’s that undebatable knowledge that no matter what I want to tell myself, or others for that matter, I do not belong here.

And that’s shaped me. Inevitably, it’s that lingering thought, like a ringing in the back of my head that constantly makes me feel inferior, that as a child made me feel less than, underprivileged, unable to dream… And those feelings were quickly followed by deeper darker feelings of self uncertainty, or worthlessness,  or even of ugliness. One could ask themselves how a legal status could make me feel ugly, but it’s not that complicated of a connection. This is because inferiority has given me a deep feeling of insecurity, which makes for a young girl like me, and much younger girl growing up, much too keen on noticing her flaws, oh so many flaws… so many of those flaws going back to my ethnicity, the whole origin of me.

Here are some moments of feeling internal and thus external ugliness:

5th grade: Substitute teacher asks me if I’m hispanic because of my name and I’m assuming also my looks, I say yes, and in front of the entire class she asks “are you a citizen?” dumbfounded and terrified I reply “yes” my face beaming with redness my stomach dropping, my eyes burn, and I’m racing through my mind wondering if lying was wrong, if my family will get in more trouble now that I’ve lied about our status, should I just have said no? But then she could have made a call.

7th grade: Social Studies class, we were learning about “illegal aliens” and the process in which people come into the country, along with various aspects of visas and passports. Mrs. Violet asks me to share how my family came to have citizenship since I came to the states after I was already born in Peru. Deep breath, don’t stutter, poised tone. I repeated the story I had told myself would be my cover story anytime this was brought up, the one I wish was really mine to tell. “My father was petitioned for citizenship by his sister whose been here for a long time, after many years he was accepted and therefore him and my mom could have residency and then citizenship, with them being citizens, their kids, being my siblings and I are almost automatically citizens, the process isn’t as difficult at that point”. It wasn’t a complete lie, my dad had been petitioned but it was after all of us were already here, and the process would take 10 years to work, if at all… and it didn’t, but we’ll get into that.

Sophomore year: French class, Mrs. Milone is talking about immigrants as she commonly does because she is a feisty French woman who always wants to know opinions and touches controversial subjects almost as often as she wears stripes, and I love her for this. But this time was sad. Milone is discussing how she thinks more immigrants should come, or how at least the ones here should be treated better. My close friend Elizabeth speaks up, “they just come here without any invitation and stay as long as they want and they are legally not supposed to be here why would we do anything for them or their kids, I just don’t get why they stay here when they can go back.” I remember feeling so betrayed so disgusted with her, but then immediately being so disgusted with myself. I remember feeling guilty, because I felt I had deceived someone into being my friend, who maybe wouldn’t want to be if they knew my entire story. How many other people feel this way? Elizabeth was an open minded individual, but this comment seemed so distinct to her normally understanding and thoughtful approaches on subjects. Maybe every open minded person I’d met feels like this, maybe I’m balancing on a thin line of acceptance that could end any moment with my truth. Maybe it’s not maybe, maybe it just is.

These are only 3 of the many, many times I had to hide my uncomfortable soul from crumbling in front of people when I felt victimized by a stereotype or a slang or anything derogatory about people like me.

Every immigrant’s story is different, each one has it’s sadness but there’s always one that’s worse, someone who has had it harder and someone who has had it better. It’s not hard to compare or empathize, but sometimes I feel guilty for feeling privileged over those who have less opportunities than me, and sometimes I feel envious of those with more. But that’s the complexity behind being reminded of where your privilege lands on this Earth. and growing up I was reminded of it constantly… Maybe it would have helped to grow up in another part of America, with less white beauty, or more poverty, or just more people like me… but I didn’t, I grew up in a really beautiful part of this country surrounded by people who had very different lives from mine. This confused my view of life… because I knew the majority of people around me couldn’t understand much about my background. So yes, every immigrant’s story varies, mine’s not the worst, and it’s not the best, but it’s mine, and here it is.

I was six years old when we moved to America. I can still feel the butterflies. I used to think America was in the clouds, that we had to take a plane up there, a place so high up it was the closest you could get to heaven. At the time, my idea of America was what every child in a third world country’s idea of America was… I used to think only the greats were there.

So let’s go back 14 years (14 freakin years), let’s go back to playing under the dining room table with plastic bags, let’s go back to lucuma ice cream on Saturday mornings with my mom singing the kitchen. Let’s go back to silly voices and hide and seek, let’s go back to anticuchos with my grandparents, and songs with Mamachita about Ayacucho, let’s go back to laughing with my cousins, and all our bubblegum games, let’s go back to freedom, to trips to Chimbote, and hot chicken soup on a summer day, to chicha morada at every gathering, let’s go back to my grandma scratching my back and to translated cartoons, and my God, let’s go back to that one trip to the zoo.

But let’s also go back to cat calls on the way home from school at 4 years old, let’s go back to robbery, let’s go back to never going outside, let’s go back to poor, let’s go back to Dad crying, let’s go back to worrying if he’ll come home safe that night, let’s go back to not making ends meet, let’s go back to no future, let’s go back to mom and dad taking turns leaving for six months to make some cash to send back home, let’s go back to bargaining education with the money to survive.

… I remember being six and packing all my favorite things into a small barbie suitcase that still smelled new. It was a gift from my aunt, one of the only new things I had and I cherished it, inside I put a journal with all my little thoughts, I threw in my favorite pencils, my doll, my stickers I got for Christmas the year before, and other random things that I valued so much at the time. I remember taking in a deep breath smelling that delicious new plastic smell tainted with a hint of my house, and closing it up. “For safe keeping” I thought to myself. I didn’t want anything to happen to my precious belongings while I was away, but “I’ll be back soon” I kept telling myself. The barbie suitcase was left with our other special belongings in the back room at the end of the hall way in our childhood home. The home my parents built. The home that was my entire world back then… After locking the room I waved goodbye to Martin, my imaginary friend, and we were off.

My parents told me we were going to America to visit my uncle in Florida, “that’s where Disney is!” they said. So if anyone in the airport asked, that’s what we were supposed to say, we were simply going on vacation, therefore we only brought a few belongings…our suitcases were so small, because we were pretending to only be going for a short time. Being that little I didn’t know that. I really thought we were going to Disney, I really thought we’d go back home soon. I remember how long that feeling stayed. Even a couple years later my heartache for Peru was so strong…

I remember feeling nervous, but excited. I was practicing my “hello” which was bathed in a thick accent. However, my excitement turned into fear pretty quickly after entering the US, with not being able to understand anyone, and instantly missing my Grandma, I just remember feeling confused. I held onto my Dad’s leg, I remember the way his jeans smelled, I remember because they smell like that now, and no matter what, that smell can get me through anything.

I remember bits of our short time in Florida.. mostly I can visualize my Uncle’s home. It was huge… I found out later he wasn’t really our uncle, he was a far off relative of my Dad’s who let us stay with his family for 4 nights before we went to New York. It was a good thing this was the first place we stayed in, it kept the illusion of America alive… My uncle had a son, a little younger than Olga who spoke a butchered Spanish, I remember asking him if he spoke English and him giving me a weird look and replying with an “of course” followed by my sisters sushing me for asking such a stupid question. But in my innocence I was stunned that he was so American, I looked at all his toys and his room, so much more luxurious than anything I’d ever seen, and he spoke English! If this was America, I was ready for it.

But I found out later that week, America wasn’t all my Uncle’s big beautiful house in Florida, there was so much to learn about this new place. And it all came quite shockingly when we flew to my aunt in NY. It was February, it was cold, and snowy, and I remember wondering why it was so dirty. Why wasn’t it the way it was in The Grinch where everything was lit up and beautiful? Why were the streets dark and sad, why was my Aunt’s apartment so small? I remember sleeping on her couch, Rodrigo by my feet, I realized Disney was out of the question and I remember feeling lost. I can recall beginning to wonder how long it would be until we went back home.

Not too long after that we were living in a basement apartment, and I was in school. There were so many kids who spoke Spanish that my classes were actually in Spanish, it didn’t feel too crazy to be there anymore. I felt like i could fit in. We had our family with us, my aunts and uncles lived in New York, sometimes things felt like being back in Peru.

Shortly into our time living in the first basement apartment, the place started flooding, I remember my mom fell on the cold wet floor before work one day, she was working in a factory at the time and had an evening job too, my dad had a couple jobs as well, she was in so much pain I felt so bad she had to work in that condition.

We moved out of that apartment into a different basement place. My parents had managed to save up a little bit of money at the time. It wasn’t much, maybe a couple thousand dollars, but it was all we had ,and it was the first building block of our lives here. One terrible day someone came in through the window when no one was home and took the money from under the mattress leaving just a couple hundred dollars in its place, how very thoughtful of them…

The way my mother sobbed was heart wrenching. “We have nothing” she kept saying. They were so heart broken, my dad and her, so defeated. They had worked so tirelessly those first few months in America. I knew they missed home, they missed their language, their food, their comfort, and their freedom… Everything was already so new, this was something they were not prepared to handle. They had done everything they could to ensure we would have food, shelter, clothes, and on top of this, they had to start saving for our future, because that’s why we were here, for our future. Mom and Dad had given up on a comfortable life for the two of them, they were going to work until their bones shattered if it meant giving us a chance. And then, to feel like you’re getting somewhere… like you’re finally back on your feet and then be violated that way, they were just so destroyed.

This also made them worry for us, here we are living in a place with less safety than we had in Peru. How could it be worse than what we left behind?

Unsurprisingly, not too long after that incident we moved to Rhode Island. My mom and Dad had a beautiful way of doing that, of problem solving, and putting us first. We would not continue living in a place where we were going to be in danger, where people could brake into where we slept at night, they wanted more for us. So we packed our things and left.

We lived with my aunt Lucia for a few months before finding a place of our own. we all started new school again… this time the kids were all white, everyone spoke English and the only person I could talk to was my ESL teacher. I used to have such bad anxiety going to school I remember my dad dropping me off in the morning and I hated letting go of him. Out of the 6 hours in the school day I would silently sob for at least 3. First grade, no-english-gaby was a rough time.

Mom and Dad started working at Burger King and Wendy’s, until the manager at Burger King realized their Social Security cards weren’t going through and he had to fire them. Again they were so broken. But they got back up. Mom picked up a cleaning job at a laundry mat in the evenings, and a hotel job on the weekends. My dad started to work at Ruby Tuesday’s. They both still had Wendy’s on top of this. Thinking back now, there were times they each had three or four jobs.

In those jobs they weren’t always treated decently. You have to understand, part of the stigma that comes with being an immigrant is the jobs they have. my parents worked more diligently and selflessly for us than anyone I’ve ever known… despite grueling shifts, and co workers making their lives difficult, they always kept their head up. But people don’t see that when they see them, They just see an ignorant Spanish worker. 

One day I’ll never forget was the day my Dad quit Ruby Tuesday’s. He had been sitting on the couch the week before looking so upset. I cuddled up next to him to see what was wrong. He told me they had been purposefully leaving extra work for him and laughing at him when he did it. One of the workers had dropped something on the floor next to him so they could all watch him pick it up and laugh. He began to cry when he told me this. It was the 3rd time in my life I had seen him cry. The first was when he quit smoking, the second was when we got robbed and he cried with mom, and the third was this. I was so angry, and so hurt, I wanted to take away all his embarrassment and pain, I wanted to fight anyone who made him feel like this. My father is the smartest person I know, he is a genius. He is an artist. He is a chef, He can tailor a suit like no one else, he can do anything… And no one else saw this. I’m not one for appearances, but my father is the greatest human on this earth, he’s also incredibly humble. So you can understand my heartbreak when I hear about a bunch of idiots making his life miserable because they think he’s just another stupid immigrant who won’t fight back. When people see immigrants working low paying jobs, they think these people are the worst of the worst, and they are therefore treated that way… But these people are my father and mother. These people are the greatest people I’ve met. They are better than me, better than them, better than anyone who has had life handed to them on a silver platter. They are smart, hard working, loving, passionate, and whole. And they are also the ones who get laughed at. And that is a terribly unfair fact.

…. When we first moved to RI we didn’t see them together often but we always had one parent around, they made sure we weren’t alone too often. Still, we were alone a lot. The apartment we lived in at this time was a summer home that we were renting out in the winter so the rent would be cheaper. It was beautiful and big, and actually a real home. I remember running through all the rooms so shocked we were really going to live in a place like this. It seemed too good to be true… and it kinda was. We had to sleep in the same room, sometimes all sharing a bed by pushing them together, I remember putting my cold feet between my Dad’s warm legs at night. We couldn’t afford to heat the entire house, so we’d have a tiny heater in the back room and all cuddle up. I know this sounds weirdly sad, but it’s not… I still dream of those night together. Sometimes, poverty can be so uniting.

I remember the first Christmas in that house. We all got gifts. Real gifts. I couldn’t believe it. we sat with crossed legs on the floor while Mom and Dad passed around our presents my Dad filming everything on his old Camera he’d been using with us since I was 3. They were so proud, they were so happy to be able to give us something. I wish I could go back and tell them not to worry about it, that we were happy with everything else they had done for us, I wish I could tell them at that time just how proud they make me feel everyday. I’d also probably tell them to stop with Christmas already, but that’s another story, I’ll save our “learning the truth” story for another post because it’s an entirely different tale.

Going back to that night, I can recall that some of the gifts were obviously donated, but some stuff was new, I found out later in life that it was because my parents used to go to a charity that gave toys for families with lots of kids and little money, that charity saved a lot of Christmases for us… we only got personalized gifts on our birthdays. I remember how excited I was when I turned 7 in that house and my parents got me a baby blue barbie scooter and buggie. I was over the moon with excitement.

Another weird memory of that birthday was my bratty American cousin, (Lucia’s nephew) asking about my gifts later that week and when I showed him my new toys with pride and a big grin, he laughed and said “that’s it?”, I was so embarrassed. Which is stupid, looking back now, I shouldn’t have been embarrassed, he was the one being rude, not me… and besides compared to the 7 year olds in Peru celebrating their birthdays I was living it up with my new toys.

… After the winter season ended, we had to move out of that cozy real home and into another apartment, this time above another hispanic family in a small white house. My siblings and I all shared a room, and  my parents makeshifted their room into a living room/bedroom/playroom. Life was comfortable in this time, until our downstairs neighbors moved out and were replaced with an American couple. I won’t get into it too much, but these people were horrible. They would bang the ceiling when we walked around, give us the finger when we saw them, just basically constantly harass us… But we were illegal and a bit ignorant so we never said anything, because we were afraid no one would be on our side.

One day, after a weekend in which the boyfriend living downstairs had been particularly rude, I was looking a bit glum in class. As a 7 year old I was sad that my family had to go through this and it was showing in my general attitude. The girlfriend was a TA in my school and I guess noticed me looking down, she took this as initiative to ask me about my family. She wanted to know if anyone in my family was dangerous, I mentioned I had an Uncle who was a drug addict and self harmed a lot, he was scary I told her, but he lived in Peru so I wasn’t worried. She listened and took this information to her boyfriend, who wanted us out from the moment he came across us. So they called DCYF. I remember a man came to our apartment and asked to meet everyone, he asked us about anyone cutting themselves here and inspected all of our arms, then he asked to meet the men in the house… at the time my older cousin and his girlfriend were living with us, work was slow in NY so we had taken them in for some time. The DCYF guy didn’t find anything, and eventually that little issue faded away but it was so scary and I felt so guilty, I thought because of me we could have gotten deported, or my cousin could have gotten deported. I felt like I had done something horribly wrong. And that seemed to be a running theme in my life… no matter how minuscule of an act there was always a thought in the back of my head that it could lead to us getting deported.

After the DCYF incident the harassment didn’t stop. The boyfriend came to our door once and said he had bought out the house and we had to leave, that there was no point in contacting the owners, he was the owner now. We obviously didn’t believe it, but we were scared… Another time he knocked when my siblings and I were home alone… He was screaming at Olga and probably drunk, I remember he called her a bitch, and she began to cry… she was only 13. I remember she took it upon herself to call 911, and they told her to hold the phone behind her back while he yelled so they could listen. Shortly after that, the cops came and defended us, scolding him for behaving so horribly to children. This was my first good interaction with a legal authority figure, and I remember feeling comforted, but it didn’t take away my fear of them.

Following this and a few more incidents we moved out. We moved across the street into an apartment complex called Oxbow Farms, (kind of a weird name since there was nothing farmlike about the place) Anyway, we ended up living there until I was 17. By that time Mom and Dad had saved up enough money to buy a house. They had worked minimum wage jobs for 11 years at this point and had managed to save up a tiny fortune… enough to by a home in cash. I’m telling you, they’re superhuman.

The home we bought was disgusting. It had potential but it was all trashed, it took literally days to get the crap out and my Dad (the genius) rebuilt both bathrooms and completely renovated the basement, adding two bedrooms for Rod and I and a second living room. 

And that’s where we are still living now. And it looks beautiful, it stuns me to know this is our life, this is our home. They did it. 

With the income of all of us put together we are able to keep this place rolling. Thankfully we are older now. We all have proper jobs, Mom only has to work 2 days a week and my dad still kills himself from 4 AM to 1:30 PM 5 days a week as a maintenance man in McDonalds, but they each only have one job. He says he’s used to that schedule, he’s been waking up at 4:00 AM for the past 14 years.

Regardless of how life is now, it’s fair to say they are less stressed out and life is calmer. Their work ethic the first few years here really payed off. 

We bought the house under my sister Olga’s name since she had a social security number… as a matter of fact we all do at this point.

This is because in 2012 DACA was passed. It was a executive order put through by Obama which provided the four of us with the ability to get a license, a job, and go to school… Essentially, this changed our lives. Without it, none of us could work, or drive… never mind get a car, or a career. This tiny bit of documentation allowed us to dream in a country that had for so long ripped our hopes out of what to reach for. It gave us the a taste of freedom. A sense of normalcy, a way to fake our permanency here. DACA made all the crap from our childhood worth it. It made everything my parents worked so hard for make sense.

I remember driving around with my mother in Bristol one day, we had grabbed some coffee and gone to a few thrift stores. I was telling her about how my job was going, at the time I was working at a daycare and at a law office, where I still work now… I remember the feel of her stare on me as I drove through the neighborhood. I asked her what she was so focussed on and she replied with “just you… your independence, the fact that this is your life, what I would have given to be able to have days like this at your age.” And she was so right. 20 year old me in Peru would not have the freedom to drive around alone aimlessly reading books on a sunny day sipping carefully brewed coffee from a local shop. Because that could-have-been-Gaby would have been too scared of getting robbed, too afraid of being abducted, or of getting raped. She would have been more concerned with her safety than she would be with how up to date she was on her cultural literature, or any form of art… My world would have been so different. And so much about me would have had no chance of making its way in my soul.

For everything that America has taken, it’s given me a lot. And that internal complication makes for an interesting love/hate relationship. I love my life now. Sure we had a good 8 years of real, genuine struggle in this country but we were kids… we were simple. We didn’t need much, we just needed each other and we needed to survive, and we did. But our life once we started becoming more independent, that’s a life few people on Earth get to experience.

Despite the daily fear and feeling of inferiority, I still get to have my life. I still get to ponder. I have the time and the opportunity to explore who I am in a way I wouldn’t have been able to do in Peru. America is a place for dreamers, it’s not all fair, and it’s definitely not all flowers and sunshine… But what you want to do here you can do it. And that’s pretty spectacular.

You can have multiple jobs here, explore what it is you like. It’s possible to make money, to build up small careers out of hobbies. America is made for hustlers, and that’s why immigrants succeed, because we are natural born opportunity seekers. We are hungry for the chances to make our life better. Not in a vain, greedy way…at least not for my family. We simply comprehend where our privilege lies on this earth and we don’t take that for granted.

I remember walking to school in Peru, watching kids beg to wash people’s cars for just a little bit of money so they could survive. I remember them walking around barefoot, I can hear their tears. And I will never understand why this is my life now and most of those kids are still struggling. I hate America for allowing me the opportunity to get comfortable with DACA, it gave me a breather, a chance to let down my walls. I could see myself as a young woman, as a grown up independent person making her way. I forgot what it felt like to constantly be reminded of my temporaries. And I know that now with DACA being rescinded I will inevitably go back to that scared little girl, always thinking deportation is around the corner, but I also love America for the time it gave me. For the time I had here to find out who I was. I have had fun in my life, I have not suffered, I have not had to look in my kitchen wondering why there is no food. I am healthy, I have the chance to make tomorrow be whatever I choose it to be. I have experienced culture beyond the ground I was born on and I am blessed… I am so much more blessed than I deserve to be.

So that’s where we are now, in limbo of going and staying. I do not know Peru, I do not feel it’s my home. But I love that it’s where I came from and if life takes me back there, I’m no longer a child, I’m no longer a small frightened kid. I know life is not always on my side, and I’m ready for something new. I have moments where I sit and think about how much I hate being unwanted in a place where I’ve cuddled up my life in for 14 years, but the feeling passes, I can swallow that reality… I can move on.

There’s a lot more to our story that hasn’t been mentioned, a lot more insecurities, a lot more unfair treatment, and also a lot more smiles, and laughs, a trips as a family. There has been a lot of good, a lot of great, and some bad. There have been more jobs than ones I’ve mentioned, more tears, but these years have also built us up. I don’t think I’d change my life. I don’t think I could take the guilt of having had absolutely zero suffering. I already feel too bad for the blessings I have, that others don’t… the blessings that many people in my family living back in Peru don’t have. I don’t know how people do it. How most Americans live calmly in their fake beauty and life of privilege without wondering why they’re so lucky.

I want so badly to live in a place where I’m not reminded of my limits. I want a solution. And if that doesn’t come, I don’t want to continue living in fear, I won’t do it again. I can’t.  But I’m thankful for every little thing life has given me. I have complexities in my expressions, but I do not take existing for granted.

[gbynvr]

39.

I’m asking my heart to explain all the madness. 

My body wants reasons for all this love sadness. 

the longing, and lust and the ashy goodbyes. 

They make my soul tremble, 

my palms scream and cry

I don’t know what you’ve done to make me so crazy. 

I’m wanting the days when my heart was more lazy. 

Those simple blank days, when the world had less color, 

Give me back loveless eyes, make my fantasies duller,

Stop standing for me, 

it feels like you’re mine. 

I know that sounds silly. 

But you’re so gallantly fine. 

My heart’s taken ownership. 

And that’s so unlike me. 

I don’t mark my territory, 

love is no nominee. 

But with you, my heart stings. 

With you I ignite. 

With you I stop thinking. 

And take a big bite. 

I’ve looked at the world and made one decision, 

all the sparks in my body have come to collision. 

All the senses have peaked, 

my heart needs no tweak, 

Your rose thorns are pushing, 

Mouth watered solitude 

can you see my eyes blushing?

They’re looking at you. 

They’re memorizing. 

They’re dripping in sunshine 

from all your mesmerizing. 

Look at you now, 

standing in my favorite hue, 

the happiest color,

 is by far a plaid shirt on you. 

[gbynvr]

37.

CITIZEN:

Stand in one place and don’t you dare move.

you feel the anxiety, don’t give any clues.

Don’t say where you’re from, make no mention where we’ve been.

Just keeping Smiling and standing.

Don’t show fear hidden within.

... so many blue eyes all looking at me. So much golden hair, too much I can’t see.

Curse those blue eyes, and all their blank sparkles.

I hate those blue eyes and all their bland gargles.

Their blue is my darkness.

So weak like dead carcass.

But I gulp it all down, just keep my face smiling.

One day I’ll explode.

pretty soon down the road.

I won’t say I’m sorry, I won’t talk in code.

Those childhood fears, are fears I don’t owe.

You can take it, you can have it.

Like you took my dark hair, and my deep dark eyes.

Made me think they’re not good enough,

I ate up those lies.

Like you stripped away freedom, what’s that word even mean?

Like you showed me your secrets, so many not clean.

I’m done with false sorrows.

And all your love/hate

I’m fed up with you and your numbing heartache

America, I’ve had it.

I’ve done it too long.

No matter your beauty,

You’ll always be wrong.

You can keep my dark hair and all my deep hopings.

I’ll take back cynicism and my long blistered ropings.

I’m okay.

I’ll forget you.

I’m alright.

Keep your blue.

I know who you are, I know how you came.

I know all your vanity and sad failing fame.

America lies.

America’s weak.

America cries.

America cheats.

America’s fake, one great giant mistake.

There you have it, I’m leaving.

My times up, and you’re laughing, but I’m no longer grieving.

[gbynvr]

[gbynvr]

32.

I’m blogging!

I know I should probably acknowledge my long, sad, inexcusable hiatus… and I will get to that because there is so much I need to blog about, or rather, I should blog about but I went too long without addressing and then it sort of joined all the other “need-to-do-but-am-too-lazy” things in my brain. 

So there, to preface I made sure to include that I know I sucked at blogging for a bit there and I will update on all things in my life regarding experiences, embarrassing moments, new epiphanies, etc., but for now I will blog about one really amazing occurrence that happened to me whilst I was in NYC last week. Because this…this needs to be written about.

it was around 10:45 PM on Tuesday, May 30th. Shannon and I had just gotten off the train at Union Square station and were on our way to the N train to get home. Our belly’s were full from a wonderful Ethiopian meal, which was spicier than we’d expected but still tasty and authentic. The day had gone well. It’d been a long day but we were content. The drinks we had with our dinner (espresso chocolate rum is what dreams are made of) left our hearts buzzed and happy, and the city was active, glowing with energy on this simple weekday evening. There’s something about that… about the fact that it can be any night of the week, at any random time and you can stand in a subway station and see a myriad of spectacular humans walking by…. some with suits on from staying late at work, some with crazy outfits, most just with really amazing ensembles of clothing making their way from one destination to another. It’s never not a great time to people watch in NY, and that, to me, is truly an experience.

This was no different, as we were walking in the midst of all these rushing people, we saw next to us a young frail boy with hefty glasses sitting with a fold out table and chair, in front of him was a typewriter and and next to the typewriter, a sign that read “Free Poetry”, naturally this made us halt our trajectory home, completely full of curiosity, we decided to wait our turn. 

He finished up the session with the person he was with and then sat down with two more girls, they giggled while talking to him, and at one point I heard him say “basically how this works, is you tell me anything and I’ll write a poem out of it”. my brain quickly took in this information and started going through anything and everything I could say to him. And I came upon with nothing…

Maybe it would be more fair to say that I came up with too much… there was too much to say, too much to mention about my 20 years of life that he could potentially use to write a poem, and the thought that one thing I would say could make or break this moment was quite a lot of pressure. 

I came up with nothing.

Sure I have passions I have things I like, many of them. I’ve met cool people, I’ve at times done cool things… but it seemed so vain and so expected to begin the conversation that way. So in order not to enter a complete panic attack I just ignored that I had to come up with something to say. Whatever would come out, would come out, I would let it flow organically. 

Shannon went before me, it was then, after probably an hour, FINALLY my turn.

I sat in front of him, completely shaking… like physically shaking from nervousness. And I thought I’d mention how nervous I felt. 

He smiled gently and said “Basically how this works, is you tell me anything and I write a poem about it…. but to begin, how was your day?”

How was my day? okay yes I can work with that, after all it had been an exhilarating day. 

“My day was wonderful” I began…“we woke up late which was pleasant, we had sandwiches for brunch in Brooklyn, and walked to the Botanical Gardens. we’ve eaten quite a bit of food today and it’s all been extraordinary.” 

This led to a brief conversation on hunger and how easy it is to ignore it, or forget it’s there when one is deeply invested in their passion, like he was. I mentioned how I had nothing to say really, how in the hour I had been waiting my turn, my usually ambitious imagination had come up with nothing because I was too intrigued by what he was doing. My mind was soaring with questions on how he started doing this, on why he started to… and what type of miraculous human he had to be, in order to dedicate his time to this. 

It was obvious he wasn’t making a living out of it. Maybe some people tipped him, but the sole fact that sign initiates the conversation with “free” makes for little to no profit, therefore he truly chooses to do this, all on his own, he chooses to take time out of his day to sit and talk to strangers…. to share his talent with onlookers. To, so vulnerably display this sort of creativity…. Surely anything he has to say is lightyears more interesting than anything I could share. 

I admitted how timid I felt in this moment, how bashful, and scared I was… this sort of thing was right up my alley, and all the thoughts in my head were screaming "come on! open up”…But there was something so pure and honest and authentic about his aura that I didn’t know how to be. Looking back, my genuine anxious, excited, and wiggly response to him was probably destined. Unbeknownst to me at that time, it was my attitude in that moment that led to the words he typed, which so easily and truthfully poured out of him and captured my essence, in a way I don’t think others can see because I have not displayed that type of fear and curiosity at once, with anyone….Sitting in front of him, was like sitting in front of a talking art piece. How do I deal with that? And how do I not seize this opportunity to get to know him rather than talk about myself?

He took the initiative I offered him and talked about his passion… About how much he loves to do this because he learns so much from it. How, after an evening of doing it, he feels like he has acquired so much knowledge. He had been there since 6 that day, and at this time it was nearing midnight. Meaning, he had not eaten or taken a mental/emotional break in 6 hours.

The more he talked the more I could feel myself absorbing, savoring everything he said… because everything he said was so worthy of enthrallment. He was not trying to be anything, he wasn’t afraid, he wasn’t concerned with the depiction others had of him. He was obsessed with his craft, and with sharing it.

This was fascinating. And I’m not sure exactly when, but at one point after I mentioned how easy it was to listen to people talk about what they love he started typing. 

He wiggled as he typed, twiddling his fingers after every line thinking of what should come next… The same way I’m doing now. The same way I imagine any writer acts when they’re invested in their words. flexing and squirming, itching to find the next word… Only he did it publically.

It was so intimate to watch. It was a show. It was performance art all on its own. Had I not walked away with a poem, watching him create one was just as special. 

I knew watching him type was part of the experience, but I also knew my presence and what we’d said to each other had inspired whatever he was writing of. And that made sitting there feel like an honor. It made me grateful. Grateful to that day, to that moment, to my life, that allows me to have little moments like this. Because it is these moments that build us. It is these moments that build me.

…. When he finished he handed me the paper. What it contained captured my heart so well I cannot fathom how he did this. It was so profound and so metaphoric, so genuinely me. I was not only in shock, but overwhelmed with emotion. My eyes welled up with tears and I muttered a soft thank you.

I handed him a five dollar bill, all the cash I had in my wallet and said something along the lines of "all I have is 5 dollars, though I think what you’re doing is worth much more".

Before leaving I made certain to mention how brave I thought he was… How much it takes to be this vulnerable and how thankful I was to have had this moment. And he said he felt that same way about me. 

“of all the people that walk by, most keep walking, but it takes a lot of courage to sit and talk to a stranger from your part as well”

So that was that. 

We walked away with grins, my throbbing heart fluttered with contentment, with excitement and joy. All the bits of emotion in me screaming with happiness? sadness? nostalgia? gratitude? 

I can’t properly put into words what this meant to me, but I’m sure you now know, after reading this, it meant a lot. 

Below is the poem he wrote. 

Don’t Listen to me

Talk to me

You’re running on zeus voltage

I’m more aphrodite; thy bloodstream

A sacred nile, only my thoughts

and sometimes doctors can float about-

I love nothing more than to follow you. 

Coma from coma…. don’t you dare exalt a period mark

talk more, until I yawn out of reflex 

Not because you bore me

But my body needs to law down

with you.

with a spirit that hears my silent wishes of exploring the world.

Through the sounds of your voice

The language illuminates the unknown.

So please, be my interviewee.

I promise to take it easy before I floor it. 

Every time I read this I draw something more of myself. I can feel a little more depth, and I can feel my heart strings chirping.

I imagine feeling this in its utmost capacity when I’m in love… it’s all of my presence. It’s sad, it’s giving, it’s taking… it’s loving and raw, and therefore it allows me to look introspectively, and also into the future. I can’t wait for someone to feel all these little bits of me.

The fact that it only took this stranger one profound conversation to break me open like this… is miraculous.

Thank you Alexis.

(oh yeah, that’s his name)

[gbynvr]

31.

I met a lovely boy in Barnes and Noble. He sold me a La La Land soundtrack. Sparks flew. We had a moment. Here's a poem I wrote 3 hours before meeting him, that I can't stop reading now thinking it was somehow foreshadowing what was to come. I'm probably just being an insane hopeless romantic. But i think I just met my soulmate and I will most likely write a poem just about our small moment in the near future, because I proceeded to sing to old Adele from the top of my lungs the entire drive home.... that sort of emotion deserves a poem. Anyway, here's the poem from this morning. BLUE LOVE river mornings in your palm. Frosty fingers cold but calm. I know the depth of your complexion. Soft yet bold, you're my exception. Gentle winds tug at my soul. You've fit your heart in mine, and I am whole.

[gbynvr]

30.

S E L F L O V E pt.2

Skin scented of needles and pine.

Smooth back, held with a mighty spine.

Tongue so full of life and so full of rhythms.

A mind so baffled by society’s schisms.

Shoulders that glisten, hair that shines.

Profound character with veins like vines.

Daydreaming thoughts and quirky tales.

Heart full of love and often frail.

Determination in compassion.

Wearing comprehension like it’s fashion.

This is my soul.

This is my body.

Completely me

In my entirety.

This is my heart

This is my smell

This is my love

I know it well.

[gbynvr]

29.

S E L F L O V E pt. 1 I love my knuckles They way they crack I love my spine I love my back I love my skin The way it feels I love my heart I know it heals I love my eyes They show my grit They tell my story They hold my wit I love my mouth The words it speaks I love my compassion I love when it leaks I love my hands And everything they do I love my mind Floating without a clue I love myself And all my flaws They're worth A thousand, a million awes

[gbynvr]

28.

Earlier this year I turned twenty. That means I’ve spent twenty years of existence on earth. And though “twenty” sounds like such a stepping
stone, I don’t feel older, I feel younger. 
To me, being twenty isn’t the end of my childhood, it’s the beginning of my adulthood, and that makes me feel enthusiastic. In many ways, I feel younger than ever, because it feels like I’m entering a stage in life in which I can dive into learning about all those parts of myself I spent so long, too long, ignoring. 
I can tell, I’m going to have a somewhat hard time putting this into writing, but I’ll try.


During the end of my teenage years (16,17,18,19) I took a lot of time out to develop hobbies of mine… painting, drawing, writing, reading…
It was also the time in which I discovered all my favorite authors, bands, artists, and directors. It was time I used to devour information on subjects that aroused a deep compassion in me, ie animal cruelty, woman’s rights (prominently in 3rd world countries), global warming, and children that need homes. This was an admittedly vital era for the Gaby I know now, and I’m thankful for it, because after this time
I came out a passionate, ethically driven thinker with no time for arrogance and generally abstaining from nonsense.

But it’s time to dive into the unexplored parts of me. I guess, in a way, it’s time to be a narcissist.


I don’t mean this in a vain way. I have made this transition with subtlety and without any actual contemplation, and it doesn’t mean I’m
suddenly going to let go of all my hobbies or halt my progression of discovering what interests me… I will never stop doing that, but I
don’t have to do it with such hunger. I am paying more attention to the profound areas of myself, my entire self. 
This means my heart, my mind, my sexuality, my womanhood, the reasons I love what I love, and how that makes me love myself.


My entire life I thought self love was this journey one had to decide to go on and I was never really ready for it. I understood the technicalities of it, but putting it into practice seemed somewhat daunting. Little did I know, I’d begin the process without thinking.


I’m not sure if this happens to everyone, could definitely just be the way I work. But I’ve noticed that as I’ve grown up, I’ve grown to accept, and love parts of me I used to hate.


I’m not sure how it happened, but currently that seems to be the most prominent theme in myself. I think turning twenty just solidified my
realization of it… It’s as if something in me is a little bit more ready to dig at the underlying woman within, one that is mature, one that understands humanity, and understands her place in it. One that is unashamed of her emotion, or her tears, and comprehends it’s
not a sign of weakness.

Entering this place brings me closer to the person who will one day be a mother, someone who can nurture and care profoundly, someone who understands her skin and her organs and all the beautiful purposes they hold. Someone who has found a deeper sense of inner peace through spirituality, because she pays attention to that side of herself. Someone who lives in the guidance of her Creator as often as she can, seeing His beauty in everything, knowing she is
also part of that beauty.


I’m brushing away the sad teen who thought so little of the person looking back at her in the mirror, because I respect my thighs, my
breasts, though barely there, still hold value and have the ability to feed my future offspring. I am no longer disgusted by my menstruation,
I embrace it, and I embrace the opportunity to know my body through it. I accept that I am physically far from what I see on billboards,
but that does not decrease the functions of my body, and the body of every woman that comes into existence. I know when to be soft, when
to be stern, and when to be excited, and even if I haven’t mastered anything about the woman I will mold out to be, I know that I am learning and happy to be doing so.


And this epiphany… This undeniable knowledge that I’m walking into genuine self love came through subtle changes in my thinking, and subconscious acts that showed
love in my natural self… The way I dyed my hair back to match my roots after so many years of weird sun-in and highlights, aimed to make me
think my natural hair color wasn’t good enough. I found myself longing for the dark soft thick hair that used to hang before I thought it wasn’t pretty. 
Or the way I found great comfort in knowing I hardly ever need to wear a bra, in comparison to the teenager who couldn’t leave the house
without a pushup bra in order to feel like a girl. I love my chest. I love the convenience and the knowledge that my boobs are good enough. I no longer feel disgusted by the hair on my legs, or my arms or even my armpits. I don’t hate the blotchy off-white birthmark on my lower back. I feel the prettiest when my face is clean, when my eyelashes are flat and skin is glistening with lotion, instead of the sad teenager who picked apart at EVERY angle of her natural reflection. I don't paint my nails, because I like my hands bare and with character, I love them that way.

So with all that being said the following are two way over due poems I’ve been scripting up.

Based on loving myself.

Enjoy.

[gbynvr]

27.

Last night I went to a theater I’ve been itching to go to with a wonderful friend of mine. We watched 20th Century Women, partly because everything in me was telling me I had to watch this movie and partly because I’m trying to get through all the Oscar noms.

Mostly because it looked spectacular.

The movie was nothing short of inspiring. It touched on themes close to my heart, feminism, love, child raising. But the theme of a young boy growing up so instructed by a female outlook on life was paralyzing.

The movie told a few stories all at once, but since my blog isn’t an IMDB page, I won’t give a complete summary. I will, however, say that the character that seemed most like a protagonist to me was Jamie, the boy… the son of a single older woman who was trying to raise him right and also with a hint of modernism. This got away from her a bit, but the boy was sweet and charming and caring… he was interested in women, not in the way men are but in the way humanity is, where a woman is more than just her sexuality…

Seeing this plot take place in a big screen next to my lovely friend, surrounded by bubbly laughing strangers who had all chosen this film in this quaint theater at this time on a Monday night made me happy and made me inevitably think of life and my future son, whom I hope has a similar outlook on women.

I want my son to view a woman’s sexuality as precious. I want him to care for her satisfaction, I want him to view humanity through the eyes of a man who understands that each birth has a painful and beautiful beginning through the endurance and grace of the female anatomy.

I don’t want him to cringe when a girl needs to stop to buy a tampon, or a pad or a Diva Cup. I want him to offer his sweatshirt for a girl to cover her rear if she’s had an accident. I want him to see the female body with a hint of innocence. Yes it’s beautiful, yes it’s intriguing, yes it’s voluptuous, but it’s also a source of life.

I don’t want him to see breasts and think profanities, I want him to see art, to see life, to see the source of a baby’s first feedings.

I want my son to understand that sensitivity isn’t a shameful trait. And reaching into your heart for compassion is something to feel wholesome about.

I want my son to see women the way God sees women. I want him to respect and honor them the way all people tend to innately do that with any man they meet. I want him to show love in all that he does, and I want him to do it shamelessly.

I want to share with my son all the things I think, and I want him to see them the way I do, without judgment and without the fear of what someone may think. I don’t want him to feel insecure for thinking about the functions of our bodies, the curves of our skin and how that’s symbolic of our entities.

I will not dwindle his growth and the fluidity of his mind.

I want him to feel freedom to explore his abilities and his feelings. Should those feelings be soft and pure and innocent, should they at times be explosive and raunchy, should he want to learn to cook and paint and sew, I want him to not see those things as feminine and weak, but just as things, with the same value as anything a ‘man’ might do.

This is not to say I won’t support a sporty, architecturally gifted boy, I will… but I want him to comprehend he doesn’t like those things because he is a boy. I want him to view life and gender on a spectrum.

I think he will.

[gbynvr]

26.

First of all, allow me to begin by apologizing to this blog. Not to the reader, but to the blog itself for neglecting it. I allowed this blog to become progressively accustomed to an almost daily dose of food in the form of writing. So I feel I owe and explanation as to why my once regular submission of entry has dwindled from tri-weekly to one a week, on a good week.

I’m not ashamed actually, to talk about it, as I don’t feel like a failure for not writing like I normally would. I feel okay, because I have realized a vital key to my mental and emotional well being, and it is that I need a constant creative outlet.

Now, being that I am a woman of many talents (slightly joking), I don’t simply rely on writing as my only form of self expression. I love to write, and frankly words tend to flow out of me almost as organically as living. However, I love art in the form of a physical media just as much.

But making a new piece of art is much like starting a new book, I begin with a sense of excitement but my gut is slightly skeptical. I know this could go well, but I know this could go wrong. I know that if I don’t finish I’ll become consumed with angst. Similar to opening a heavily worded classic, this could be great… It could be Pride and Prejudice, it could be To Kill a Mockingbird, and I could love every minute of it. Or it could be a tragic Ernest Hemingway I simply can’t get through, it can be an autobiography on someone I respect but can’t find their voice in the writing. I could become gravely disappointed, and the predisposed tendency to go into this with cynicism can be difficult to shake.

For a long time, it was this aspect of my personality that hindered me from starting new art. From progressing with a piece without stumbling myself. It kept me locked in my own my mind filled with ideas, as my hands wiggled to create but my wrists lacked the confidence. And, so I wrote. Because all my life, I had decided writing is not my talent, it’s not the one thing I’m good at, it doesn’t define my entity, and it was that belief, that removed the pressure from this hobby and allowed my mind to float with words, and glisten with relief when I typed, when I took a pen and scripted a poem, or sat in thought as pieces of wisdom ran through my brain.

However, I’m beginning to understand that I have gifts, not talents. I have attributes. I am a continuously growing and developing human being, and I cannot pressure myself with one definition that blocks out everything else I could be. So I’m choosing to remove that pressure, and remove the permanent belief that I have to be great at a specific thing because it is the one thing that creates me as an artist.

Realistically, we are all artists. We are all thinking, feeling humans who are gifted in a myriad of ways, and it is that concept that allows us to blossom.

In the past month I have been making a lot of art. I have done so without thinking. I have entered a trance like state in which I make what I feel and what I want, without doubt, and without any misconception about what it has to be.

One of my favorite quotes, if not, my favorite quote, by the living legend Bob Dylan who I hold very close to my heart states “I define nothing, not beauty, not patriotism. I take each thing as it is, without prior rules about what it should be”.  

This has always been a quote I repeat to myself, something I’d like to personally live by as I look at the world around me, trying diligently not to judge anything that I see from a past perception that is not my own. In the past couple months this quote has taken new meaning. I have let it enter my heart and guide me through my creativity.

I accept that I love to write, I love to make art, I love to watch films, and sometimes I think I could create my own. I love to make food, I love to hear all the parts of a song. But these gifts can’t block me from growing I am not first a painter and second a writer. I am human. And I have things I enjoy, should I be good at those things, that’s fine, but it’s really all relative. Someone, with a level of intellect much greater than mine could read this entry and think I’m a complete nut. But I believe I’ve come to terms with the idea that I’m not good at things I do, because that’s not the point. I enjoy art, in all its forms, at least all the ones I know, and I am curious and itching to know more.

So if I feel like writing I will write, if I feel like painting I will paint, if I feel like cooking I will cook.

But I will not pressure my mind and my soul with the idea that I have to be good at it because without those talents I’m wasting myself away. Because, by letting those gifts be, I am allowing them to flow, without strain and without force. Art is part of me, it’s part of everyone, because it is everywhere. I cannot take what I write or what I make seriously because it is only a minuscule fraction of the amount of beauty in the world.

When I began this blog I wanted to be serious about it, and be constant with it. I wanted to take on my love to write and make it be a new defining part of me. Now I understand that I just look for ways to release expression. And that’s all this is. I view this blog the way I’ve always viewed my writing, it is something I love, it is not a precious talent I have to work at to feel some self worth. And I will view my art the same way. Everything I do, will be done wholeheartedly, I am choosing to relieve myself of the lock I had, that made me think I have to be good at what I do in order to hold value, or to be an artist.

I. am. human.

And that is all.

[gbynvr]

[gbynvr]

25.

Let me preface by stating that I’m not a fan of cases for iphones. I don’t know why but I have always preferred the sleek, living-life-on-the-edge-without-a-case-my-phone-could-shatter-at-any-moment look. 

There has only been one I’ve bought and have loved. It’s this stunning half shell half concrete case from Urban Outfitters, that a wonderful lady friend found for me. 

However, due to my complete inability to function on a daily basis without being a total klutz, I had nicked that case repeatedly and bits of it were falling off resulting in painful jabs to my fingers if I held it the wrong way.  

So it was time for one of two things to happen, I could A) Go back to my crazy no case life, or B) I could order a new case.

I went with option A, because after a week of no case my phone had a couple deep scratches on the screen, so I didn’t care anymore. 

Fast forward a couple more weeks and I’m watching Bob’s Burgers, when suddenly I think how fantastic it would be to have a Bob’s Burgers phone case. So I begin my search. I find this really fricking adorable one, in which the entire Belcher Family is looking down and it’s just all their faces shot from below. (I’ll insert a picture). 

So I fell in love, I liked that it wasn’t bulky or textured and I really thought this would be the next step for me in my venture for a new case. It seemed like fate.

So I had my sister order it using her Amazon Prime abilities and reimbursed her. 

I waited around a month and a half and still no case, so I looked back on Amazon and apparently it was a sketchy distributor, didn’t even know Amazon had sketchy people, but okay, moving on I ordered the same case from a different person. 

At this point I’m a little bit iffy about the whole thing and honestly considering just DIYing this case thing, but three weeks later the case is in!

It looks really cheap, the paint is already chipping off The faces of multiple Belcher family members, and the enlarged image is heavily pixeled, all of this doesn’t disappoint me too much, the real heart knock was the fact that it was for a 6 plus, when I’m certain I requested the 6. 

So that’s the story of me waiting months and trying tirelessly for a Bob’s Burgers case that was, in the end, an absolute let down.    

I’m sure this anecdote wasn’t completely thrilling or even too comical, it’s just really typical. Life has a way of making fun of me, nothing is ever easy, even simple things like the Bob’s Burgers case I wanted. I would have rather it never come in than to mock me with its horrendous quality, or lack of… I think this is a metaphor to all the things that happen in my life that are let downs.

[gbynvr]

24.

The following is a list of my simple moments of bliss. 

1. The feel of the wind on your face in a long drive as the sun sets on the water. 

2. The warmth of my Pa’s chest when we nuzzle to watch the news.

3.  The first sip of hot coffee after a long day that touches every cold part of your body.

4. A hot bath in the evening when no one is home.

5. Reading in a cafe when suddenly your favorite songs are playing.

6. Your sister’s laugh at 11:00 PM in her bed.

7. The smell of clean clothes on your clean skin in your clean bed.

8. Singing along to a carefully orchestrated playlist you made specifically for home-alone-baking.

9. When Green Grocer Greg gestures you into a conversation on a Thursday afternoon. 

10. When Green Grocer Hap gestures you into a conversation on a Monday afternoon. 

11. When Green Grocer… only joking, two is enough.

12. A dog’s tongue on your palm when you meet for the first time. 

13. The burst of comforting vehemence that explodes in your heart when a baby lays their head in your neck to sleep. 

14. The fit of a hug on your body.

15. The rush of emotion when your lock eyes with a beautiful stranger who makes you doubt everything for a moment. 

16. The sounds of rhymes in nature.

17. The water gently dancing on your toes when you walk on the shore pensively.

18. Going downhill on a bike after just going uphill.

19. Randomly remembering that currently not being in love means you are allowed the hope of finding your eternal companion sometime, somewhere.

20. People watching.

21. Periodically watching the accumulation of snow outside as you sip a hot beverage and watch a film indoors.

22. Bon Iver’s For Emma Forever Ago spinning on your record player making you drown in tears of nostalgia, but feeling a cathartic release blossom a feeling of gratitude in you. 

23. Drinking wine with Jared and Leila.

24. Watching Juno. 

25. Looking at your family, together in one room, feeling undeserving of all this love.

26. Sleeping in.

27. My mother scratching my back. 

28. Loving.

29. Feeling the most confident in your pjs, washed hair, clean body, reading some kind of classic. 

30. Realizing you exist, you are present, every moment is a new moment in your life.  

[gbynvr]

January 6th, 2017. First snowfall.

[gbynvr]

23.

I meant to type about this on Wednesday night, when the feelings post watching this exquisite film were still fresh and vibrant. 

However, like many nights go for me, I ended up making tea, watching another movie, taking a short shower and tucking into bed with a book, before I was able to write anything down (I blame not having a laptop for this, because it would be so much more cathartic and comfortable to type away in the pleasant cocoon that is my bedroom, but typing on my phone to blog just isn’t the same so typically I blog at work when no one is the office, like I’m doing right now… ps. really could use a laptop if any sugar daddies are reading this).

OKAY, so on Wednesday my wonderful, beautiful, sparkling-brained friend, Shannon and I went to see La La Land. She had warned me it was going to be beautiful, and I may need to cry from the beauty, but I doubt anything could have prepared me for the visual experience I underwent that evening. 

I will not be giving a rundown of the story in this post, I simply want to explain how it made me feel, because I’ve not felt a rush of emotion that profound with a film, in a very long time. 

To begin, the film was visually a complete artistic experience, it was like watching Van Gogh paint a painting before your eyes, the entire cinematography was bullet proof fantastic, the colors, the tone of the scenes, everything… a pure jaw dropping depiction of what seeing the world through art is.

Secondly, the music. The music was completely brilliant. To be frank I loved every sound in this movie. Everything that was presented had a purpose and had a time. I love when a movie is thought through in an obviously artistic manner, I know one can argue that all movies are artistically represented, but that’s not really fair to those films that take into consideration the photography of every scene, the imagery of the film being just as much of an experience as the plot. With La La Land there isn’t background music to make the scene flow, it’s much more than that, it’s as if without each crucial thought out aspect of the film, including the minimalist of sounds, the scene could  not function. Every minute of the film was bliss, from beginning to end. 

But what I would say was the most striking aspect of La La Land was the deliverance of the story. It wasn’t truly sad, or overly emotional in the way most dramatic films typically follow a mood of over dramatizing emotions. It was profound with simplicity, and scenes of metaphoric emotions. The film takes your eyes, mind, and heart through a complete journey. There is of course a connection to the story, and a feeling or relation towards the characters, but it’s so much more than that. You are experiencing their emotions through a visual journey of what I imagine their heart looks like in each part of film. 

Honestly I don’t even know what I’m saying or how to describe it. I just can’t really put it into words, and that’s really quite rare for me.

I can’t really explain, at least in a way that will make sense or give it justice, the way it made me feel but I can talk of the events that occurred to me proceeding the film.

The movie ended, credits rolled and I was a complete wreck. My brain was quite literally in a trance, and my body had absolutely no idea how to deal with it.

I’m not the type of person who can handle emotional and artistic stimulation without bursting into tears. And this film really made my heart flutter so naturally i was crying. But it was different, I wasn’t sad or hurt by the ending, it was just so beautiful. I had no way to prepare myself for what I had just watched. I know it may not hit everyone this way (but if you don’t at least like this movie, I don’t think we can be friends) but it hit me this way. I was a total ball of emotion and every time I tried to pull myself together I couldn’t, I would just sob more and laugh and cry all at once. For this I’m very glad I had Shannon with me, because she simply sat next to me going “I know, I feel the same way”, so thank you Shannon for not judging any part of me whilst I was rocking back and forth having a proper emotional attack while smiling.

I don’t want to spoil it, but the final scene ruined me… in the most wonderful way. The colors, the story, the idea of “what if”, I lost every grip of emotional consciousness. This movie was brilliant, is brilliant. I want to live in Damien Chazelle’s brain. 

After the movie I got in my car and played classical music for the 20 minute ride home, brain still fully in a trance.

Also I’d like to add that I love Emma Stone and admire her so much, I truly think it’s fate that brought me to her that warm summer day in Starbucks, because though I knew I loved her and admired her then, I didn’t know she would continuously be such a relevant inspirational woman for me. It’s just pretty rad that I got to casually talk to someone who was at the time and in the present time my favorite actress, and will continue to inspire me with film for probably the rest of my life.