piedras: melancholia

When I reflect upon my life, I always try to see it from the perspective of an outside force.

Because truly, no one else’s perspective matters. I no longer question “why” I went through or go through things. I just accept my challenges and blessings as they present themselves.

Also really grateful I haven’t been married/had the need to and that I have no kids.


I’ve learned to wash my clothes on rocks since as early as I can remember, probably 10 years old I started to really get the knack of it and at 17, I was pretty skilled.

At 17, I had already made friends with other indigenous and mestizo girls my age from my grandparent’s village. My cousin, them, and I would go as a group together down to the riverbank, hauling either a sack or cart-full of laundry as we walked down the unpaved roads.

We’d be laughing, joking about, well, teenage girl things. Our favorite time to go was about an hour or two before dusk. We knew they’d be almost no “Ama de casas” during the early evenings, meaning we could be free to talk about what we please without fear of being eavesdropped.

I didn’t care about others hearing my conversations, but then again I didn’t live there year-round and being a USC gave me a pass on many things that would be considered offensive if done by others.

The Sun never seems to want to go away when you’re near the equator, I’m glad there are parts on Earth that relatively unscathed by European bull shit.

Our favorite parts of the banks are were the water was the calmest and not so deep. Out of our group of 3-5 girls, only another girl and myself could swim. Both her and I were able to dive into the deeps of the river and find the best rocks to throw and scrub our dirty clothes on.

I recall diving and finding the perfect slab, a bit porous, but not overly so, just enough to be abrasive. I’d grab the slab with both my hands, wiggling it around, and prying it up from the sandy bottom without disturbing the water or bottom too much. Its hard for me to imagine that I actually could go longer than 2 minutes under water while making an extraneous effort to lift a 20 pound slab of rock stuck in clay and sand. It was no deeper than 10-12 feet underwater, but my cousin and the other girls were afraid of the current.

I’d usually help my cousin and dive one for her as well, but sometimes she was a bitch and it was sweet revenge to see her wash her clothes on a not so perfect rock or a boulder.

The best slab should be about 2-3 feet long and wide.

We’d place them against the roots of a tree if the river was overgrown or against a boulder, ensuring ourselves it was sturdy before continuing with our task. Optimal condition is when the river is a little overflowing, enough that the water is at or just above our knees.

  1. Hardest articles should be washed first, as to not tire yourself too quickly. Things such as jeans or towels. (if you were lucky though, your parents owned a small plug in washer for towels and blankets)
  2. You submerge the article of clothing completely, or you had a little bowl to use to scoop up water from the river to pour over the clothes.
  3. All about arm strength, baby. You sprinkle laundry detergent over your clothes and use every muscle in your arm to froth the article back and forth, flipping it over after your done with one side.
  4. Once it is all frothy and suddy, you can either submerge it in the water or use the bowl again.
  5. You twist and squeeze the article until it is barely dripping any water and you throw it into a clean large bucket, sack, or cart.

Maybe some will argue that this is polluting, but I’ll counter argue that polluting is when governments allow transnational corporations to use these same rivers to dump their waste.

If I ever went in the mornings, it was with my grandmother. It was like, a communal event to wash your clothes in the river in the mornings. Almost every woman in town would be there, if she wasn’t there already yesterday. Some would be done with their laundry for the day, sitting at the high banks breast feeding their baby or catching up with a friend or sister. Some women, mostly the older ones, would go shirtless or completely sans-bra. It was a safe place, free of judgement. No men. The only males there, if any, were under 5 years of age.

Matriarchal.

I never experienced anything as similar to that, and I don’t think I ever will again.

I can thank transnational corporations (again), narcos, and politics for that.

Hate men, mostly white, rich men. You ruin everything. I enjoy ruining your cookie-cut life.

06/04 – “Xica da silva”

Vanilla life has been kicking my ass the past 10 days, and I have a 6 day vanilla work day coming up u_u but it does end with 3-day weekend. Most likely will take a technology detox on Catalina Island.


Surprise, surprise. I got back with my ex.

We spent the last weekend fucking, and when we weren’t messing around we were out in nature, cooking, or watching movies. I’ll add that -I- fucked him first the night before I let his silly cock slip inside me again ā¤

We talked the day after Father’s Day and put everything on the table. I don’t ask for much, but expect a lot. If that makes sense. I didn’t compromise (I’m not at fault lol), but he did.

Its upsetting to realize that I am profusely in love with this middle-age, capitalist white man. I used to be anti-white in my teens till probably 20; very Chicanx, a self-proclaimed socialist and vocal about issues in the brown community until my abusive ex broke me lol. I wouldn’t even engage with white bois unless it was to humiliate them.

I think in part why I am so enamored by him is because by learning about him, I learn somewhat more about white American culture. As a rule of thumb, I am indifferent towards all new white Americans that I meet. I think the brown narrative default is to hate them, but personally, they don’t deserve that much passion from my part.

I don’t even hate Trump supporters. I just have no respect for them.

I do hate the Eurocentric values that were forced upon us, and the patriarchy. The darker her skin, the more value I place on Her views and desires.

Race doesn’t even exist, its all social constructs created by men and the Catholic Church.

The whites wipe out races, animals, and ecosystems… how do you not deserve to be punished lol. White women have furthered racist rhetoric throughout history, so when it comes to the topic of feminism I don’t really care what they have to say unless they are speaking on behalf of Brown and Black womxn to reach a larger audience.

I do love my boyfriend though, because he is always willing to learn. He has said very insensitive things, but only because no one told him he was wrong and luckily he now has me to make him a better human being šŸ™‚


Currently, I’m contemplating whether to add a minor or double major to my degree. I’m taking summer classes, working, and still have to study for the LSAT! I probably won’t be able to take the LSAT until 2022 it seems like at this rate. I wonder what its like to be born with a silver spoon in your mouth sometimes.

— H

walt whitman

Este es mi diario, de los amores de mi vida y mis mas Ć­ntimos deseos.

Aspiro poder escribir versos hermosos y impactante, para compartirlos y enseƱar que bonito se siente amar y adorar.

Yo no quise venir a este mundo, no fue mi decision.

Pero al fin al cabo estoy aquĆ­.

Creci en tierras calientes, entre el Sur de California y la PenĆ­nsula de Yucatan. He visto al hombre mas humilde, y al hombre con mas poder y dinero que tiempo.

La vida me ha quitado todo, y me ha dado todo.

En mi corazĆ³n, se que voy en camino al Ć©xito.

Quisiera compartir mi jornada con ustedes, para que vean como crezco y obtengo mis metas. Aveces siento que tengo el favor del universo, porque ya me ha enseƱado lo mas feo de la vida. Ahora me falta ver lo mas hermoso.

El poeta Americano, Walt Whitman, escribiĆ³ el libro “Leaves of Grass” durante el transcurso de su vida. Muchos veneran a este libro como su autobiografĆ­a.

Gracias Walt, porque usted me ha inspirado y usted me da Ɣnimos en escribir casi todos los dƭas.

Yo se que su libro era una obra viviente, siempre mejorando hasta que usted estaba satisfecho; o el dĆ­a de su muerte.

En mi mente, hay miles de imƔgenes y memorias que reservo.

Unas buenas, que me traen alegrĆ­a o placer; otras que me dan miedo y rabia.

Mi vida no es como los de los demƔs. Y por eso lo relato. Necesito recordarme que yo sufri y gane mi estancia, sino me hare una malagradecida. Y eso repugno.

amor

SeƱor,

Licenciado,

Amor.

Que soy yo mas que una tonta niƱa,

profundamente enamorada de Usted.

Escribiendote versos en mi cuaderno, suspirando,

pensando,

en Usted.

Si usted fuera mi maestro, lo viera cada dƭa despuƩs de clase

me sentaria sobre tus piernes,

meneandome,

solamente para verlo sonrojar

y gozare al sentir su pasiĆ³n duro

debajo de mi.

“Sir”

capitalista

hombre blanco

la causa de la desgracia de civilizaciones en su cenit.

SeƱor maƱoso,

que tomo ventaja de mi juventud y curiosidad.

Para despojarme de cada petalo de mi flor.

ay, pero amor

a la misma vez dƔndo mi cuerpo de beber

de su saliva dulce,

y del tan leve salado de su sudor.

como caen sus gotas sobre mi cara,

sobre mi cuerpo liso,

baƱandome,

empandome,

haciendo mi cuerpo relucir contra la luz de luna.

Sentiendote adentro de mi,

llenƔndome,

completƔndome;

cierro mis ojos, sonrio,

y te rezo

agradecida con usted por sedar mi sed.

Como si fueses Tlaloc y yo,

un campo lleno de flores, deseando brotar.

ay, pero SeƱor

no me llenas

te necesito cada alba,

cada noche

cada caloroso atardecer.

Ay, maestro

mi cuerpo joven se acostumbraron a sus manos sabias,

suaves, grandes, y pesadas.

escribes sobre mi

mas secretos de noches de locura y pasiĆ³n.

Ay SeƱor,

enseƱame amor de antaƱo.

Como se siente SeƱor,

de cautivar y ilusionar,

el corazĆ³n de esta niƱa mujer.

Tlaloc,

Mi Dios,

estoy muriendo de sed.


SeƱor marinero,

cai en tus redes sin darme cuenta.

Y al alzarme a tu barco,

viste a esta sirena encuerada y asustada.

SeƱor marinero,

te ruego que me dejes ir.

No me mires con esos ojos serenos y maduros,

que veo en su profundidad la lujeria que quema dentro

de ti.

Me tienes en tus redes,

sin pensar en mi.

sol

Me animas cada maƱana que me saludas

Gracias por despertarme en las maƱanas con tu caloroso abrazo,

Besandome la cara con tus rayos.

Gracias

Por mi tez morena,

Por alumbrar mi vida.

Quisiera adornarme con tus rayos, para poder resplandecer y compartir tus besos con mi alrededor

Usted que da vida a todo en este mundo,

entiendo por que lo veneran como Dios

rich white people can you stop taking shits in impoverished countries? because we are going to lose the remaining patrimonies humanity has.

my only solace is that the earth will not mourn you.

when will you reach your fill?

06/11

tw: DV, rape, nc

frustrating to switch between two languages, two mindsets, two world views on a daily basis.

while comparing my two worlds, I can begin to pinpoint the reasons why I enjoy hurting the male sex.

My favorite Mexican idiom is “amĆ”rrate los huevos”

Literal translation = tie your balls.

What does this mean? Why would someone say that to another?

Latin American culture is defined by its patriarchal values, first-born son shit, “women are meant for fucking, babies, and other mundane tasks” BS, and its fascination with cock (literally).


Amarrate los huevos.

It means to pull yourself by your bootstraps, to discipline yourself so you can get shit done.

Its an inference to castration, an allusion to being docile and obedient.

I like doing race play scenes with people who are also of my same “race”- just because I know where to jab.

Latino men grow up thinking women owe them. Their mothers cater them well into adulthood, until they pass their useless sons into the oblivious and caring hands of another – their son’s wife/S.O.

love is blind they say.


06/11

I never thought I would see myself serving a man or being someoneā€™s bitch and near slave. But I lived that experience early at 18 and I would rather not experience anything similar to that ever again.

Speaking of huevos, it brings to memory a moment from the worst chapter in my life.

It was evening, I had just gotten off my stop at the corner up my street. People were coming home from work, friends and families were walking down the street, strolling and enjoying the night’s fresh air. All I could really think about was how I was off later than what I had told Him. I am exhausted, from running up and down the plaza and restaurant. But I savored the rest of the walk home. That 5 minute walk was my relief and escape.

He would often say to me I had the “easiest” job. Neglecting and ignoring the blisters and calluses on my feet from the 12 hour shifts I would do, day in and day out.

I arrive home, tired yet again, wanting to shower and sleep. It seems my ex has company over and I have to compose myself and smile, because no one wants to see how miserable I am. I make them uncomfortable, He says.

With a fake smile plastered on my face, pushing my discomfort aside, I go ahead and greet everyone at the dinner table, my heart sinking immediately after realizing that they were waiting for me.

The table was set up, but there were no signs of cooking or baking, and no Tupperware’s indicating that this was a potluck. My heart sinking deep into my stomach after understanding that tonightā€™s performance and service was my cooking.

He’s sitting down, presenting me to unfamiliar faces, holding me by the waist. He was proud to show me off, proud to show others what his bitch could do.

With swollen feet, I excused myself. There was no need for him to explain to his company where I was going because He knew I was coming down stairs in minutes again. And I did, the first trick I did for his friends’ entertainment. 4 men and 1 woman in my house. Not including myself, because I felt more like an object than a human

Most of his friends took pity on me and said they weren’t hungry and were ready to head out, but asshole #5 stated he was famished.

Being a slave is worse than being a whore.

As his friends excused themselves for them evening (minus asshole #5), He essentially began begging them to stay but they politely declined.

The woman in the group had been over a few times, but has never looked me in the eye. She knew, but I don’t blame her for not wanting to involve herself.

Being ignorant helps you sleep easy at night.


I stood by His right side, him sitting on the head of the table, holding me by the waist as him and his friend laughed at misogynistic jokes quite literally in front of my face. He then looked at me, which was my cue to ask,

“Is there anything I can do for you?”

There always was a positive response.

I catered to 2 grown men from 8pm to Midnight. I had pushed my threshold, I was nearing collapse. My feet tired and swollen from standing since 6am, but I became numb to the pain by 10pm. Every day, I was amazed by what my body could withstand.

There are times I wish I was weaker, so people could expect less of me.


Once company is gone for the night, the routine was as follows:

“Open your legs, open your mouth”, thrust, thrust, thrust.

It was easier to give in than to say no, struggle, and get taken anyways.

There were nights were it was over quick and he was soon asleep.

Other nights, I wasn’t passionate enough. A strike to my face or bloody bites to remind me who I belonged to.

I would cry myself to sleep often.

each time, he rips my wings off. how could I fly away?