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[oscarisaacestradas]

The Send-Off

Like a lot of POC and underrepresented people in STEM, something that I struggle with is impostor syndrome. Though I may play it off, I’ve always felt very insecure in academic settings and like I don’t belong for multiple reasons. I’ve just always felt like an outsider and, simply put, it sucks. Impostor syndrome hits me fairly often, but one time in particular sticks out to me. 

Every year Cornell alumni all over the country host these mixer-type events called Send Offs. They’re basically a chance for current and new students in your hometown to meet up and get to know each other before everyone heads to campus. I remember getting the invite to attend the Send Off in Scottsdale and I debated going. Entering a new group is always scary, but entering this group they call Cornellians was even scarier for me. It still wasn’t real to me that I’d be attending an Ivy League for my PhD and I still didn’t see myself as an Ivy League student. I thought going for sure would set off my impostor syndrome and I didn’t want that, but I also couldn’t pass up free food, a trip to the nice part of the valley and a chance to at least try and make some new friends.

We got to the house where the Send Off was, this beautiful Scottsdale home with high ceilings, marble counter tops, an art studio and a bar in the living room. My parents and I were greeted by some alumni hosting the event. They were engineers, artists and business folk, people who just seemed so perfect and put together. Little by little, all the other students trickled in. I was one of the only graduate students and, sadly, one of the only students of color. The alumni gave us their speech about how we should all be proud to be attending one of the best schools in the world, how special Ithaca is and how their college years were so formative. We took a group photo and then after the socializing began. 

I met some freshmen undergrads who, like the alumni, just seemed so perfect and put together. I could tell just by talking to them that they were really smart kids, the type that definitely belonged at Cornell. They all came from Scottsdale and the surrounding areas, places with nice houses, good high schools and actual opportunities for students, places that were so much better than my shitty hometown of Surprise where no one made it. Each conversation I had with them just made me more and more aware that I was the different one. 

“I grew up in Surprise” I told one girl when she asked where I was from. “Oh that’s quite a ways away!” she responded. “I went to Shadow Ridge” I told a couple of freshman when they asked where I went to high school. “Oh I’ve never heard of it” they responded.   “I did my undergrad at UC Davis” I told one parent. “And where’s that?” she asked. 

Their responses, I know, were innocuous but to me they just made me feel more and more like an outsider, like I was different from them, like I was just an impostor. 

I asked my parents if we could leave about a half hour early. Mostly because as an extreme introvert my social battery was dying quick but partially because my impostor syndrome was hitting me pretty bad and I wanted it to stop. We packed into our hot, beat up jeep and headed off back to our shitty side of the valley. I sat in the car contemplating during the ride home “do I belong?” over and over again and I got this really weird feeling inside that I had never gotten before. Something, I don’t know what, was eating away at me. 

It’s safe to say this was maybe one of my most difficult run-ins with impostor syndrome. I think what made this episode so different was just the fact that I was at an event with peers, students who I would be attending the same school as but it was so apparent that I wasn’t like them. I had felt like my getting into Cornell as a PhD student was some sort of mistake, like I was inherently less, like I was just a poser. When I think back on it and as I continue my studies here though I know that there’s no denying that I, in fact, deserve to be here, whether I want to acknowledge it or not. I may not have come from Scottsdale, I may not have gone to a good high school, I may not be a genius and I may not have come from money, but I’ve more than proven myself, I worked with what I had and still got here despite my background. And for that, I do belong.

[oscarisaacestradas]

To Be Young, Chicano and Queer

I have to say that growing up in Arizona messed me up in a lot of different ways. One big way was that it made me scared to ever claim or explore my queer identity. Between the bullying at school, the state’s very conservative population and what some of my own family members thought about queer folks, I felt like revealing that part of me wasn’t welcomed. I decided when I was a teenager that I would just suppress that part of my identity. “It never has to come up” is what I told myself. I’d eventually let it out and be more comfortable with it, which I’m proud of myself for. It’d take a while though and building up the courage to do it wasn’t easy.

In middle school I got bullied by a gang of kids. They’d call me a faggot and make jokes about me all the time. I never told people at school the truth about me, but I guess they were able to tell just by my mannerisms and the way I talked. Those years were hell for me. I’d walk home from school every day feeling crushed. There would be nights where I’d start crying while I was trying to fall asleep and I developed really bad self-esteem issues from the whole thing that wouldn’t go away until my later years in college. “It’ll get better” was what I told myself, unsure if  it ever actually would.

High school came along and I decided that I would try to just ignore that part of my identity and let it fossilize. I still had kids teasing me about it on the bus and it bothered me for a bit, but towards the end of my stint at that school I realized their opinions didn’t matter. After all, I was the one who would actually be leaving Surprise, our sad little hometown. “Why should their opinions matter when they’re just going to stay around here and do the same shit?” is what I told myself and it was true. They were exactly the type that would peak in high school. I was learning to console myself, which was good. Still, I wasn’t learning to become any more comfortable with who I am and I felt like I could never let this part of me out.  

Things started to change for me in college. Davis wasn’t shy about advertising itself as a queer-friendly school. They had things like Rainbow House in the dorms, the LGBTQIA Resource Center and they offered a bunch of classes revolving around queer studies. I felt safer to be in this type of environment. Still, I had my reservations about revealing that part of me . “What would people think? What if they started treating me differently? What if the wrong people found out?” I contemplated. I’d make it two years without ever mentioning it. The day finally came though when I let it out.

During my third year at Davis I took a Chicanx Studies class focusing on the history of Chicanas and Latinas in the United States. For our term paper we had to choose a Chicana or Latina in history, write about her contributions to the community and close with how she has influenced us personally. I decided to write about Gloria Anzaldua. Partially because I had a lot of work by her that I could use and that would expedite the process, partially because I love what she’s about. The first parts of my paper went smoothly but then I got to the last part, the personal part, and I hit a block. The obvious thing to do here was to talk about how Anzaldua has influenced my being as a queer Chicano, but I couldn’t bring myself to write it. I still felt like it wasn’t welcomed and I didn’t know if I wanted it down on paper like that for the whole world to see. I decided to just put my paper on hold for a couple of days until I could find a way to skirt around it, but then it was the day before the assignment was due and I had nothing. “I have no choice” is what I told myself before crossing the line and talking about my secret.  

On the last day of class we got our papers back. Our TA laid them out on the front table and all 125 of us gathered around to dig through the pile and find ours. I found mine in the pile and flipped to the last page to see what grade I got and to see if there were any comments from my TA. Below my bibliography I saw my grade: 100/100. My TA wrote below my score that my paper was very well organized and it had a very strong voice. I skimmed through the rest of what I wrote to see if there were any additional notes. In the margins of the personal paragraphs I saw that he wrote something. “I admire your strength” it said in black ink. 

From that point on, I started to become okay with that part of me. I started to feel like I didn’t need to hide anymore and I didn’t feel so ashamed of revealing it. I’m still not 100%, especially given our current political climate. Nonetheless, I came to realize that I can’t deny this part of me forever and learning to embrace it is what will ultimately be best for me.

[oscarisaacestradas]

Joshua Andrew Garcia, PhD

As a kid a question I would always get asked is “what do you want to be when you grow up?” I never really knew when I was younger and my answer would change with every occasion I was asked. One time it was a doctor, the next it was a vet, the time after that it was a lawyer and at one point I think I even said businessman. Whatever I responded with I always made sure one thing: it was something that made tons of money. I did this so that the person asking me this question would give me their nod of approval. Why I always wanted it and why I thought it mattered, I don’t know. It would take me until my later years in college before I painfully learned that I don’t need anyone’s approval when it comes to the things I want for myself.

           In high school I had earned the label of “the smart cousin.” Everyone in my family bet that I would graduate top of my high school class and be the first to go off to college. In addition to that, they bet that I would go off to medical school or law school and be a productive, respected professional. My mom always talked about me getting rich and buying her a house in Europe and she would always stress the importance of making enough money to support that big, beautiful family that I was expected to have. Not knowing any better, I adopted these ideas and made it my goal to accomplish all of these things. Some of it I’ll admit is not bad like graduating top of the class and being the first to go off to college. The other part though about my family choosing my career and making it my obligation to accomplish certain things, not to mention that whole big family thing, that’s the bad part.

           For a brief moment at Davis I stood on the track that my family lied out for me. I went into undergrad wanting to do something in the medical field so that I could eventually be the rich uncle who bought his mom a house like they all expected me to be. After about three quarters, though, I realized this path wasn’t for me. I couldn’t stand the idea of being in medicine. The sickness, the pain, the death, it didn’t sound at all appealing to me. I explored different options for me and found something I loved: cropping systems ecology. I loved it because it was so different than what most people in my major were doing, it was practical and I not only got to do hardcore lab work I also got to go outside, get dirty and drive tractors on occasion. To most people it’s not exciting, but to me it’s unparalleled.

           Of course, you can only imagine what my family thought of this once they found out. It was my niece’s birthday party back in Arizona and they had all heard about a recent feat of mine: that I had gotten into Cornell University as a PhD student on a full-ride scholarship that would pay tuition, living expenses and healthcare. “You’re Ivy League now!” my uncle Juan said when he greeted me. I tried avoiding telling them what my PhD was in knowing they would be up in arms, but it eventually came out.

           “So what are you going to study at Cornell?” my sister’s friend Chelsea asked me.

           “I’ll be studying Plant Science. After I graduate, I really want to be a professor at a university and do research” I responded. I don’t know why I told the truth. I could’ve just lied and deferred this conversation.

           “Cool” Chelsea responded. I could tell she wasn’t very impressed.

           “Plants?!?!?!” my aunt Nelda asked in shock.

           When I heard her respond, I knew I was in for a fight, a fight where I’d have to defend what I’m doing.

           “You’re going to graduate and become a gardener!” my uncle Juan teased.

           “Oh yeah they always need people to water the plants at Home Depot!” my uncle Rigo’s girlfriend added on as she laughed.

           “Can you tell me why the trees in my backyard aren’t growing!?” aunt Nelda asked me in a mocking manner.

           At first I felt sad. I mean, my family was sitting there mocking me and what I wanted to do. Quickly, though, I got over it and spoke up because I wasn’t going to let them win.

           “So I guess our food systems don’t matter then?” I asked them. “So we as a society can just do without agricultural research? We don’t need food? Your kids don’t need to eat? We don’t need things like medicines, textiles or fuels either?” They sat there thinking about it all.

           “I love the work I do and I’m going to one of the best schools for it on a full-ride. I’m the first in the family to do this does that not mean anything?” I continued. I was shaking a little because I was always taught that you never talk back to your elders that way. However, I also learned from my experiences away from home that you also need to stand up for yourself when it’s necessary or else people will think it’s okay to walk all over you.  

           They all stopped talking about it and I got up and went inside. I realized in that moment that my family didn’t see me as the smart cousin anymore and any hopes of me getting rich and hooking them all up with European vacations was out the door. I realized they didn’t see me as someone respectable anymore because I wasn’t on my way to doing what they wanted. I won’t lie, it made me a little sad. While I’ve never bought into the idea that being “smart” means you’re better than someone else, it was nice having my family look at me the way they looked at me when I was considered the smart cousin. What it did was give me visibility in this family and it made me feel valid, something that I didn’t always feel around them. Losing this label meant losing that visibility and it was tough. Later that night, though, I thought about it some more and realized if they don’t want to be supportive of me that’s fine. I was the one who got me through college, the one who got into a PhD program and got the money for it and, ultimately, the one who’s going to be living my life, so the only person who gets to decide what I’m doing is me and the only person whose opinion should matter is my own.

[oscarisaacestradas]

My Mother’s History, or Pieces I’ve Gathered So Far

My mother was born in LA She was my grandparents’ third child and the only daughter that they would have: “Grandma and grandpa moved here for work Your uncle Juan and uncle Beto always had each other Your uncle Rigo was a cry-baby and he always got what he wanted.”

They moved to San Jose around the time my mom started high school Her best friend’s name was Angie and she and my mom would always go to parties together: “The high school we went to was no good and there were no opportunities I met your sister’s dad there, got pregnant and almost didn’t finish I wanted to try and go to school after, maybe to Santa Clara since it’s a nice school But I needed to be with your sister, so I didn’t All I wanted was for you all to finish and not make the mistakes I made” I thought back to her high school pictures She had light brown skin and black curly hair, just like mine used to be.

She married my father a few years later I’m not sure how they started dating, it’s always been a mystery They should’ve never been married though They had my brother first, then me a couple of years later: “Your dad did what he did and I can’t forgive him I went to the hospital so many times because of him and his anger And I almost lost you kids because of him But he’s your father” Part of me couldn’t forgive him either.

She moved us to Arizona a few years later “Your dad was just going to find another family anyways” She married Phil, then they had my little sister Genavee “The first white girl in the family” my uncle Juan would always tease, After Genavee was born, my mom stayed home She never returned to work after because of her aneurysm They cut her brain open to take care of it and it went fine She has trouble remembering things though.

These days she lives with my brother in Surprise “I don’t live with mom, mom lives with me” he reminds us She loves when I come to visit She sneaks candid shots of me and my siblings and posts them on Facebook “It’s like old times” is always her caption She sits around the living room now longing for parts of her past Like being married to Phil, going to school, partying with Angie, and others that I wish I knew.

[oscarisaacestradas]

Je m’appelle Josh

It was the first day of sophomore year in high school and I was walking to my third period class, French. My parents were in shock that I didn’t sign up to take Spanish as my foreign language instead. “It’s such a marketable skill to have” my stepdad would always remind me. “Your sister gets paid more at her job just because she speaks Spanish” he would add on. “You don’t want to be able to talk to your grandma in Spanish?!” my mom would always ask me. I knew it would be good to take, but I just felt like I didn’t belong in a Spanish class and for a number of reasons. All of my friends, who grew up speaking Spanish, were taking it but spoke it fluently already. I would’ve felt so dumb trying to learn as they wrote out whole essays in Spanish without any issues. In addition, because I’m Mexican everyone would expect me to be fluent already but I’d in fact barely be learning. How could I face that embarrassment? I had always wished my mom taught us when we were younger, but she always said it would “slow us down.”

           The hallways were crowded as I made my way over to French. I pushed my way through crowds of freshmen and upperclassmen catching up with their friends who they hadn’t seen all summer. I turned the corner down the hall where the foreign language classes were all located. The teachers all stood outside holding their doors open as they greeted their new students in Spanish and French. At the other end of the hall, I could see my friends Ciara and Felicia walking to their Spanish class together. I stopped before going into my class to talk to them.  

“You’re taking French this year, right?” Ciara asked me.

“Yeah. I just really wanted to learn something different besides Spanish” I explained, hiding the fact that her and my friends were part of the reason I didn’t want to take Spanish.

“That’s cool! You should teach me French at lunch” she said.

“For sure!” I responded.

The bell rang and my friends and I parted ways. As they turned their backs to me and walked into their Spanish class, I felt a divide between us. As I walked into my classroom alone, I started to regret my decision to take French. I wanted to go to Spanish with my friends instead, but I couldn’t. I was greeted by my French teacher, an old woman who went by the name Madame Coussie-Crane. “Bonjour!” she said to me with excitement. I responded with a “bonjour” and it didn’t feel right.

           On the first day of class, we learned that most French words are not pronounced the way they’re spelt. For example, “comment,” the French word for “how,” was pronounced “como.” It was odd to me, the fact that half of the letters in a French word didn’t make a sound or made sounds that were counterintuitive. We learned how to introduce ourselves in French and we went around the room saying our names. “Je m’appelle Josh” I said when my turn came around. It felt odd, just like saying “bonjour” at the door. From my seat, I could see the classroom across the hall that Ciara and Felicia were in. I wanted to be in that room so badly learning Spanish with my friends, learning how to talk to my grandma in her first language and away from the counterintuitive language that is French.  

           A couple of weeks later, we were sitting at lunch when Ciara asked me about French. “What are you guys learning right now?” she asked. “Right now we’re learning the names for food and how to order at restaurants and stuff” I told her. I asked her about her and Felicia in Spanish. “Right now we’re listening to songs in Spanish and translating them” Felicia said. “Did you like the one he played today, Ciara?” she asked. “Oh yeah I did!” Ciara responded “It was so good!” She and Felicia started singing the song and dancing around in their chairs. I sat there giggling as I watched them dance around and sing in perfect Spanish. I couldn’t understand the words or join in, so I just sat there watching.

[oscarisaacestradas]

The Velas Versus the Mutts

Every year on Easter Sunday, my family gets together at someone’s house for a barbeque and Easter egg hunting. One year in middle school, my mom and my stepdad volunteered our house for the first time. That Sunday, we woke up early to complete the preparations. My stepdad was playing with the grill in the backyard trying to get it ready so that he could barbeque. My mom was frantically running around the house trying to fill the last of the Easter eggs, put together Easter baskets for the younger kids and do some last minute cleaning. My siblings and I were busy cleaning our rooms so that our cousins could come up and hang out if they wanted. Around noon, my uncles show up with their families followed by my grandparents and some other people we invited. We all sat in the backyard under the sun eating barbeque and sugary Easter-themed desserts. The kids did their Easter egg hunting and we gave them their baskets. Afterwards, there was nothing else to do but relax and talk with each other.

           My uncles were all into professional golf and so they sat and talked about the PGA tour while my aunts and my mom discussed the makeovers that they were planning to do around their houses. Bored with these conversations, my brother Derek and my cousins went out front to play with a volleyball that they found in our garage. I watched as they played in the middle of the street clumsily bumping the ball to one another and yelling “Car!” every time someone drove down the street. It reminded me of the way we all use to play with each other out in the street when we lived in San Jose. My brother suggested that we all go to the park to play an actual game of volleyball on the court that they had set up there. With nothing else to do, we made the trek over.  

           We got to the park and needed to break up into teams. Derek suggested doing it gym class style where two team captains would take turns picking their team out of a line up. Seeing that as a waste of time, my cousin Deanna suggested breaking us up by last name. She and all of my cousins had the last name Vela and they all took such pride in that name. It was my mother’s maiden name and it traced its roots back to Mexico. All of the Velas in my generation went to the same high school and everybody at their school knew of their clan. They always hung out since they only lived a block away from each other and being a Vela meant that you were never alone. My siblings and I weren’t Velas though and that’s something that always haunted us. My Aunt Nelda would always call us “the mutts” since my siblings and I all had different last names than each other and from the rest of the family. We hated this name. It made us feel invalid and alienated, as if we weren’t actually part of the family.

           Derek agreed to break the teams up this way and thus it was the Velas versus the mutts. As we played, I noticed how the Velas would coordinate strategies with each other with little communication, talk about their past adventures with one another in between plays and high-five each other whenever they would score, as if they were an actual volleyball team. On my side of the net there was none of that. We, the mutts, weren’t close like them. We would never be able to coordinate strategies without talking or reflect on some wild adventure that we had with each other at school in between plays. We didn’t have the closeness that the Velas had because we were all just too different. I played the game wanting so badly to be on the other side of the net; wanting so badly to be a Vela.

           We played two games against the Velas and lost both. In addition to being as close-knit as they are, they’re also extremely good at sports. The only one on our team who was athletic was Derek, so we were at a disadvantage. We made the trek back to our house and when we got there our aunts and uncles asked us where we went. “We went to the park to play volleyball” my cousin Cassandra answered. “We did Velas versus everyone else and the Velas won of course!” she said with pride. After everyone grabbed something to drink and cooled off, my aunts, uncles and cousins all packed up and prepared for their drives back home. My mom packed them all plates of food and made sure that all the kids had their Easter eggs and baskets and we walked them all out. Everyone drove off back to their houses, which were only about a block away from each other. As we waved goodbye and watched them all drive off, I sat there thinking about the game we just played at the park, about the exclusion I felt being on the mutt side of the net. I sat there in agony wishing I could be a Vela.

[oscarisaacestradas]

Untitled Third Person Narrative

He was spending the weekend at his Uncle Beto and Aunt Tammy’s house because he wanted to play with his cousins Luis and Richard. It was a sunny Saturday morning and they had just finished eating breakfast. Aunt Tammy made blueberry pancakes with eggs and bacon. After they finished eating, they all went upstairs to the loft to play Twisted Metal on Richard’s Play Station 2. Since only two remotes were available, they took turns playing against one another. He was playing with Richard and noticed that Luis had slipped away. “Where did Luis go?” he asked Richard. “I don’t know” Richard replied. He and Richard got up from their seats and looked around. He felt something soft hit him in the back. He turned around and looked down at what hit him and noticed a doll with a stitched up face, evil eyes, orange hair, overalls and a striped shirt on. He realized what it was: the Chucky doll Luis had that always scared him. He jumped and backed away quick. “Luis quit it!” he screamed out. Luis knew he hated that doll, so he grabbed it and ran toward him with it. He felt scared being chased around with this doll, as if it were really alive. “Aunt Tammy!” he called out. He ran downstairs and found his aunt cleaning up from breakfast. “What’s wrong?” she asked. “Luis has the Chucky doll” he told her. “Luis stop it or else I’m throwing it away!” she told Luis. “Fine!” Luis responded and he left to put the doll back in his room. Aunt Tammy gave him a hug and told him “If he brings it out again tell me and I’ll throw it away.” “Okay” he responded. He absolutely hated that doll, but he felt safer knowing if that doll came out again, Aunt Tammy would protect him.

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It was the day of his high school graduation and his stepdad drove him to the Cardinal’s Stadium where the ceremony would be so that he could check in. On the way over, he looked out the window feeling angry. His dad wasn’t going because he claimed he had no money to get to Arizona. Part of him wanted to believe his dad, but he had a hard time doing that knowing his dad had been traveling all year long for his martial arts tournaments. “He cares more about his martial arts than his own son” he kept thinking to himself. It made him mad, especially since his dad found a way to make it to his brother’s graduation a few years before, even when he was unemployed at the time. “Don’t let him ruin your special day” his mom told him the night before, but he couldn’t help it. “You’ll be alright buddy” his stepdad told him. “Just try to enjoy it. You only get one high school graduation.”

When his class walked out to the field, he looked up at the crowd. He saw all his friends’ parents shouting their names and holding up signs. His mom and her side of the family were there, but his dad was nowhere to be seen. His anger was elevated. Things got better though during the ceremony. He got to sit right next to his best friend Ciara since they both had the last name Garcia and she kept cracking witty jokes about the speakers. He also got to stand up when they called out the top 10% and also for National Honor Society. He could hear his mom and her side of the family, along with other people, cheering for him when he stood up and it made him feel a little bit better.

After the ceremony, the class headed outside of the stadium to meet up with their families. He walked past a sea of families all with their “Congratulations!” balloons, flowers and other gifts. He eventually found his family hogging up space around a giant #2 outside of the stadium that was meant to mark which corridor you were in. “Congratulations Mijo” his Aunt Nelda said as she gave him a lei. “Go celebrate with your friends later” his Uncle Juan said as he winked and handed him a bottle of Martinelli’s apple cider, as if it were an actual bottle of alcohol. He hugged all of his cousins, aunts and uncles who congratulated him and then he finally got to his stepdad and mom. He gave his stepdad a hug and his stepdad told him he was proud. Then, he hugged his mom who held him so tight and shed a tear that he felt drop on his neck. In that moment, his anger completely evaporated. That morning, all he wanted was for his dad to be there, but when he felt that tear drop on his neck it didn’t matter anymore.

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           It was spring break during his sophomore year in college. That quarter had been busy for him and very stressful personally with his mom and stepdad undergoing a divorce back home. His mom would randomly call him crying with bad news after bad news and she would vent for hours on end about how she was going insane. Part of him didn’t want to go home for spring break and be around all of the negativity, but he knew he needed to in order to make sure everything was okay.

           “Phil wanted to pick you up from the airport. Is that okay?” his mom called the day before to ask. “Sure. I guess” he responded. He didn’t really want to see Phil, but he also didn’t want to start more drama. The next day when his flight arrived in Phoenix, Phil picked him up from the airport with his little sister. He felt a mixture of emotions seeing Phil for the first time in a while. He thought about what he did to his mom and it made him angry, but he knew Phil still saw him as his actual son and not just a stepson. Phil gave him a hug and they all went to dinner at New York Pizza Department. Dinner was quiet. Partly because he was tired and didn’t have the energy to talk, but mostly because he didn’t have much to say to Phil. “How’s work going?” Phil asked. “It’s alright. Same old same old” he responded. “What about your internship? Do you like it?” Phil continued, trying desperately to stir up conversation. “Yeah I like it a lot” he responded with no enthusiasm at all. Phil kept trying, but he just wasn’t in the mood. When their food finally came, they ate and all conversation ceased.

           After dinner, Phil dropped him off at his grandma’s house where his mom was staying since she wasn’t allowed at the house anymore. He was grabbing his luggage from the trunk when Phil came around and told him “I know things are awkward right now. I’m sorry.” “It’s alright” he responded. He went into the house with a bitter resentment toward Phil, he just couldn’t help it. He tried putting it aside for the time being though. When he went inside, he greeted his grandparents then he went upstairs to find his mom. She gave him a hug and asked how dinner with Phil was. “It was alright” he responded. “I’m really tired so I think I’m just going to go to sleep now. Where am I sleeping?” he asked his mom. “You can sleep on the floor in my room” she responded. This made him upset. “Great. First Phil kicks us out of the house and now I have to spend my break sleeping on the floor in my mom’s room” he thought to himself.

He and his mom laid blankets down on the floor together and he changed into pajamas. He was getting ready to turn off the lights and lay down when he heard the front door open. “Your sisters home” his mom told him. “Come say hi to her and the kids.” Between feeling tired and being angry at Phil he really just wanted to go to sleep, but he didn’t want to be rude and so he went down. When he went downstairs, he heard the sound of little voices screaming “Uncle Josh!” It was his niece Eva and his nephew Mikey. They both ran up to him to give him a hug. “They missed you!” his sister Vivianna told him. He cracked a smile and responded “I missed them too.” He looked down at his niece and nephew, both so young and full of innocence. Eva asked him to pick her up and so he did. With his niece in his arms, he felt at peace, relaxed and hopeful that one day everything will be alright.

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           These days he lives away from home. He’s chasing his dreams of earning a PhD and becoming a professor at a university. Academia, he learned, was not an easy field to be in. It’s competitive, political and, at times, downright hostile toward people like him. Every now and then, he questions what it is he’s getting himself into. “Could I actually survive in this field?” he always asks. To this day, he doesn’t know. Whenever he gets these feelings of doubt and insecurity though, he always thinks back to his family. He thinks back to how they’ve protected him, how they’ve made him feel calmer and how they always remind him of what’s important throughout the years. With them in mind, nothing seems so insurmountable and he approaches the world with confidence and strength.

[oscarisaacestradas]

Crouching at my Door

The first time I was called a faggot was when I was in seventh grade and since then self-hatred had been crouching at my door.

Those kids at school hated me because I’m queer. “I can stand all types of people except for people like him” I heard one of my classmates say.

Every morning I’d have to walk past these kids and they’d give me a death stare, as if I’ve done something like stole money from them or murdered their families. I always feared this walk, thinking one day they might act on what they were feeling. I thought about those stories I heard about other people in these types of situations and how, in some cases, it costed them their life.

“It’s my fault. It’s because I’m not normal” I concluded.

Eighth grade came along and nothing changed. To make matters worse I was stuck with these kids in all of my classes.

“Why do you hate me?” I asked God.

I would hear them all making remarks about me during class, bonding with one another at my expense. I tried to ignore it but it was hard, like trying to write a paper as someone blasts the TV. Everyday I’d walk home feeling crushed, thinking less and less of myself.

“It’s all because you’re not normal” I kept thinking.

One night I cracked and I started crying while I was trying to fall asleep. I tried keeping it down so that no one would hear me. I woke up the next morning with teardrops on my pillow.

“It’s because you’re not normal” was all that kept running through my mind and I went on thinking I was getting what I deserved.

High school came along and those kids that hated me moved away. I thought I was free, but they were reincarnated into the form of two boys on the bus. “The ugly gay kid” is what they’d call me. Every morning I’d walk to the bus stop and stand as far away as possible. I’d try to ignore them, but I could hear them whispering to one another about me and laughing.  

“Why can’t you be normal? This wouldn’t happen if you were normal” I would think to myself.

You see, I hated myself. I let this hatred eat away at me like some sort of parasite. It was a hatred that I felt in my stomach and in my chest. It crouched waiting behind my door so that it could attack me without warning and it wouldn’t go away.  

The day came when I got to leave home. I moved to California for college when I was 17 and it was my opportunity to redefine myself and start anew.

However, that hatred remained crouched at my door, finding new reasons to eat away at me, like my grades and social anxiety. It kept going until almost nothing was left. It wouldn’t go away until I went back to the place where it was birthed.

It was winter break one year and my friends from high school and I decided to have a small reunion. We had a sleepover at my friend Pauline’s house. Her parents ordered food for us and we had plans to eat, play Mario Party and watch scary movies all night. I went thinking I’ll just say hello to everyone, we’ll have some fun and I’d leave around midnight. Thankfully, that’s not all that happened. When we all got together, I felt perhaps the happiest I’d felt in a while. We hadn’t all been in the same room since graduation a few years before. All of our lives changed so much, but when we got together we reminisced about our wild adventures, talked about our goals and gossiped about who from our high school was married and pregnant now, like nothing has changed between us. We stayed up all night and everyone left around 7am.

“I love you all” Pauline said to us as she walked out.

“I love you all, too” my friend Ciara added.

We all hugged each other goodbye, got in our cars and drove our separate ways, my heart full of nothing but love.

You see, since my preteen years self-hatred ate away at me because of the kids at school. I let it follow me even when I left home and let it develop further. It didn’t go away until I realized that I was worthy of love and not hate.

Now, I find myself living with nothing but love in my heart.