I think I was about six years old when my grandma was visiting my family in Buenos Aires. My mom had started working by that time, and there was no nanny to cook for me, so she decided to take on the task.
In Argentina we have these potato balls that are breaded and deep-fried that we call "Bombas de Papa." The literal translation of the name is: Potato bombs. They are a favorite of mine, and as such my grandma decided to make them for me; except she had a little trick up her sleeve.
When I first sat down and was served, the bombas de papa looked ordinary. They were browned, but not too browned. They were crunchy to the fork, but not too crunchy. The center had melted cheese which was something my grandma used to always do for me- what tastes better than deep fried potatoes? deep-fried cheese. So without any hesitation I put a piece in my mouth. Well, what came next was an automatic reflex that I still succumb to even today. I gagged. Something was fishy about these bombas de papa.
I told my grandma that there was something wrong with them. I told her that they tasted strangely. She didn't believe me. She even tried one herself and said that they tasted like any other bomba de papa she's had, and she's made. Still, with a little more persistence she finally let me in on a little secret. The verdulero (produce guy) had sold her some potatoes that were about to expire to save some money. She was retired after all. So, if I wanted to, she would make me something else, but she didn't want to waste the potatoes. I refused to eat them, and I equally refused for her to have to cook something else. After all Bombas de papa were already too much work.
Later on that afternoon my mom and my Grandma got into an argument. That is when I learned a little secret that my grandma had kept from me. She had used a special ingredient. She had used fish.
Ever since then I've refused to eat, drink, or smell anything that even tastes, or smells remotely fishy. I guess that's the catalyst that made me gay. :-)
Monday, March 23, 2009
It takes a writer...
This is by far the best explanation of how I am. It is written by author Anne Lamott, in her book Bird by Bird.
"quieting these voices is at least half the battle I fight daily. But this is better than it used to be. It used to be 87 percent. Left to its own devices, my mind spends much of its time having conversations with people who aren't there. I walk along defending myself to people, or exchanging repartee with them, or rationalizing my behavior, or seducing them with gossip, or pretending I'm on their TV talk show or whatever. I speed or run an aging yellow light or don't come to a full stop, and one nanosecond later am explaining to imaginary cops exactly why I had to do what I did, or insisting that I did not in fact do it."
Working on a new blog. Until then, cheers.
"quieting these voices is at least half the battle I fight daily. But this is better than it used to be. It used to be 87 percent. Left to its own devices, my mind spends much of its time having conversations with people who aren't there. I walk along defending myself to people, or exchanging repartee with them, or rationalizing my behavior, or seducing them with gossip, or pretending I'm on their TV talk show or whatever. I speed or run an aging yellow light or don't come to a full stop, and one nanosecond later am explaining to imaginary cops exactly why I had to do what I did, or insisting that I did not in fact do it."
Working on a new blog. Until then, cheers.
Monday, March 9, 2009
On Seaweed and Life
My grandpa died when I was five years old. I know this not because I can recall the year that he passed, but because he died two weeks after my birthday. We were all at his house in Entre Rios, Argentina when it happened. I can still remember the spongy sensation and the smell of lemon, sugar and butter in my mouth from my birthday cake. A cake that he insisted on making sure my family purchase for me. I can't quite remember who showed up for my party other than my cousins, but I can tell you that the glasses were to the right of the cake. I can tell you that there were potatoe chips, palitos, and other party mix in front of the glasses. And I can tell you that to the right of these there was a bottle of coca-cola.
I can still remember softness of my aunt's curls when she hugged me after she told me the news. I can sense the comfort, the security that receiving this news from his chair had on me. I can feel the warmth that her body sought to share with me.
I still cry when I remember this. He's passing was my first heartbreak.
Maybe it was fate, maybe it was destiny, maybe it was a necessary step in some master plan that some old bearded guy that lives in one of the many clouds in the sky had planned out, but the previous summer (January) my whole family, including my grandparents, decided to go to the beach with my parents, uncles, aunts and cousins. This would be his last summer.
My grandpa was sort of the goofball that I somewhat resemble now. He was one of the most loyal people you'd ever meet. He was a union member. He helped anyone that needed a hand, and sometimes at his own sacrifice. He not only saw the world as it should be, but he sought to do something to change it.
He saw the good in people.
During one of those days in our last vacation my grandpa and I were in the ocean playing. The tide had changed that day, and there were tons of seaweed all over the waves and the rocks. I detest seaweed. It has always made my skin crawl. To this day I still can't even smell sushi because of the smell of seaweed. Still, my grandpa insisted on me playing with him, and because he knew how much I disliked seaweed he cut me a deal. He knew how uncomfortable I was with seaweed, so in order to placate the effect of the seaweed he offered to stand in front of me facing the beach with his back to the sea. This way he created a sort of human border with his legs- a wall that protected me from the seaweed.
My friends always say that I'm a gambler. That sometimes when I date guys, and I really like them I just let them in and become very available. That my game is risky not because I lack the ability to edit my impulses, but because I lack the ability to protect myself. I have a feeling that this is more than with just dating. I don't have a lot of friends. This has been a conscious effort on my part. I've done so because of two reasons: First, I would do anything for any of my true friends. Second, this much love need not be diluted with the amount of friendships that I accumulate. There is only so much I can give.
Recently I fathomed a lesson that until now had been elusive to me. I learned the lesson that my grandpa sought to teach me that summer's day at the beach: a little wall never hurt anyone- in fact deconstructing it can be fun. Because, unlike that summer's day, now, there is no one else there to love you enough to stand in the way of seaweed and you.
Oscar Wilde once said: "Be youself; everyone else is already taken." This is exactly what I've been doing lately. I've stopped trying to pretend that I'm perfect, and I've started loving the uniqueness of the imperfections that make me who I am.
A few weeks ago I was put in a position that was uncomfortable for me. The sea of this ambiguous friendship became clouded with seaweed, and for the first time, instead of attempting to swim evasively trying to salvage some of it, I did for myself what my grandpa had done for me almost two decades earlier. I stood my ground. I built some boundaries and demanded them be respected.
For the first time I protected myself not because I was scared of being hurt, but because for the first time I felt that I was something worth protecting. For the first I saw in myself what my grandpa had seen twenty years before during our last summer together: the object of his love. I'm the object of my love, and because of this I've picked up a new habit. You might know about it because I advice people to follow my lead on my facebook status update from time to time.
I dance every morning while in the shower. I dance by myself with myself. I dance like I dance when I'm out- I dance like no one is watching. I dance this way not because no one is watching, but because those who matter are probably dancing with me already. Not because there is fear that this might be your last spring, your last winter, your last summer. But because there really is no other way to live than to enjoy every second-every millisecond of this life. Because you are good enough, significant enough, for the simplest reason that you are who you are and I am who I am, to enjoy this life. Because you are - I am- someone worth protecting.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
No qualifiers.
For the remainder of the show, and the bull's life, the bull keeps purposely searching for the matador behind this red cape. The matador's role is to always gracefully move and avoid being horned by the bull. He must calculate, and asses the distance of the horns, of the bull, from his own body. The closer the distance, the more exciting the show. This elegant dance continues regardless of the futile efforts of the bull to hurt him. The bull is never in control. He just goes through the motions and attempts to fulfill its only goal: to kill the matador.
This translates to more than just bullfighting. There are certain rules that you have to follow in order to achieve what you want to achieve. Like the bull, there is always a red cape that you have to strive for to get to the matador. This form of thinking isn't foreign to anyone that has done anything with their lives. For example, if you want to lose weight, you cut down your calories, and you work out. Easy. If you want to gain weight, do the opposite. Much easier.
Unfortunately for us, the rules are not always as clear cut as we'd like them to be. Usually, at least in terms of fulfilling our goals, the matador isn't always behind the red cape. Accepting this, realizing this, understanding this had been a challenge for me. A challenge that none other than my absent father addressed when I sat and shared a cup of coffee with him in Buenos Aires this past December.
Sitting across from me was this older looking guy to whom I had no affection. No love. It had been twelve years since I had seen him. After my parent's divorce he simply stopped fulfilling all of his responsibilities- financial and emotional. This had been, up until this cup of coffee, my biggest source of insecurity. He didn't do what he was supposed to do. I was the matador, and he was the bull, and he never strived to get me.
After receiving our coffees, he stirred his and began to say:
"There are many things that I want to say to you, as I'm sure there are even more that you want to say to me. But when shit hits the fan everyone gets dirty, regardless of who threw the feces to the fan or who turned the fan on. I think that we've lost enough time already. I think that we should put the past behind us and accept that life is."
He stopped to take a sip, and let what he had just said sink in.
"Life is. No qualifier. No comparison. Life is, and you try to make the best of it. And sometimes, when you look back, you realize that you've made mistakes."
This has been my philosophy lately. It has freed me from always being the bull, and sometimes thinking that I'm the matador. I've stopped trying to control everything, and stopped trying to allow others to control me. My only task is to live life as it is. Without if's and but's, simply fulfilling the only task I have been assigned: to live it; to live life as it is. To play my hand with the cards I got, and not with the cards that I wished I had. To live life with no comparisons, with no qualifiers. To live...
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
The Curse of the Vet
“We tell ourselves stories in order to live.” – Joan Didion.
When I was four or five years old I had a pet turtle named Manuelita. I loved this turtle. I fed her lettuce and carrots, and all those things that cartoons teach you that these animals eat. One day Manuelita got sick. She got so sick, in fact, that my mom had to take her to the vet. After a few days of her absence I asked my mom what was happening with Manuelita: “Well, she is really sick, so she is in Intensive Care, she’ll be back soon,” was my mom’s response. Satisfied with her answer and thinking that my mom would never lie to me I figured Manuelita would eventually return.
I think that I was seven when my dad bought me a hamster. I actually don’t remember his name, but for some reason I’m thinking it was Federico. I had a buddy from school who also had a hamster. We would meet up and talk about our hamsters after class. My hamster wasn’t very nice. He would bite me, and pee on me, and he would always get dirty in his cage. I didn’t understand him very much. My buddy told me that Fede acted this way because he was a male hamster, and that female hamsters, like the one he owned, were much nicer to humans. He told me that female hamsters were more likely to allow humans to pet them except when they had baby hamsters.
During one of Fede’s tantrums he got very dirty. Not knowing any better I grabbed Fede and gave him a bath. While I was giving him a bath he fell asleep. At first, I thought that it was incredibly adorable to have Fede, whom would normally be biting me, fall asleep in my hands, but after a few minutes of me trying to wake him up and he not waking up I started to freak out. I told my mom what was happening and she told me that she would take him to the vet. A few days went by and Fede still hadn’t returned from the vet so I asked my mom what was happening. She told me that he was very sick and that he would eventually return once he felt better. I figured that since she was my mom she knew better than I did, though I had my suspicions.
I’ve been talking to this guy since November. We’ve hang out a number of times, but most of our interaction has been through either text, and or AIM. I enjoy talking to him. He makes me laugh, and is mostly informed about things that interest me, which makes him that much more attractive. The problem one would say with this guy is that he is, and I’m fully aware to this fact, emotionally unavailable to me. I know this, not only because he told me so, but because I have this uncanny ability to only attract, and be attracted to, this sort of guys.
I’m okay with the fact that nothing will come out of this. In fact, I’m happy to be making a new friend. Yet when we talk, we still flirt, we still sometimes, though sporadically, sleep together.
Needless to say Manuelita was never released from the ICU, and Fede never woke up from his nap. But a part of me remains hopeful that, as my mother said, they would return. I’m okay with the fact that I’ll never see my pets again. But, I can’t help but remain a bit optimistic about the whole situation. There was never any finality to it. Perhaps this is the same reason why, even though it has nothing to do with who he is, I still talk to this dude, and the many other dudes with whom I was in the same situation. I can’t help but be an optimist about the given hopelessness of it all. I still have hope though all sings point to no. I still, and will probably always see some light in the darkness. I like that about me. I like the fact that though I’ve been disappointed a number of times I remain hopeful. I don’t lose myself in the disappointments. Rather I focus on the fact that eventually it will all work out. Manuelita will eventually get released. Fede will eventually wake up. Until then, I’ll just tell myself stories in order to live.
When I was four or five years old I had a pet turtle named Manuelita. I loved this turtle. I fed her lettuce and carrots, and all those things that cartoons teach you that these animals eat. One day Manuelita got sick. She got so sick, in fact, that my mom had to take her to the vet. After a few days of her absence I asked my mom what was happening with Manuelita: “Well, she is really sick, so she is in Intensive Care, she’ll be back soon,” was my mom’s response. Satisfied with her answer and thinking that my mom would never lie to me I figured Manuelita would eventually return.
I think that I was seven when my dad bought me a hamster. I actually don’t remember his name, but for some reason I’m thinking it was Federico. I had a buddy from school who also had a hamster. We would meet up and talk about our hamsters after class. My hamster wasn’t very nice. He would bite me, and pee on me, and he would always get dirty in his cage. I didn’t understand him very much. My buddy told me that Fede acted this way because he was a male hamster, and that female hamsters, like the one he owned, were much nicer to humans. He told me that female hamsters were more likely to allow humans to pet them except when they had baby hamsters.
During one of Fede’s tantrums he got very dirty. Not knowing any better I grabbed Fede and gave him a bath. While I was giving him a bath he fell asleep. At first, I thought that it was incredibly adorable to have Fede, whom would normally be biting me, fall asleep in my hands, but after a few minutes of me trying to wake him up and he not waking up I started to freak out. I told my mom what was happening and she told me that she would take him to the vet. A few days went by and Fede still hadn’t returned from the vet so I asked my mom what was happening. She told me that he was very sick and that he would eventually return once he felt better. I figured that since she was my mom she knew better than I did, though I had my suspicions.
I’ve been talking to this guy since November. We’ve hang out a number of times, but most of our interaction has been through either text, and or AIM. I enjoy talking to him. He makes me laugh, and is mostly informed about things that interest me, which makes him that much more attractive. The problem one would say with this guy is that he is, and I’m fully aware to this fact, emotionally unavailable to me. I know this, not only because he told me so, but because I have this uncanny ability to only attract, and be attracted to, this sort of guys.
I’m okay with the fact that nothing will come out of this. In fact, I’m happy to be making a new friend. Yet when we talk, we still flirt, we still sometimes, though sporadically, sleep together.
Needless to say Manuelita was never released from the ICU, and Fede never woke up from his nap. But a part of me remains hopeful that, as my mother said, they would return. I’m okay with the fact that I’ll never see my pets again. But, I can’t help but remain a bit optimistic about the whole situation. There was never any finality to it. Perhaps this is the same reason why, even though it has nothing to do with who he is, I still talk to this dude, and the many other dudes with whom I was in the same situation. I can’t help but be an optimist about the given hopelessness of it all. I still have hope though all sings point to no. I still, and will probably always see some light in the darkness. I like that about me. I like the fact that though I’ve been disappointed a number of times I remain hopeful. I don’t lose myself in the disappointments. Rather I focus on the fact that eventually it will all work out. Manuelita will eventually get released. Fede will eventually wake up. Until then, I’ll just tell myself stories in order to live.
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
An Island
Every man is an island or so they say. Iʼm probably the best representation of this
expression. Iʼve often times isolated myself in order to protect myself from being hurt.
This has been increasingly noticeable since coming back to Argentina.
But what I don´t understand is why am I sometimes so quick to get upset with those who I love most. Iʼm upset with my little brother, and my mother right now. Iʼm
pissed that he gets to enjoy life a little better than I do. Iʼm angry that at times he is soo
selfish and lazy and gets away with it. Iʼm angry that my mom doesnʼt hold him to any
standard, and she keeps supporting him, and paying everything for him during our
vacation, and sends him things that he sells to buy better things with. He sold a laptop I
bought him with the condition of a high GPA when he was in Fresno, but then wanted to move to Argentina, for the second time, and I gave it to him. I feel betrayed by that. Not by the lucrative
business transaction, but because I thought that he needed it. That... in essence he
needed me. I donʼt know why Iʼm so angry. I donʼt know why I shut my self down, and I
just want to be alone, and be angry.
Why am I Angry? because I donʼt know how to love. I know how to be affectionate. I
know how to show that I care by buying things, but when it boils down to it, I donʼt know
how to love. I know what love looks like. I know what love tastes like. I know how to act
when love someone, but that sense of security that you get with loved ones, that
sense that they love you no matter what, that sense that their love goes beyond their
affections, that! That I donʼt know how that feels. Iʼve not allowed
myself to feel that for as long as I can remember.
Iʼve been pretty self reliant for a long period of my life. I think I was sixteen when I
started working, paying rent (to my mom), and buying my own things, in addition to
going to school that is. If you looked at me now, not much has changed. Yes, Iʼve gotten
some help from my mother (she sometimes buys my books), but I could have
gotten by with out it. I didnʼt NEED the help, but I appreciated it.
I want to need the help of my loved ones. I want to need them. I want to feel so close to
them that iʼll stop whatever Iʼm doing to pick up the phone when my mom calls, and at
least tell her I love her. I want to appreciate her more, and I want to get along with my
brother better. I want to be a good brother, and a good son. Not a better brother and a
better son because that implies that I some how already know how to be those things
and I donʼt. I know how to portray myself, and I know what to say, and what not to say.
But Iʼm tired of this, Iʼm tired that I have to worry about worrying them about me, I want
them to worry about me. I want them to know that I donʼt have my shit together as much
as I like them to think because I feel as though they have bigger things to worry about.
But darn it, they should worry about me! I want to get to know them, and I want to show
them who I truly am. Not who Iʼve pretended to be. Iʼm done with that.
Yes, every man is an island, but it is up to us to build the bridges that connect us. And what better way to build those bridges than to go on a fun adventure day with my lil bro. Cayaking and horse riding tomorrow.
expression. Iʼve often times isolated myself in order to protect myself from being hurt.
This has been increasingly noticeable since coming back to Argentina.
But what I don´t understand is why am I sometimes so quick to get upset with those who I love most. Iʼm upset with my little brother, and my mother right now. Iʼm
pissed that he gets to enjoy life a little better than I do. Iʼm angry that at times he is soo
selfish and lazy and gets away with it. Iʼm angry that my mom doesnʼt hold him to any
standard, and she keeps supporting him, and paying everything for him during our
vacation, and sends him things that he sells to buy better things with. He sold a laptop I
bought him with the condition of a high GPA when he was in Fresno, but then wanted to move to Argentina, for the second time, and I gave it to him. I feel betrayed by that. Not by the lucrative
business transaction, but because I thought that he needed it. That... in essence he
needed me. I donʼt know why Iʼm so angry. I donʼt know why I shut my self down, and I
just want to be alone, and be angry.
Why am I Angry? because I donʼt know how to love. I know how to be affectionate. I
know how to show that I care by buying things, but when it boils down to it, I donʼt know
how to love. I know what love looks like. I know what love tastes like. I know how to act
when love someone, but that sense of security that you get with loved ones, that
sense that they love you no matter what, that sense that their love goes beyond their
affections, that! That I donʼt know how that feels. Iʼve not allowed
myself to feel that for as long as I can remember.
Iʼve been pretty self reliant for a long period of my life. I think I was sixteen when I
started working, paying rent (to my mom), and buying my own things, in addition to
going to school that is. If you looked at me now, not much has changed. Yes, Iʼve gotten
some help from my mother (she sometimes buys my books), but I could have
gotten by with out it. I didnʼt NEED the help, but I appreciated it.
I want to need the help of my loved ones. I want to need them. I want to feel so close to
them that iʼll stop whatever Iʼm doing to pick up the phone when my mom calls, and at
least tell her I love her. I want to appreciate her more, and I want to get along with my
brother better. I want to be a good brother, and a good son. Not a better brother and a
better son because that implies that I some how already know how to be those things
and I donʼt. I know how to portray myself, and I know what to say, and what not to say.
But Iʼm tired of this, Iʼm tired that I have to worry about worrying them about me, I want
them to worry about me. I want them to know that I donʼt have my shit together as much
as I like them to think because I feel as though they have bigger things to worry about.
But darn it, they should worry about me! I want to get to know them, and I want to show
them who I truly am. Not who Iʼve pretended to be. Iʼm done with that.
Yes, every man is an island, but it is up to us to build the bridges that connect us. And what better way to build those bridges than to go on a fun adventure day with my lil bro. Cayaking and horse riding tomorrow.
Thursday, December 4, 2008
Going Home
I arrived to Argentina a little less than a week ago. We landed last Sunday afternoon to be exact. So far, I've seen some improvements, and Buenos Aires is a pretty as it has always been. I only stayed in that city for a few hours however. Enough to notice the cultural change that has shaped that city, and the influence of the United States in my hometown. Case in point my mom and her longing for alfajores de maicena. They go really well with a cortado (an expresso shot with just a little bit of milk), and they traditionally Argentine. On Sunday, and while we were waiting for the bus that brought us to where I am today we went to a coffee shop and asked for both an alfajor, and a cortado. Well, the server informed us that he could provide us witht he cortado, but that he didn't have any alfajores de maicena, or any alfajores for that matter. That if we wanted we could a brouni (browny) or a chiscaque (cheesecake). WHAT?!?!
Yup, we traveled over 16 hours simply to get a fucking browny!
More updates soon.
Yup, we traveled over 16 hours simply to get a fucking browny!
More updates soon.
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