narrative writing

Around 3 years ago, I was in a house party in the Upper East Side. I remember that I was recently back from Russia, where I spent 3 wonderful weeks, so I felt happy and re-energized. I was telling some people about my experience in Moscow and Saint Petersburg, when, out of nowhere, an acquaintance said, “You have it so easy, Ignacio.” I stopped talking, but looked at him with an expression on my face that shouted “what are you talking about?!” So, he went on and, from what I recall, claimed, “You are attractive, guys like you, you have a supportive family, you’re healthy, you have cool friends, your family pays for your trips, etc.”

“Is he talking about someone else?” I thought. But because I’ve always been a bit uncomfortable with compliments, I just thanked him and moved on. Then I realized that it wasn’t a compliment, though. That he was just assuming all those things about me without even knowing me beyond nightlife, a weekend on Fire Island and a couple of mutual party friends. Call me dramatic, but I felt deeply offended that he, because I don’t go around voicing my problems and telling strangers about my life story, assumed that I had it “so easy.”

I mean, I’m now comfortable with what I see in the mirror, but he had no idea that I was bullied until 7^th grade because I was fat and slightly feminine; that although I didn’t have cancer or any chronic illnesses, I suffered from panic attacks often; that I grew up in quite a dysfunctional family; that yes, I had guys who liked me, but I never had an enjoyable, healthy relationship; that it may seemed like I had a bunch of friends, but in reality, I felt lonely; and that even though I was no nomad or anything along those lines, I had actually paid for all my trips serving tables. I’m a happy person overall, and yes, I’ve had it easier than some other people. But that did not give him the right to make assumptions and to discredit everything I’ve been through to be in a good place today.

That conversation, which may seem stupid and trivial to you, left me thinking for a couple of days. It made me doubt if I was truly happy. The following week or so, after smoking a joint with my brother and thinking that I was having a heart attack, I called 911 and ended up in the hospital. As I was lying down in the hospital bed, waiting for the doctor to come and remind me how paranoid and high I was, a little poster titled “happiness” caught my attention. Because it was hierarchically organized from bigger fonts to smaller ones, it reminded me of the universal eye test people must pass to determine that they’re not going to be a threat on the highway. The poster was replete with cliché sentences that, essentially, taught people how to live their lives if they wanted to be happy. So, when I got home, because I was feeling crappy, I decided to make my own “how to be happy” list. I remember vividly the day I wrote it—even with more precision than I remember the first time I watched Titanic, when I was about 10 years old and impulsively said in front of my entire family how cute I thought Leonardo DiCaprio was. But that’s another story.

Capturing all the wise words I had heard from my parents, brother, teachers and friends, I wrote on a piece of paper, “Eat healthy, exercise often, party only once a week, get out of crappy relationships, read more, have safe sex, avoid weed, listen to quality music, do well in college, drink tea in moderation and take care of your teeth.” Over the next few days, I continued adding more and more rules like, “call your grandma, keep in touch with old friends, don’t spend too much on clothes and trifles, get your eight hours of sleep, don’t procrastinate, smile to strangers, be curious, stop wasting time, quit smoking, talk less and listen more, fix your relationship with your dad and, most importantly, stop being so ungrateful with life.” Today I realize that because I wasn’t aware that, just like the guy at the party, I was also judgmental, I did not include “stop stereotyping” in my list.

The Black Tutor and My Hypocrisy

Someone claiming that I had it so much easier wasn’t the only time I was stereotyped, though. Once, a girl from California, when she learned that I didn’t know how to drive, assumed that it was because “not many people drive in South America.” When I tried to explain her that Chile was, essentially, Milton Friedman’s and the Chicago Boys’ lab rat of to expand and experiment neoliberalism across Latin America and that, as a result, we were the quintessential capitalist country, she kept affirming that we had almost no cars “down there.” Because not arguing with people who are unwilling to learn about other cultures is part of my philosophy, I just let it go and thought I’d let her live as an ethnocentric, ignorant person. After all, I wasn’t the one looking silly in front of 3 other people.

But, God, I was such a hypocrite! The following week I had a math final exam and I needed some help, so I went to the tutoring department. A college friend had told me that a white guy called Lars was an excellent tutor and that I should look for him because he’d leave me ready to ace the test. All the tutors were busy that day because, of course, finals week. But suddenly, a black tutor with dreadlocks and a beard approached me offering his help. I thanked him, but told him that I was waiting for Lars. He could’ve moved on to a new student, but, for some reason, insisted on helping me. I, feeling doubtful and a tad uncomfortable, accepted and proceeded to ask him the 4 or 5 questions I had. To my surprise, the guy was amazingly knowledgeable and had great pedagogical skills. I didn’t ace my exam, but I certainly did better than I would’ve done without his help. Although it is hard to admit how stupid I was, I now realize that the only reason I did not want him to help me was because he was a black guy who looked like he was taken out of a reggae band in Jamaica—and that, for the subconscious Ignacio, was an indication that he was less capable of teaching math than Lars. I’m now ashamed, especially because I am also a minority in this country, but that’s the ugly truth.

Deep-rooted and Well Established Canons of Beauty

However, I also realize that my stupidity and my horrible assumption was only partially my fault; I blame society and two systematically racist countries—Chile and the US—for the other half. In Chile, for instance, people value whiteness or light skin over a more mestizo phenotype. And this is not just a claim; it becomes apparent when you walk down the streets of Santiago and see women of dark complexion yet blonde hair. That is no genetic mutation, ladies and gentleman; it’s just a tangible example that illustrates how white or Western canons of beauty are so deep-rooted in Chilean society, in the country’s idiosyncrasy, that anything that’s way too far from, at least, light skin and a Mediterranean appearance, must be inferior. Therefore, people—even those whose genotypes are notoriously mestizo or indigenous—aspire to resemble what society dictates is beautiful: being white.

To provide an even more personal example, I must expose how my dad’s side of the family, who are all immigrants from Spain and Sicily, discriminated against my mom for being darker at one point. To the extent that one of my aunts once told my mom that she was pretty, “even though she was dark.” Even though! If her offensive “compliment” is not explicit enough, allow me to tell you that she actually meant that dark people are often not attractive, but my mom was one lucky exception. I’m glad that my mom has always been this witty femme-fatale, and after thanking her very much, responded, “you look OK to be this old.”

Not Every Gay Person is a Fashion Guru

Another time I was stereotyped was when I was studying abroad in Spain. I was staying in a student residency that was linked to the University of Oviedo, where I was taking my Spanish literature course. A lot of people lived there, both locals and exchange students, so I made plenty of friends and we would all go out almost every night. We would also wander from room to room, drinking, watching movies, playing games and, at times, asking others to approve or disapprove our outfits. Since I was the only gay guy (out of the closet, at least), I rapidly noticed that most of the girls would go to my room to ask me how they looked.  One of those nights, thinking that she would reciprocate, I went to Stephanie’s room to ask her for fashion advice. I was wearing black pants, a light-blue button down and dark green semi-formal shoes.

“How do I look,” I asked. “Great, but change your shoes; black and brown don’t go together…and you, as a gay guy, should know that,” she said.

Aside from colorblind, she was also idiotic. I mean, I am aware that her comment wasn’t extremely offensive towards my community or anything, but it was unfortunate and inaccurate. I happen to know gay men who are the worst dressers in the world—so much that I, someone who doesn’t care much about people’s dressing style, wouldn’t go out in public with them.

Something similar happened to me a few weeks ago at my cousin’s birthday party. Around 2 a.m., most adults left and the younger crowd stayed to have more drinks and get a little bit crazier. I was telling one of my cousin’s friend how pretty her hair looked, when one Colombian guy overheard and asked me if I was a hairdresser. “What makes you think that,” I asked, laughing and thinking that he was somehow complimenting my hair. “Well, most gays are hair stylists in Colombia,” he assured, so certain, like he had conducted some sort of empirical study to back up his claim. “Well, he’s actually double majoring in journalism and political science,” responded my cousin, before I even got the chance to say anything. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with being a hair stylist; they’re wonderful people who, in my opinion, provide an important service to society. And yes, the man was right: many hair stylists in South America are gay. However, assuming someone’s profession based on their sexual orientation is pure bad judgment. Because if we were going to play the assumptions game, based on his poor vocabulary/educational level and his Timberland boots, I could’ve assumed he was a blue-collar worker. But I didn’t; I gave him a chance to tell me his occupation. I wasn’t wrong, though, he was a construction worker.

Rice and Beans

“Are you Mexican,” are words many Spanish-speaking people hear daily. “I love rice and beans” “Latinos are so passionate,” “Latin American families are so large and united,” “Latinos are so cheerful and really know how to dance” are others. I, as a Latino, don’t like rice and beans, don’t have a large family who is united, am not an extremely cheerful person and certainly don’t know how to dance. I understand that some Caribbean countries like the Dominican Republic and Puerto Rico have many cultural factors in common, and that people from countries in Central America look alike because they share common ancestors; however, not even then are these countries the same. Many of them have totally different cuisines, economies, governments and ways of seeing life. I know for sure that in South America, for instance, we are all so different that not even our typical foods are similar. Wouldn’t it be much easier to just ask “where are you from,” instead of putting more than 400 million Spanish speakers in one category?

As I admitted above, I can’t say I’ve never stereotyped someone in my life. I couldn’t stand Asians 8 years ago and I thought all Indian people smelt, for example. But I have given myself the opportunity to learn about other cultures, about people I find different or even strange. And I don’t want to put myself as a stellar example or as someone who does not judge people at all, because I would be lying. But even though many have done it before me, and perhaps more eloquently, I am taking this opportunity to point out, through my experiences, that stereotypes and assumptions can be quite damaging.

Let’s get to know people. More questions and less assumptions.

As if the struggle of mentally losing my mom couldn’t have gotten any worse my family felt like it was falling apart with all the stress that fell on each of us. My older sister seemed to be the only one that could get my mom to come to her senses most of the time but when she didn’t things just split over and it was up to all of us to pick up the pieces. I didn’t have much time with work and school and the disconnection I had with my mom most of my life almost felt like there wasn’t anything I could d to make things better. My little sister was our eyes when neither of us were around she had to accompany my mom whenever she wanted to go outside and run small errands, like getting last minute groceries for dinner time. My dad worked overnight and slept most of the day.

I remember one day what we feared the most happened. My mom had a huge breakdown in the middle of the street. My older sister called me frantically telling me my mom has had one of her random episodes and the ambulance was on the way.

“But what exactly happened” I said confused and full of fear.

Although I had known my mom had a problem I didn’t quite know or ever experienced any of her outbreaks first hand. So when my sister called me I just envisioned the possibilities of what could’ve happened. Maybe she fell on to the pavement and began yelling out all sort of crazy things, or maybe she thought someone was following her and got into a dispute with someone.

“She just started a commotion about someone watching her and broke down, just get here as soon as you can” she said.

“Okay but who was with her”

I wanted to know more even before I got there, it was almost like I wanted to prepare myself for whatever was coming next.

My sister and I just had our minds in two separate places and it was almost hard to focus on the actual phone conversation.

“Your dad is on his way” she said with the urge to hang up so she can get focused.

“Okay bye” I said before I hung up still with no clue to why, how, or exactly where this nightmare took place.

Despite how it may seem, living in a third-world country with limited opportunities for success did have its moments. Moving from Jamaica, the country to Jamaica, New York is ironic; each place is similar to the other in two ways: both are chaotic and clustered.

To this day, people still ask me what it’s like living in the United States. My answer will always remain the same: “It’s okay, I guess.” I’ve never really had a more enthusiastic answer; my feelings about moving here were bland, and they still are.

If I were still living in Jamaica, half the things I’ve accomplished here would have been impossible back home. Learning while earning money is something people my age dream about, especially girls. There are limited education and job opportunities for them, so they turn to the best solution they know – getting pregnant. In Jamaica, there is a stereotype about young women my age; they are said to finish high school (or not even to graduate!) and get pregnant by older men, men old enough to be their own fathers. These girls look to older men as an escape out of poverty.

…..

My best friend Tasana, 22, is currently dating a 45-year-old man and is completely happy. He asked her to move in with him, but she refused to do so, since she is not completely ready for that responsibility and life. My other friend Tasia, on the other hand, is 21 and is currently dating a 49-year-old man with whom she’s in love. She has her own apartment, and he visits her there while she plays the wife role. Bear in mind that he is already married with kids.

THE EARLIEST MEMORY

He lay on top of her. Kissing his way down from her neck to her chest. Imagining two voluptuous globes. Caressing her in ways that a man would touch a wife, girlfriend or lover. Sadly, as romantic as the act may sound the female involved is his 9-year-old daughter. As my other sister and I bear witness to our father’s disgusting act – violating a helpless young girl – we run to our mother’s leg, telling her of what is happening in her daughter’s bedroom. What the man she promised to love, honor, cherish and obey for the rest of her days was doing to her child. Would she believe it? Would she ignore it? Not my mother. Immediately, she acted and ran to the room. Whatever he was doing, he stopped. She didn’t see what we saw, but she still did what any mother should. The police came, took him in and unfortunately let him go shortly thereafter. “There’s no evidence,” they said. What evidence could there be except the word of her children, ages 9, 7 and 3? Times were different, especially in the south.

The year was 1987, and this is where our story begins.

(a couple of paragraphs that I’m editing)

THE DIVORCE

With three kids and a husband that beats her for no reason, while accusing her of having an affair with his son from another woman, the time has come for them to end their legal connection. After 9 years of marriage, she’s ready to put an end to the torture. She just didn’t realize how hard it would be for a black woman, who has no license to drive nor money in the bank to support herself, much less her precious ones. As divorce proceedings commence, the judge grants her full access to the five-bedroom home with the 4-inch deep pool where the kids have grown up. Her husband is ordered to stay as far away as the court allows for the time being. After some semblance of normalcy, a decision is made and she gets full custody of their kids. She even gets a home out of the deal and child support. Had she known she’d be screwed outside the bedroom she probably would have made better decisions when it came to choosing her lawyer. A lawyer that allowed her to lose out on the five-bedroom home, while accepting a new address and three-bedrooms for a family of four. A lawyer that allows her to accept $160 a month in child support, not for each kid, but for all three. As terrible as the deal sounds, she’s officially untied from a man who has accused her of infidelity and witchcraft. Has abused her physically and mentally. Broken her down to pieces where life wouldn’t be worth living simply because you’ve been made to believe that you aren’t worth life.

Inheriting the bedroom set she shared with her husband, she takes a rest on her comfortable bed. After a timely move, things are settled. The girls are sharing a room once again while her youngest remains in a room of his own. A road long traveled has reached its end. What to do, she ponders. What to do indeed. A few weeks into their new living arrangement, she gets word from her former neighbor that his dog had puppies. “Do you want one?” he asked. Taking him up on his kind gesture, with no financial attachment, she takes in a little brown pup and named her Nellie. The bitch that she was never left our mother’s side, not even when she wasn’t around. Always waiting for her mistress, either in the bedroom or by the door, she took command from mother and growled when you came around.

I sat down on the long table with some of my classmates and opened my book bag to take out my lunch like everyone else on the table. In my backpack was a brown paper bag with a plastic see through container inside of it and a Poland spring bottle. My plastic container had a divider so it was split into two sides. There was pork fried rice on one side, with kimchi (fermented cabbage) and marinated baby anchovies (a soy sauce and red pepper paste marinade) on the other. I took out the Poland spring bottle in my bag to find that it had been filled with bori cha (barley tea). I looked around at the lunches my friends and classmates had brought. I remember thinking it was weird that there wasn’t a single other person who brought Asian cuisine, or rice at the very least. The table was filled with sandwiches, fruits, and cereal.

Strange, but I loved the food that I brought. My lunch was all things I would eat often at home and my mom was a great cook. As I began to eat, David, was pointing at me as I began to eat. I looked up to find him pinching his nose and giving me a disgusted look. He began to make fun of me by stating that I ate stinky fish that smelled worse than the camel poop nearby. Being the kids that my classmates were at the time, everyone joined in on the fun of saying ‘ew’ and pinching their noses. David was Taiwanese and my classmates were a mix of different ethnic

backgrounds, but my friends nearby that day were Korean. I quietly lifted the divider so that I could eat just the fried rice and closed the lid of my lunch container to minimize the smell from the anchovies or kimchi from escaping. It may have been a joke for my classmates, but it ended up shaping what I perceived as an appropriate school lunch in elementary school. It couldn’t have been my classmates’ first times seeing or smelling this kind of food, but it was appropriate at the time to want to be white. Or at the very least, that’s what I learned I had to try and become.

(This is an excerpt from my Part 2 story. I would really appreciate to have your thoughts.)

The Tradition

Every Saturday my family had a cleaning day. My father during that day did outside chores such as chopping wood for our pechka, a Russian stove that was painted white and occupied almost half our kitchen. It was warming up our two bedroom cozy house. My dad, at first, would throw old newspapers in it and then dry pieces of wood. The kitchen would slowly become warmer and the sounds of burning wood lulled our cat. The cat had no name. After running all day in the snow, the cat would sit on top of the stove. She was missing a tail and both of her ears. They fell off because they froze in the cold Siberian winter. The cat’s fur had a yellowish color as she would often fall asleep on the stove and burn her sides. My dad usually threw her from the stove but she still would jump back on it when he was not watching.

On Saturday mornings my mom would wake us up around 9 a.m. We ate semolina milky and buttery soup for breakfast and drunk hot tea. Our cleaning day began shortly after that. My mother gave us little chores. I, 5, would iron my sister’s dresses and mine. My sister, 3, would try to help me fold clothes, however she would make a mess instead.

My mother, while we were occupied, washed every corner of the house. Sitting on her knees she would scrape the floors. She also washed all the clothes by hand, including our bed sheets. Then, she hanged them outside. The cold air would make my mother’s hands red and dry. In the evening, my father would bring all the clothes inside. After hanging for hours in freezing temperature, they resembled ice sculptures. In the house they would slowly begin to melt, and steam from them would spread around the kitchen. My parents hung these sculptures on ropes across the kitchen, and my sister and I would run under them imagining that they were glaciers.
On the outskirts of the village stood the wooden one-story banya. It was open all day on Saturdays, and it was separated: one side for men and another one for women. Families walked to the banya from every corner of the village carrying in their hands metal basins, dry sauna whisks, bags filled with all the toiletry, clean clothes and towels.
Everybody knew each other. Women would chat while washing themselves and their children. Once in a while someone would throw a bucket of water on the hot coil that was burning in the giant stove to get more steam. Women would leave their clothes in the changing room where locks did not exist.

The summer before my junior semester, I decided to do recreational activities, go out more and meet new people. I must say this was fulfilling. After failing two classes, I need to get things off my mind. One day while on my way to work, I saw a guy in a drop top car with this Snapchat name on the windshield. I went ahead and added him. I must say this was one of the most meaningful friendships I have ever created. I know it’s weird; don’t judge me. His name was Dondre, attending Queens College for biology.

The first time we saw each other, he invited me to go to a barbeque with him, which I did. That same day I met his friends also. They were so cool and friendly. We didn’t spend much time at the barbeque anyways; they just went to eat and left. After the barbeque we decided to get some of my friends and chill. Well, they weren’t really my friends. It was my two cousins, Sherine and Quanne.

It was late – around 12 am going to 1, for making plans. First we decided to go bowling or go-carting, but they were both closed. We then decided to go to a party. Upon arrival my cousins didn’t want to go in because they said it sounded boring, so then we were on to plan number 3. We decided to get a motel room, drinks and just hang out there until. After all we were in pairs.

Me and Dondre, proceeded first to get the room. After we went, my cousin and his friend came. Suddenly we heard the phone ring, I answered.

“Hello hello” in an Indian accented voice, “How many people are in the room?”
We got scared as hell; I responded saying it’s my friends. He said that no more people are allowed in the room and banged it.

Then I called my other cousin Sherine and said, enter from the back because the receptionist is acting like a bitch. After she entered the room, the phone rang again. Everyone started looking at each other, laughing in seriousness. Dondre answered.

“Get out, ya’ll lied to me. I said no more people.” We immediately got out, and Dondre went and got his refund.

Now it was probably around 2am, nothing to do, summer night and we’re all bored. Then suddenly, one of Dondre’s friend, Troy, decided we can go his house. These guys do not mind driving for long hours. They have been driving for almost 6 hours without complaining, even when I was being sympathetic saying take us home, they refused.

 

From all of the fucking people skipping the line, as soon as I entered the doors to Best Buy theatre, I ran down the escalator to the main room. I ran as fast as I could to get that spot that I deserved. I waited in the cold for over twelve hours. I followed breadcrumbs around the city trying to find them. I dedicated my entire existence to these girls. I deserved this. I was running when I encountered another mini staircase that I thought I could get down fairly easily and fairly quickly. I was wrong. I slipped. I saw the chances of me seeing them front row flash before my eyes before reality hit me real hard and I caught myself on the handrail. I continued to run and saw a tiny opening in the front row glowing like a light at the end of a tunnel and squeezed my tiny body in between the two fans who side-eyed me so hard their eyes must’ve came out.

 

I felt the bass and my heartbeat synchronize as one. The time has come. The background music stopped and the sound of air horns blasted through the speakers.

 

“I go by the name of CL of 2NE1.”

 

I was shaking.

 

I literally convulsed my body to such irregular movements from the excitement of the girls walking out on stage to their debut song “Fire,” the song that started everything. I held my picket up high, sang all the words, and danced their signature “eh eh eh eh eh eh eh” moves. I couldn’t believe my eyes. The perfection that I have loved and known was standing before me. Goddesses. Ethereal goddesses. This was no exaggeration. I felt as if light radiated through their bodies.

 

–there’s a lot of middle material between waiting for the performance that i still need to write. i’m having difficulty piecing the memories back together because it was insignificant to me then, however, it does play a role in supporting this piece.–

Diego had a son, Jaime moved in with his 40-year old boyfriend, Fernando dropped out of med school, Francisca moved to Canada, Lenny passed away, La China is pregnant, Jenna went back to school, Jonathan fell in love, Karina gained weight, Fernanda is finally a lawyer, Carlos is in jail, Trini cut her stunning red hair, Vincenzo is traveling the world, Mauri finally came out of the closet, Julia’s fiancé died, and El Italiano proposed to his girlfriend. These are all my friends, and although we barely talk, I shared fantastic moments with all of them.

Childhood: Claudia & Taty

The other night, that precise moment before falling asleep, when the head looks for the cold side of the pillow, I thought about my childhood friend, Claudia. It wasn’t a nostalgic moment; it was just a distant memory of a person I haven’t seen in nearly ten years. But because I knew that if I kept thinking about her I would get so anxious that falling asleep would become an impossible mission, I tried to make my mind go blank. But I couldn’t. There I was, rotating in bed and, as usual, counting how many hours I had left until I had to wake up. So, in honor to my impulsivity, I got up, looked for my laptop and made a quick Facebook search to see what was going on in Claudia’s life. I couldn’t believe it: she was married and had two kids.

It was already 1 a.m., so I promised I would only stalk her for a couple of minutes. But anyone who is as nosy as I am would understand that once you look at one or two photos of an old friend, it is quite difficult to stop scrolling. So, I kept going until I discovered that our mutual friend Tatyana had died 2 years ago in a car accident.

“How could I miss that?” I thought. After all, we were all good friends until I was 10 years old, when my dad got a substantial promotion and we could move from Valparaiso to a much better neighborhood in Viña del mar, Chile. And well, aside from moving, climbing the social ladder often translates into putting the kids in better schools and therefore being part of a different social circle. In other words, I moved on and made new friends.

The extremely delayed news about Tatyana’s death left me in shock, so I went to my kitchen, lit a cigarette and thought about all the friends I’ve had throughout my life. There I was, having my first nostalgic moment as an adult.

The next day, I was in one of my favorite classes—macroeconomics—but I couldn’t focus. Looking for old friends on Facebook seemed more interesting than listening to my professor’s lecture about foreign investment in the United States. The idea of having lost contact with nearly all my friends from childhood, adolescence, high school and even college was terrifying.

“I even lost contact with the people I studied abroad in Spain during my sophomore year of college,” I thought. “What’s wrong with me? I can’t keep in touch with anyone”

So, feeling emotionally afflicted, I messaged most of the old friends I already had on Facebook and friend-requested the ones I didn’t. Until today, some of them haven’t even accepted my request. But I don’t blame them—people move on.

Adolescence: Fernando

A couple of hours later, my phone vibrated and I received a notification saying “Fernando Cortes accepted your friend request.” Fernando marked an important transition in my life. I met him at my new school, when I moved to Viña around 14 years ago. All my classmates came from wealthy families, and along with one or two other exceptions, I was the only one who came from a working-class background. I never felt discriminated against or anything along those lines, but once I visited my classmates’ homes, for instance, the difference in our social realities became apparent: while my mom cooked and cleaned our house, their mothers had one or two maids to help with the house chores; while my father took out a mortgage to pay for our new house, they had their main house plus another one near the beach; while we had one car for the whole family, they had three; while I had a membership at the local public pool, they had one at home. Although I was in the same school and had access to the same social circle, there was definitely a difference—a difference I didn’t want anyone to notice. I was a kid, but I was already aware that I didn’t want to be the bourgeoisie or the new rich. Fernando was one of the wealthy kids, but unlike many of them, he was such a humble person. He was good at everything, including math, science, writing, sports and so on. Within a week at my new school, we bonded and quickly became best friends.

With Fernando, we experienced a lot of our “firsts” together: our first time watching a porn movie, our first demonstrations of loyalty, our first time getting drunk, and our first real party. I was even expelled from our ridiculously strict Catholic school, but we were still inseparable after that unfortunate event. However, when I came out of the closet and met new people with whom I thought I had more things in common, I took a different path; I immersed myself in the gay scene, as I was curious and wanted to meet more people who understood what I was going through. Fernando and I kept in touch for a bit, but we wouldn’t religiously hang out every night as we used to during six years. At 16, going out, meeting boys and experimenting new stuff was way more interesting to me.

When we both turned 18 or so, we took the Chilean universities’ admission exam and we both did quite well; he got into a prestigious med school and I got into law. The big difference is that he actually went to med school, unlike me, who moved to Argentina for a boyfriend who turned out to be an escort. Sometime during his freshmen year of college and my sabbatical year in the country of tango, Fernando and I lost contact…and never talked again until a couple of weeks ago.

So now that Fernando had accepted my friend request, I was thrilled to know about his whereabouts in the last six years. But there I was, in shock again. He told me how he hated med school and had to drop out during his fourth year; how he was in a toxic relationship for three years with a pathological liar; how his father couldn’t forgive him for dropping out of university and kicked him out of the house as a punishment; how he was working as a cook for a fast food restaurant and living with his new girlfriend in her parents’ house; and how his grandma, the women who called me every time she made her amazing lasagna, had died from heart failure. I couldn’t believe that this kid from the suburbs, who attended an elite private school, had a car at 17 and had a brilliant future in whatever he decided to do, had done so bad in life. And I also couldn’t believe that I knew nothing about it.

Fernando and I messaged back and forth that week, but the constant communication became unsustainable. Although I was glad to be in touch with him, soon enough I caught myself rolling my eyes every time I received one of his wordy messages. I mean, they were paragraphs and paragraphs of nothing but whining about his misfortune. I’m not proud to admit it, but I blocked him from messenger and never talked to him again. I guess that was our friendship’s real denouement.

Karina, the high school friend and Jaime, the gay friend.

A couple of days after blocking Fernando, Karina, another good friend from high school, messaged me to inform me that she would be in New York for a week. I met Karina at a school that was infamous for its student body: rebel, wealthy kids who weren’t admitted to any of the top private schools in the city. I’m not even exaggerating; the school appeared to be specifically designed for the trashy kids from affluent families in Viña. In other words, the White Chileans with foreign last names that only teachers in private schools could pronounce. The descendants of the Italian, German, Spanish and English settlers who arrived in Chile practically homeless, yet made their fortune thanks to a systematically racist country that favored and promoted European immigration by supplying them with fiscal lands and property. Actually, after 1973, when Augusto Pinochet overthrew democratically-elected President Salvador Allende, violated every constitutional right that one could think of, and claimed Chile’s executive office through one of the most violent coups d’etat in history, they had the chance to become even wealthier.

Karina was one of those Chileans. She was always conceited and spoiled; she was a blonde girl who woke up in Gucci slippers. But as disagreeable as her personality was, she was one of the funniest girls in school. I remember that I always loved hanging out with her. Although I was quite busy the week she was going to be here, “there’s always time to see old friends,” I thought.

“Let’s hang out! I’ll show you around and you can come to my friend’s birthday party with me,” I responded.

“Honey, no need to show me around. This is my fourth time in NY and I probably know it better than you, but definitely yes to house party,” she said.

“How rude,” I thought. But it was ok, because Karina always had a black humor, and I was glad that, at least, she hadn’t changed her essence. I picked her up from her hotel in Chelsea, and before even hugging me, she mocked my “ghetto” new hairstyle and asked me if my red leather jacket was real. I felt astonished. She was considerably fatter, but I was a gentleman and said nothing about it. I felt tense and odd during the first 15 minutes, but as the night went on, and we remembered the good moments, I decided to have a good time. Karina made me realize how much I’ve changed. I wasn’t that shallow high school kid anymore. Although it was fun to hear her talk about our friends in common, saying things like “Francisca dyed her hair blonde and now looks even more vulgar,” I realized that I had moved on. That even though I thought I was one of them, and acted similar because I wanted to fit in, I was not.

At some point, she mentioned Jaime, my gay best friend from Chile. It brought me back to all the crazy stuff we did together. Although we barely talk, I had a great time with him when I was exploring the gay world for the first time. We were both super young, irresponsible, promiscuous and had no limits. He was my partner in crime.

However, there was always some sort of rivalry between us. I used to think that it was only from his side, but years later, I realized that it was bilateral. One day, Jaime got tested for HIV and found out the he was positive. It was the worst day of his life. He called me to pick him up from the clinic, and when I did, he didn’t stop crying for hours. I tried to be supportive, but I must admit that I’ve never been the best at comforting people. Overnight, we stopped hanging out and he made new friends. Frankly, I always thought, and keep thinking, that he resented the fact that we were both equally irresponsible and promiscuous yet I was lucky enough to remain negative. And when I say lucky, I mean it. After all, back then none of us really cared about the risks of having unprotected sex. We were two kids exploring the crazy gay world.

A couple of days after my lovely meeting with Karina, I messaged Jaime, asking how he was doing and what he was up to in life. “Aggiorname[1],” I said. Surprisingly, he was doing more than well; he had a great boyfriend, he had already graduated from university with a bachelor’s in clinical psychology, he moved out of his mom’s house, had a beautiful dog and was planning on going to New Zealand on a Work & Holiday visa.

I couldn’t believe I was happy for him. I mean, I’ve never been an envious person, but I must confess that I never felt truly happy for Jaime when anything good happened to him. For instance, I felt horrible when he was studying at a prestigious university while I was living in Buenos Aires with a boyfriend who turned out to be someone totally different than I thought; I felt some sort of satisfaction when after a bad haircut he had to shave his head and, just like Samson, lost his charm; and I felt some comfort when he broke up with his boyfriend two months after my relationship with the escort failed. But now it was different: I felt truly happy for him. And most importantly, I didn’t feel the need to brag about my own successes in order to undermine his; instead, I just said I was doing fine and that I was about to graduate from college. So, Karina and Jaime, who represent the extremely shallow and superficial stage of my life, made me realize that I had changed.

College and adult life: Jonathan

Although I shared an apartment with my brother when I moved to the US for college, I was quite lonely at first. Like, I never felt the need to have too many people around me; however, my brother and I were too different, and our relationship was, at best, complex. I worked at a Peruvian restaurant back then, and though I got along with my co-workers, we never bonded. So, in order to meet people, I created a profile on a dating website, ignoring that I would meet one of the best persons I’ve ever met in my life. Jonathan and I talked for a couple of weeks, until he proposed meeting in person at a gay bar in the city. I was nervous, but it went great. We had some Fireball shots, hit it off, hooked up and, when we realized that we weren’t compatible, we became exclusively friends. We became so close that, after two years, we decided to introduce our mothers. Even they became friends. We shared thanksgivings and Christmas eves together, his sisters’ graduation parties, trips, my brother’s birthdays and many other wonderful moments. We both filled each other’s empty spaces and, as a result, the relationship became a bit pathological after a while.

During our five years of friendship, I’ve been in a few serious relationships, but I’ve never let any of my boyfriends interfere in my special friendship with Jonathan—and believe me, they’ve tried; however, the minute he got into a relationship, he made it his sole priority and forgot about the rest of the world. I hold nothing against him, because love is important. But it made me reconsider and think about my interpersonal relationships and how some prominent friendships have influenced different stages of my life. It made me realize how I’ve been moving from one friend to another, not only leaving behind a friendship but also an entire chapter of my life.

So, here I’m sitting in front of a computer, listening to a Spanish song about friendship… wishing all my friends the best.

 

 

 

 

 

[1] Italian idiom used in Chile and Argentina to say “let’s catch up.”

Graduation day came and there was my mom, dad, and younger sister. My dad was holding flowers and my sister was just happy to see me. As for my mom she looked like someone snatched her soul, she almost forced a smile, dressed like a nun, and she just looked scared and lost. I knew immediately something was definitely going on with my mom I just didn’t know how serious it actually was. After the graduation ceremony we headed back to my dorm, which was now a suite and so I only shared my room with one other person but my roommate had already headed back home for the summer so it was just me. My things were already packed and ready to go my dad helped me bring them to the car while my mom just complained about how much she wanted to leave and she hated where I was.

My mom could just frustrate someone by the things she said because she quickly assumed most things but the things she was saying now sort of scared me for a minute but I quickly brushed it off.

“I saw a lot of evil at your graduation, lots of witches, and people wishing to do bad things,” she said as I looked at her completely puzzled.

“Jannette!” my dad would burst warning her to be quiet and snap out of it.

 

My dad always protected me and my sisters from things he thought we didn’t have to worry about or should even know. At that point I still didn’t know what was going on but it was only a matter of time before I found out.

“Mommy is in the hospital she snapped and broke down outside,” my older sister said slightly panicking over the phone.

 

I was speechless and still had no idea what was going on. As I approach the hospital with my dad it wasn’t your normal emergency room, all the patients seemed a bit different. Visits were in a big white room with windows facing the front of the hospital towards the parking lot. The visit seemed almost like a jail visit to me, my mom was in a big white t-shirt and oddly she was happy to see me. Couldn’t help but just to sit there and wonder what was going on because although this had all happened I still hadn’t known exactly what happened until my older sister decided she should tell me.

My mom was in a psychiatric ward and still I wondered how did this all happen and why does it seem like it happened so fast.

“Mommy has been doing bad mentally, your dad didn’t want to worry you while you were in school. You should look up psychosis so you have an idea of her condition because if she continues to refuse to drink her medication she is only setting herself up to get worse” my sister said very straight forward.

Psychosis as I found out after research is a severe mental disorder in which thought and emotions are so impaired that contact is lost with external reality.

My sister was very familiar with what was going on with my mom because she was studying psychology so she translated everything that was going on to me and prepped me on the best ways to handle it. A month went by and my mom was finally released I couldn’t help but to worry how my little sister must have been feeling or thinking witnessing all of this at just 12 years old.

After my mom was released she refused to drink her medication and now when she went out one of us had to accompany her at all times. We feared she would lash out and cause harm to somebody because in her mind she may think they were trying to do something bad to her. It all weighed heavily on all of us in different ways my dad with his already stressful job as a police officer, my sister trying to pay attention to her family and still be there for her mom, my little sister who doesn’t fully comprehend what’s going on, and me who still had to focus on finding a new school to attend while I worked and just didn’t have the time to babysit an adult.

As my mom began to speak about the people that were trying to harm her it started worry me, it was tough dealing with someone who didn’t want to help himself or herself. I tried to have normal conversations with her as much as I could but she would always bring up something so bizarre.

“They’re listening, turn your phone off so we can talk,” she would say to me while she pointed to her phone.

That’s when I realized I’ve lost my mom; there was nothing about her that seemed familiar to me anymore.

(NOTE: I still would like to add more dialogue as I read my own story over and over and slowly begin to remember more. However I wanted to post this to get some feedback and advice. I know my story has potential I just feel like I am overthinking the details I want to include and how I want to say them so they sound intriguing to the reader. Please comment with advice and thoughts on what I have so far (as far as the middle).)