LAS LOCURAS DE CARLOS MANUEL

CATS AND DOGS ARE NOT YOUR KIDS

2011-12-30T17:27:00.000-08:00

I needed to buy dog food for my two Chihuahuas so I went to the near pet supply store. While looking around, I ended up in an aisle that had items at 50% off, including Christmas products.

In the aisle, I saw a couple (male/female) with a dog. At some point, the men took an item from the display, looked at it, turned to the dog, and using baby-talk, asked the dog, “Do you like it? Do you like this toy?” The dog, of course, did not react. Then the woman said, “Of course he doesn’t like it. It doesn’t even match its collar.”

It was at that moment when I burst into a light laughter which luckily was not detected by the couple because they were too busy arguing over the 50% Christmas products.

This incident reminded me of two friends: Dolly, who told me she bought Christmas presents for her dog and Ronald who sends Christmas cards to his own cats.

Whenever I hear my friend Dolly or Ronald talk about their domestic animals as if they were humans, I rolled my eyes while having this incredibly strong urge to slap them silly. The same way I felt when I saw the couple at the pet supply store.

I feel this way because cats and dogs are not humans. And as much as most American people like to say, believe, feel, argue, and whatever else cats and dogs are animals. They are domesticated animals but nonetheless animals. Yet the majority of American people, like the couple at the pet supply store and my two friends, treat their domesticated animals as humans.

I try to tell my friends that their cute cuddly dog and funny hairy cat are not humans and they should not be treated as such. Yet, they don’t agree. So I decided to explain to them why cats and dogs are not humans. I hope this helps.

1. Using “baby-talk” to communicate with a dog is just plain stupid, wrong, and unnecessary. Dog understands about 20 words and they’re mostly one-syllable commands. Cats don’t understand anything. If they do, I don’t care.

2. Dogs are colorblind so whether the dog’s collar matches the leash or not, does not really matter to the dog. Cats are annoying my anything in their buddies. If they are not, I don’t care either.

3. Dressing a dog in that ridiculous Christmas outfit or that horrendous Halloween costume and talking to the dog as if the animal was your baby, makes you look stupid, not to mention it completely under minds the dog’s intellect by confusing it and sending it off balance. Try to dress a cat, if you can, don’t call me because by now, you probably figured it out: I DON’T CARE!

Dolly says I had no right to say anything because my “dogs wear sweaters.” Ronald argues that making fun of his behavior toward his many cats is as bad as when people make fun of people like me (Latino, immigrant, gay.)

Dolly fails to see that my dogs “don’t wear sweaters.” I put sweaters on my Chihuahuas while I take them on walks in a 40-degree weather. This, I believe is a humane act specially knowing Chihuahuas don’t have natural thick fur coats to protect them from the cold.

Ronald fails to see that comparing cats to an entire race is wrong, even worse, equating animals to an entire race is not only wrong but it’s also racist. Yet, I’m not even going to go there.

The thing is that I play with my dogs; I take them on walks; I give them treats, and I even rub their bellies, which is one of their favorite things. Yet, I still make them stay in their own bed. I do not allow them to get on the furniture; I do not baby-talk to them; I reprehend them when they do something they are not supposed to do, and I award them with a treat or a positive, short re-enforcement phrase when they do something I tell them to do. In short, I treat them like what they are: animals, not humans.

Dolly says I’m simply a cold-hearted person when I don’t react as she shows me pictures of “her baby” and the many toys “her baby” got for Christmas. “I spent more than $50 on her toys,” she says proudly. “What did you get your dogs, Carlos?” When I say nothing she says, “See, you don’t even care about your dogs. It’s sad to hear that your dogs went without Christmas presents.”

The thing is that my dogs are very happy, they are healthy, and the moment I drive onto the driveway, they rush to the door and bark while wiggling their tails because I have arrived. They don’t give a shit about Christmas because they have no concept of such thing, and they will not resent me because I didn’t get them anything. And that is okay because my two Chihuahuas are dogs, animals, cute little, full of energy canines. They are not humans.

If Americans were to accept their dogs/cats as animals, their pets would have more enjoyable, happier, and healthier lives. Instead most Americans treat their pets as if they were children or people, giving them human names, (which in my book it is also ridiculous), wrapping them presents, and some go as far as to send them mail and/or postcards. I know I’ve seen it.

This attitude, of course, makes American companies happy because people spend lots of money buying useless and unnecessary things for their “children.” From the ugly Halloween costume and the ridiculous Christmas outfit to the color-coordinated collar and leash to the therapeutic scented bed and latest trendy toy.

The problem is that cats and dogs don’t care about that stuff, mainly because they are domestic animals; animals that need to be treated humanely not as humans.

Next thing I’m going to hear will be people asking their dog or cat for permission to go out. Oh, wait, I have already heard that. I even know people who won’t travel because their “baby” will be left behind and that cannot possibly be. As if the damn cat or dog really give a shit!

****************************************ESPAÑOL****************************************

Necesitaba comprar comida para mis Chihuahuas así que fue a la tienda más cercana. Mientras caminaba por la tienda, terminé en un pasillo con cosas que se vendían al 50% de descuento, incluyendo artículos navideños.

En el pasillo vi una pareja (hombre/mujer) con un perro. De repente, el hombre tomó un artículo, lo miró, se lo enseñó al perro y utilizando una voz mimada le preguntó, “¿te gusta? ¿Te gusta el juguete?” El perro, claro está, no reaccionó. La mujer dijo, “Claro que no le gusta. Ni siquiera combina con su collar.”

En ese momento no pude contener mi risa; por suerte, la pareja no me puso atención pues estaban ocupados argumentando sobre los productos navideños a 50%.

Este incidente me recordó de dos amigos: Dolly, quien me dijo que compró regalos navideños para su perro, y Ronald quien manda tarjetas navideñas a sus propios gatos.

Siempre que escucho a Dolly y a Ronald hablar de sus animales domésticos como si fueran humanos, tuerzo los ojos y al mismo tiempo siento un deseo increíble de cachetearlos, de la misma manera que sentí cuando vi a la pareja en la tienda.

Me siento así porque los gatos y los perros no son humanos. Y aunque a la mayoría de los Norte Americanos les gusta decir, creer, sentir, argumentar, y no sé que mas, los gatos y los perros son animales. Son animales domésticos, pero siguen siendo animales. Aun así, la mayoría de la genta Norte Americana, como la pareja en la tienda y mis dos amigos, tratan a sus animales domésticos como humanos.

Trato de decirles a mis amigos que su cachorro adorable y su gato esponjoso no son humanos y no deberían de ser tratados como tales. Aun así, no están de acuerdo con migo. Así que he decidido explicar el porqué los gatos y los perros no son humanos. Espero que esto sirva de algo.

1. Utilizar una voz mimada para comunicarse con un perro es plenamente estúpido, erróneo e innecesario. Los perros entienden aproximadamente 20 palabras y la mayoría son comandos uno-sílabos. Los gatos no entienden nada. Si lo hacen no me importa.

2. Los perros no ven colores, así que si su collar combina o no con su correa no es algo que le importa al perro. A los gatos les molesta cualquier cosa en su cuerpo. Y si no les molesta, tampoco me importa.

3. Vestir al perro en ese atuendo ridículo navideño o ese vestuario horrendo de Halloween, y hablarle al perro como si fuera un bebé, los hace ver estúpidos (a ustedes no a los animales), al mismo tiempo que confunde al perro y lo desbalancea. Trata de vestir a un gato, si es que puedes, no me llamen porque, me imagino que ya se dieron cuenta: ¡NO ME IMPORTA!

Dolly dice que no tengo derecho de decir lo que digo porque mis perros “se visten con suéteres.” Ronald argumenta que burlarme de su manera de ser con sus gatos es tan malo como cuando la gente se burla de gente como yo, (latinos, inmigrantes, gay.)

Lo que Dolly no ve es que mis perros “no se visten con suéteres.” Yo les pongo los suéteres a mis Chihuahuas cuando los llevo a caminar porque las temperaturas son de 4.4 grados centígrados o menos. Esto es un acto de humanidad, especialmente sabiendo que mis Chihuahuas no tienen pelo largo para cubrirse del frío.

Lo que Ronald no ve es que comparar a los gatos con una raza humana no es correcto, peor aún, igualar a una raza con animales no es solo malo sino racista. Pero no hablaré de eso.

El caso es que yo juego con mis perros; los llevo a caminar; les doy galletitas, y hasta les froto sus panzas, lo cual es su cosa favorita. Aun así, aun los obligo a que estén en su propia cama. No los dejo que se suban a los sillones, y no los mimo. Los regaño cuando no hacen lo que se supone que tienen que hacer pero los recompenso con una galletita o una frase positiva y corta cuando hacen lo corrector. En pocas palabras, los trato como lo que son: animales, no humanos.

Dolly dice que soy una persona de corazón frío cuando no reacciono al mirar las fotos de “su bebé” y de los tantos juguetes que su bebé recibió en navidad. “Gasté más de $50 en sus regalos,” me dice con orgullo. “Y tú, ¿qué les regalaste a tus perros, Carlos?” Cuando no respondo ella dice, “ves, ni siquiera te importan tus perros. Es triste saber que tus perros pasaron la navidad sin regalos.”

La cosa es que mis perros son muy felices, están saludables, y en el momento que manejo en el estacionamiento de la casa, los perros corren a la puerta y comienzan a ladrar mientras mueven sus colas porque he llegado. A mis perros les importa un bledo la navidad porque no tienen concepto de eso, y ellos no me odian porque no les compré nada para navidad. Eso es bueno porque a mis dos Chihuahuas son perros, animales, caninos muy simpáticos y llenos de energía. No son humanos.

Si los Norte Americanos aceptaran sus perros/gatos como animales, sus mascotas tendrían vidas mucho más felices y saludables. Sin embargo, la mayoría de los Norte Americanos tratan a sus mascotas como si fueran sus hijos o como personas, dándoles nombres de humanos, (lo cual también es ridículo), dándoles regalos, y hasta mandándoles correo o tarjetas. Lo sé, lo he visto.

Esta actitud favorece a las compañías Norte Americanas porque la gente gasta mucho dinero comprando cosas innecesarias e inútiles para sus “niños.” Desde el feo vestuario de Halloween y el traje ridículo de navidad, el collar y la correa combinada hasta la cama terapéutica con olores y hasta el último juguete de moda.

El problema es que a los gatos y a los perros no les importa nada de eso, principalmente porque son animales domésticos, animales que deben ser tratados humanamente pero no como humanos.

Lo próximo que voy a escuchar es a personas pidiéndole permiso a sus mascotas para poder viajar. O, un momento, ya he escuchado eso. Hasta conozco gente que no viaja porque sus “bebitos” se quedaran solos y eso no puede pasar. Como si al estúpido gato o al tonto perro le importara esas ridiculeces.

A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the White House

2009-02-04T13:41:00.001-08:00

A FUNNY THING HAPPENED ON THE WAY TO THE WHITE HOUSE

It was 1986 when I became a documented immigrant. By then I had been living “illegally” for a year. I had attended one year of high school and I was quickly learning the difference between what a “burrito” meant in the US what a burrito meant in Mexico.

Because of immigration laws, I couldn’t apply for citizenship right away. But the year I became available to do so, I quickly filled out the application and sent it along with the fee.

I was a senior in college when I received a letter for immigration, asking me to show up to an INS (Immigration and Naturalization Service as it was called back then) office in San Jose, CA. Because I was attending Santa Clara University, the offices were only a short city bus away.

The day before my appointment, I took out my “Citizenship Exam Guide” and studied as much as possible. I had been studying it for many years now so I pretty much knew every answer.

I arrived about 20 minutes before my appointment time and like many other people at the INS office, I waited my turned. It took about two hours before I was called into a private office. I remembered walking in with a pencil in my hand, ready to take the test, which I assumed I was going to do.

The rules state that once you applied for citizenship and you are giving the permission to become one, you still have to take the examination. You need to pass such exam and then, after a short period, you are granted citizenship only to wait a while longer before taking the oath.

Because of the way thing were, I thought I had been called by the INS to take my test. Imagine my surprise and shock when I was told that I had been granted citizenship without taking the exam because I was about to graduate from college and after graduation I was going to go away to get a masters degree. They way they saw it, I was here to stay and I was becoming an exemplary immigrant.

I remember asking if I needed to take the exam. The office told me no. Instead, I had been granted citizenship and all I needed was to check if all names and documents were correct.

I checked the paperwork and I told the officer that everything seemed to be in order. He then asked if, if I knew who the first president of the United States was. I answered, “Abraham Lincoln.”

He looked at me and said, “You’re kidding, right?” I smiled and I said of course. But at that moment, I was shock and nervous and my answer not as a joke. “Who was it?” He asked again. I looked at him and saw, behind him a picture of George Washington. “That guy,” I said pointing at the picture. The officer smile and asked, “And his name is?” By now, I had been able to relax so I answered correctly.

As I signed the last piece of paper, he asked me if I wanted my name to stay as it was or if I wanted to change it. As a new citizen, I had such option. And although I had thought about it for a long time, at that moment, I had no idea what I wanted to do so I said no. “You will get a letter asking to show up for the swearing and the oath within the next 30 days,” he said to me. Then he shook my hand and the whole ordeal was over.

On my way back to the university, I thought about the whole experience and I regretted not changing my name. Chavarría is a last name that doesn’t belong to me but to my step-brothers and sisters. Ironically, since my brothers became citizens and my sisters got married, the only one who has it it’s me. My whole family now carries ANAYA as their last name, which is our grandparents’ last name from my mother’s side of the family.

Anyway, thirty days later after the appointment, I received an official letter asking me to show up in San Jose, CA for the citizenship ceremony. By then, I had already graduated from college and was enjoying my summer before moving on to my next college experience.

I went to the ceremony by myself. I did what I had to do and I picked up my citizenship certificate on the way out. After that day in the summer of 1995 I was no longer a legal resident but a citizen of the United States of America.

Through the years I have taken advantage of my citizenship by voting in every election. I had taken advantage of the opportunities that come with being a citizen and I am very proud of calling myself a member of this country.

One thing, however, that had never appealed to me is a desire to visit Washington, D.C. It isn’t because I don’t like politics or because I don’t like history, or because I don’t like to travel; no it isn’t because of that. It has always been because, as much as I had tried to feel like I belong, I have always felt alienated from being part of this country, part of the Constitution, part of the white house. Yes, at least one president I voted for has been in charge but even he has not really connected with me. Not until now. Not until President Obama set foot in the White House and sat on the presidential chair. Since my becoming a citizen of this country I had never felt a sense of belonging, of pride and joy until President Barack H. Obama made the White House his house.

Never before had I felt a desire to visit Washington. Never before had I desire to step in the room where President Obama first had lunch with the Speaker of the House Nancy Pelosi. Never before had I felt an urge to shake a president’s hand until now. Never before had I felt a need to see the Constitution of my country the way I feel the need now.

And do you want to know why? Because a funny thing happened on the way to the White House. The new president of the country isn’t a white middle age man, but rather a young, charismatic, intelligent man of color. No, he isn’t Latino but he is by all means a member of the working class. No, he isn’t gay but he is by all means a member of a minority group. No, he isn’t an immigrant but he is by all means a member of an immigrant family. And since his acceptance speech, since I saw him taking office, since I saw him walking the old man and his wife onto the helicopter so President Obama could make sure they were no longer sticking around, since he walked on the parade next to his wife, first lady Michelle Obama, and since I saw him making the sign of “hanging lose” as the parade went by, since then, I had been having the strongest urge to visit Washington, D.C. and savor what the capitol of the nation is all about, along with its history and everything else that finally makes me proud to be a citizen of the USA.

So, yes! A funny thing happened on the way to the White House. That funny thing that happened is pride and joy to be a citizen and to finally see that, at last, one of us, a minority, a person of color, an immigrant family member is my president and the president of the United States. At last, after 12 years, I finally feel and understand the true meaning of becoming a citizen of this country. And for that, I’m finally grateful.

Gay Marriage vs Illegal Immigration

2009-01-30T08:50:00.000-08:00

The presidential election victory (at least for me and millions more) came with a strong bittersweet taste. While I was happy to see how President-Elect Obama was sweeping the nation, I was anxiously waiting the results on Prop 8 in California. I didn’t really care about the results in Florida and Arizona, I mean, I already knew those propositions were not going to pass. But in California things were very heated from day one. And the fact that many of us had gotten married as soon as it was allowed, meant that defeating Prop 8 was important, not to mention that California’s outcome sets the pace and mood for the entire country.

I knew the results were not going to come in right away, and I also knew that whatever results the difference between passing the proposition and opposing it was going to be very small. And that’s exactly what happened…. Except that it didn’t go in my favor.

Before I go any further, I think it is fair to give some background to my anxiety, it is after all, the only way I can explain how conflicted my feelings are at the moment.

About two days before the elections, I started to get calls from religious groups about how wrong it would be if Prop 8 didn’t pass. But because my personal policy is to never answer my phone if I don’t know who is calling, the messages were left in my voice mail. One of them said that voting no on Prop 8 would meant that teachers in elementary schools were going to be forced to teach about ‘homosexual marriages’ to my children without my consent. Another message explained that Prop 8 was trying to destroy the “sanctity of marriage” and that God had clearly stated in the Bible that marriage is only between “a man and a woman.”

Every time I heard those messages, I rolled my eyes, and grunted. I knew they were calling me because I am a registered voter, of course they had no idea I’m a gay man, and like thousands of other gay couples, I’m a married gay man… to my partner of 10 years.

The first two times I got voice messages to vote YES on Prop 8, I actually listened to them in their entirety. Once the third one, the fourth one, and the fifth one arrived, I simply deleted them.

But then came Election Day, and off I went on my marry way to vote and to work. While at work, I started to receive phone calls with “unavailable numbers.” I knew there were political calls urging me to vote yes or no on something. When my free time came around, I checked my voice mail and low and behold the “Vote Yes on Prop 8” messages were there again, so like before, I deleted them… until I came across the first SPANISH “Vote Si para la Propuesta 8” message. It was a Latina woman with one of the sweetest voices I have heard in a long time. Her tone was pleasant and she did not sound old. She urged me to “Vote Yes on Prop 8” because it was wrong and against God’s will to allow homosexuals to marry. And what was worse, she said that “as a good Catholic” I should follow the teachings of the church.”

If you reading this and you personally know me, you know how angry I can get. But let me tell you, once I heard that message I was not angry, I was extremely pissed off.

How dare she assume I follow Catholic teachings? How dare she assume I was even Catholic? Is it because I’m Latino? And how dare she, like every caller before hand assumed I was straight? Is it because I’m Mexican? Latino? What? I was very upset, and the worse thing was that I couldn’t even get her number to call her and let her have a piece of my mind.

I mean, who and when was it decided that if you are a register voter, in your early forties, Latino male, and a democrat you are automatically Catholic, straight, and have children? And what if I am straight, married and with children. Does that mean because I’m male and Latino I’m automatically Catholic?

Okay, I can understand why they assume I’m Catholic. After all, about 90% of the Latino population is Catholic the rest is simply going to hell, this of course according to my late abuelita. But even if I was born in a Catholic household, and raised Catholic, does that mean I’m automatically destine to follow the church’s teachings? If that is the case, believe me, I don’t think the Pope can convinced God to forgive my family for the many rules we have broken. In fact, not even La Virgen de Guadalupe could save us, no matter how much she pleads to the Almighty. But I digress.

There are so many things that bother me about the way the ‘holier than thou’ managed to convinced voters to pass Prop 8. For example, the teaching of ‘homosexual marriages’ in schools, I mean, when was the last time a chapter in an elementary, middle or high school book mentioned heterosexual marriage as part of the curriculum? I don’t recall being thought about that at all. And unless the California Board of Education has implanted such teachings into the school system in the last seven years or so ( the last time I was aware that heterosexual marriage was not part of the curriculum) since when do teachers actually talk in school about such things?

And what is it with this “sanctity of marriage” proclamation? Heterosexual marriage a sanctity? Really? Since when? I honestly doubt it. The Catholic Church has a real hard time trying to keep “heterosexual marriages together. Divorce rates are in high demand all the time. But let’s not go that far. Let’s assume NO ONE gets divorced. Okay, there is this little thing called “AFFAIRS” and boy, if they really believe in the “sanctity of marriage” well, then, I had no idea that cheating on your husband or your wife is part of such sanctity.

And since the Mormon Church was very kind to contribute a few million dollars to help pass the proposition, have about the idea of making marriage between a man and a woman… just ONE woman not two or three or four. Yes, you know what I’m talking about. If such practice is part of the “sanctity of marriage,” well, let me in because that is a sweet deal.

One thing that bothers me the most is this idea of how many Latinos voted to pass Prop 8 because of Catholic teachings, disregarding the fact that as Latinos, we are people who continue to struggle to be discriminated against because we are what we are. No, I don’t mean gay, I mean, Latino.

Remember the immigrant marches back in 20006? That’s right! Those marches were part of a movement to let people know the injustice against immigrants in this country, documented and undocumented. And yes, Latinos were, are, and continue to be part of such struggle. Well guess what? Gay Latinos were there too. I know. I was there, along with my partner and his family, along with many of my gay friends and Gay Latino organizations. And yes, many of those Latino people saw us, walking, chanting, holding hands, carrying our rainbow flags. And those Latino people didn’t say a thing, they looked at us and smile because we were ALL ONE, united for the same cause, the same rights and equality.

Yet, in these past elections, many of those same Latino people forgot about that; they turned their backs and followed their “religious beliefs” and voted for a proposition that soon might make my marriage invalid, and all because marriage should be ‘between a man and a woman,’ because the sanctity of marriage must be protected,’ and because school will be forced to teach about ‘homosexual marriage.’

Well, let me tell you something. How would you, my Latino-Catholic believer-protector of the sanctity of marriage would feel if you go out once again marching in the streets, asking the future presidency to pass some amnesty in favor of Latino (and other nationalities) undocumented immigrants, and suddenly, we, the gay people gather together and march next to you, but instead of supporting you we went against you, not because you’re Latino but because you’re straight, or maybe because you’re a straight Latino and we’re not. How would you feel then? How would you react to that? What are you going to tell me? What are you going to say now? What are you going to do?

I realize that Prop 8 did not pass only because Latino Catholics voted, there were others too, Christians, Mormons, what have you. But I’m talking to my own people, my own raza, those I walked with during immigration protest, those who smile at me but voted against me. You know who you are and you know what you did.

It amazes me you are blinded by your faith, by your scriptures. Your vote in favor of Prop 8 only means you have alienated many of your own people. You might say you don’t care, you might say it doesn’t matter because protecting marriage is more important. Well, once your cousin or your aunt, or your own father is kicked out, you will care. And guess what? I won’t care because well, I’m protecting my country, its sanctity, its purity and undocumented immigrants are not part of the deal.

So yes, I’m angry. I’m angry at your ignorance and stupidity. I’m angry at your double standards and at your hypocrisy, and I’m angry at you for not understanding that standing in favor or Prop 8 means destroying what I have worked hard to have, a happy marriage with my partner of 10 years. We may not be perfect, but neither are you. The difference between us is that we know it and we accepted; we don’t deny it and we don’t hide it. But you do.

So yes, I’m angry and let me tell you that if I was a closed minded, blinded, and ignorant moron like you, and the opportunity to send you back to your country was at my grasp, I would gladly take advantage of such opportunity and send you back.

Yes, it is cold blooded revenge for what you have done to me. And you know what? I’m not alone. Because those people who also supported Prop 8 and are not Latino, many of them are ready to send your undocumented friends and love ones back. And when that happens, you will truly understand the anger, the pain, and the sadness I feel at seeing you vote in favor of Proposition. 8. Only then you will truly see who really supports your cause. And only then, you will understand that what you have done, unless you take steps back to redeem yourself, has open a war between you staying and me sending you back. And by the looks of it, I’M GOING TO WIN!

El Indio Eres Tu/ The Indian is You

2008-04-11T21:11:00.000-07:00

Conversando con un amigo y leyendo los comentarios de uno de mis lectores, me sorprendió mucho ver como mi amigo, al igual que el lector, comentaron negativamente acerca de un artículo que había escrito. Me sorprendió no porque hayan hecho un comentario negativo, al contrario, todo lector tiene derecho de comentar de la manera que quiera. Lo que me sorprendió fue el hecho de que, en lugar de comentar, trataron de ofenderme diciendo: “El indio eres tú.” Como no sabía realmente de que hablaban, me puse a leer mis comentarios para ver porque decían eso, y al final entendí.

En mi blog personal, en el cual escribo artículos de toda índole, hablaba de la importancia y la diferencia entre el 16 de septiembre y el 5 de mayo. Al diferenciar las fechas, dije que el 5 de mayo es cuando “México conmemora la victoria de la batalla de Puebla, un confrontamiento entre los franceses y los indios mexicanos en el año 1862.” Y allí está el problema. Según mi amigo y el lector anónimo, llamar “indio” al mexicano es una ofensa. Algo, que no se tolera. Entonces como mi amigo y el lector anónimo son mexicanos, se ofendieron cuando leyeron lo que había escrito y decidieron poner “manos en el asunto” escribiendo “El indio eres tú.”

Pero, la verdad ¿ofendí a mi amigo y al lector al decir que “indios mexicanos” se resistieron al ataque de las tropas francesas? Aunque sabía que estaba en lo correcto, investigué un poco mas del asusto solo para cerciorarme de que no me equivocaba.

México obtuvo su libertad de España en 1821, pero gracias a la cantidad de batallas, incluyendo la guerra con los Estados Unidos y la guerra civil, México se encontraba endeudado con varias naciones incluyendo España, Inglaterra, y Francia. Los franceses, decidieron cobrarse por medio de una invasión, llegando así al puerto de Veracruz y avanzando hacia la capital mexicana. Sin embargo, fue en la ciudad de Puebla donde un grupo de casi 4,500 hombres bajo el comando del General Zaragoza, pudieron detener la armada francesa de un poco más de 6,500 soldados. Según los historiadores mexicanos, el grupo de 4,500 personas era una combinación de soldados pobremente armados e “indios de las regiones cercanas a Puebla que con piedras, machetes, y cualquier otro objeto pudieron defender su patria.”

Mi investigación no paró en encontrar los detalles de la batalla del 5 de mayo. También me puse a investigar mi familia. Mi madre nació en el estado de Michoacán, cerca de famosa ciudad de Uruapan, región habitada por los indios Purepecha. Mis abuelos fueron indios de esa región, al igual que mis bisabuelos y mis tatarabuelos. Según una de mis tías, mis tatas hablaban Purepecha y otras lenguas de la región, pero con el tiempo y con las generaciones esos lenguas quedaron en el olvido. El que mis primos o yo no hablemos Purepecha tiene que ver con el hecho de que mi madre, sus hermanas y algunos de sus hermanos, a temprana edad, fueron mandados a la Ciudad de México para trabajar como sirvientes, jardineros, albañiles, o choferes en “casa de gente rica.” Al mudarse y con el tiempo, se establecieron en la ciudad.

Por muchos años mi abuelo nos contó las aventuras que vivió como participante de la revolución. En caso de que no se lo creyéramos, nos mostraba sus fotografías donde él aparecía vestido en sus “calzones de manta, sus huaraches, su sombrero” y sus rifles con los cartuchos formando una “x” en su pecho. Después de que mi abuelo murió, esas fotos han llegado a hacer una reliquia que la familia pelea de vez en cuando.

¿Y por qué hablo de todo esto? Fácil: el comentario de mi amigo y el lector anónimo no me ofendió, ni me hizo sentir mal, ni me ha hecho escribir una disculpa. Es verdad que fueron INDIOS mexicanos los que lucharon en contra de los franceses en la Ciudad de Puebla. Y si esto no fuera verdad, el que digan, “El indio eres tú,” solo me hace sentirme orgulloso.

¿No creen que todo mexicano debería sentirse orgulloso? Después de todo, nuestra descendencia es india desde su principio y después fue mezclada con sangre española. Y sé que mucha gente mexicana prefiere identificarse como “española” o “descendiente de españoles” en lugar de admitir que por sus venas corre sangre india. Entiendo el “porque” de las cosas y aunque no estoy de acuerdo con la lógica, es una realidad que existe. Sin embargo, el que un amigo o un lector anónima trate de ofenderme diciendo “El indio eres tú,” solo me hace escribir más acerca del orgullo de ser quien soy: Mexicano, inmigrante, (en un tiempo ilegal), maricón e indio.

Se que muchos mexicanos se ofenden cuando alguien se refiere a ellos como indios, se que muchos mexicanos se ofenden los unos a los otros llamándose “indios,” o utilizando la palabra “indiorante.” Y sé que lo hacen porque ven al indio como algo malo, algo bajo, algo sin educación, algo inculto. Sin embargo, esas mismas personas que se ofenden al ser clasificadas como indios o usan la palabra “indio” como negativo, no entienden que lo hacen porque desde su punto de vista, sus creencias, sus filosofías y valores están formados desde un punto de vista Euro-centrista y por lo tanto burgués. Se enojan, se ofenden y niegan tener sangre india, la cual ahora está mezclada con muchas otras. Al negarla, al sentirse ofendidos, al utilizarla como broma, como ofensa, no se dan cuenta que hacen lo mismo que muchos heterosexuales hacen con la gente homosexual, utilizan la palabra “gay” para ofender, para humillar, para lastimar. Muchas de esas personas son gay pero viven en el miedo, en cobardía, con vergüenza de ser quien son, y entonces ofenden para sentirse mejor, “salvos” de ser descubiertos. Así que si eres mexicano, lo más probable es que en ti corre sangre indígena, de lo cual deberías estar orgulloso. Si eres mexicano y te ofendes cuando alguien dice que eres indio, recuerda que es lo mismo si te llaman maricón y te ofendes. ERES maricón, ERES un joto, ERES una mariposa, ¿por qué ofenderte de serlo? Al contrario, levanta la cabeza, mira hacia al frente, camina con orgullo y dales un pestañazo a aquellos que te quieren humillar por ser gay. Lo mismo deberías de hacer si eres mexicano y te llaman “indio.” Porque de cualquier manera, todos tenemos sangre india.

Las razas indias mexicanas aún existen, y se encuentras por toda la república mexicana. Si te pones a investigar descubrirás que no solo somos Aztecas si no también somos Amuzgo, Chatino, Chichi-Pooluca, Chichemeco Jonaz, Chinanteco, Chol, Chontal (Tabasco), Chuj, Cochimi, Cora, Cucapa, Cuicateca, Guarijio, Huasteco, Huave, Huchol, Ixcateco, Jacalteco, Kikapu (Norte de Coahuila) Kiliwa, Kumiai, Lacandon, Lipan Apache (Norte de Chihuahua), Mame, Matlatzinca, Maya, Mazahua, Mixe, Mixteca, Motozintleco, Nahua, Tarahumara, Tarascan, Totoneca, Yaqui, Zapoteca, y muchas otras más.

Así que ya lo sabes, si alguien trata de ofenderte llamándote “joto,” sonríe y aviéntales un beso. Si alguien trata de ofenderte llamándote “indio,” sonríe, camina con orgullo y diles, “Lo soy, con orgullo y hasta la muerte.” Yo lo hago, pues después de todo, soy maricón e indio.

Talking with a friend and reading the comments people leave on my blog, I was surprised how one of my friends and one of my readers said negative things about an article I had written. I was surprise not because the comments were negative, I know all readers have the right to comment, but because with the comments my friend and the reader tried to offend me by saying: “I was the Indian.” Since I didn’t know what they were referring to, I decided to read my article once again and finally I understood.

One of my articles was dedicated to the importance and the difference between September 16 and Cinco de Mayo. When talking about the difference, I noted that Cinco de Mayo commemorates when “Mexico celebrates its victory against the French Army in the City of Puebla, a battle between the French Army and the Mexicans Indians in 1862.” And here is where the problem lies. According to my friend and the reader, to call a Mexican an “Indian” is an offense, something unforgettable. And because my friend and the anonymous reader are Mexican, they were offended. So they decided to get matters into their own hands my saying, “The Indian is YOU.”

But, was I really offending my friend and the anonymous reader by saying that “Mexican Indians” fought against the French Army? I decided to investigate to make sure I was not in the wrong.

Mexico got its independence from Spain in 1821, but thanks to battles against the United States, and civil wars, Mexico was in debt with many countries, including Spain, England and France. The French couldn’t wait for payment so they decided to invade Mexico. They landed in the Port of Veracruz and from there advance their troops to the country’s capital. However, in the city of Puebla, the French Armada was stopped by a group of 4,500 men under the command of General Zaragoza. These men were able to stop 6,500 soldiers. According to several Mexican historians, the 4,500 men were a combination of Mexican soldiers, poorly armed and “Indians from the nearby regions of Puebla who, with stones, machetes, and any other type of object defended their country along with the Mexican soldiers.”

But my investigation did not stop there. I decided to find out about my own ancestry. My mother was born in the state of Michoacan, Mexico, near a famous city called Uruapan, a region habituated by the Purepecha Indians. My grandparents were Indians from that region, the same way as my great-grandparents and my great-great grandparents. According to my uncles and aunts, my family used to speak the Purepecha language along with many others. With time and through the generations, those languages were forgotten.

The fact that my cousins and I, along with my brothers do not speak Purepecha has to do with the migration of my uncles and aunts to the country’s capital in order to work as servants, gardeners, construction workers, or truck drivers. So when went out looking for work, they all established themselves in Mexico City.

For many years my grandfather (from my mother’s side) told us many stories about his adventures during the Mexican revolution. And in case we didn’t believe him, he showed us pictures where he was wearing his Indian garments, his huaraches, his hat and his rifles with all their ammunition across his chest. Since my grandfather’s death, those pictures have become reason for many family feuds.

But why am I talking about all this? Easy: my friend’s comment and the one made by the anonymous reader did not offend me. It didn’t make me feel bad, or even try to write an apology. It is true that MEXICAN INDIANS fought against the French Army in the City of Puebla. So, if my friend and the anonymous reader tell me “The Indian is YOU,” I feel proud of it.

Besides, don’t you think all Mexican people should be proud of that? After all, we are descendents of the Aztecs and later our blood was mixed with the Spaniards. I know many people prefer to identify itself as “Spanish” or “descendents of Spanish blood” instead of admitting that Indian blood runs through their veins. I understand why people are ashamed of their heritage, and even though I don’t agree, it is a reality. However, my friend and the reader’s comments did not offend me; on the contrary their comment made be more proud of who I am: Mexican, immigrant (undocumented at some point), gay and an Indian.

I know many Mexican people get offended when someone refers to them as “Indians” or when people used the word “indiorant.” I know the people who used those words do it because they see Indian people as a negative, because such classification doesn’t fit into their narrow minded point of view, beliefs, philosophies, and values, and all because they see everything from a Eurocentric point of view. Many people get mad, get offended and denied they have Indian blood. When they denied their heritage, when they used the word as a joke, as an insult, or as a derogatory term, they don’t realize that they are doing what many heterosexuals do when using the word gay to offend us, homosexuals.

Many of those people are homosexuals themselves and used the word gay to offend others because they live in fear, ashamed, and carry internal homophobia and are afraid to be discovered, so by using the word gay to offend us, they feel safe.

If you are Mexican, you should be proud to be referred as an “Indian” because indigenous blood runs in your veins. But if you get offended, you should remember that it is the same as if they were to call you ‘fagot’ because you ARE gay, you ARE a fag, you ARE a homosexual. So, why get offended? On the contrary, you should lift up your head, look straight ahead, and walk proudly, giving attitude to those that tried to humiliate you because you are gay. You should do the same if someone refers to you as “INDIAN” because, like it or not, there is indigenous blood in your veins.

Mexican indigenous groups still exist and they are all over the Mexican Republic. If you try to investigate, you will find them all over the place. We are not only Aztec but also

Amuzgo, Chatino, Chichi-Pooluca, Chichemeco Jonaz, Chinanteco, Chol, Chontal (Tabasco), Chuj, Cochimi, Cora, Cucapa, Cuicateca, Guarijio, Huasteco, Huave, Huchol, Ixcateco, Jacalteco, Kikapu (Norte de Coahuila) Kiliwa, Kumiai, Lacandon, Lipan Apache (Norte de Chihuahua), Mame, Matlatzinca, Maya, Mazahua, Mixe, Mixteca, Motozintleco, Nahua, Tarahumara, Tarascan, Totoneca, Yaqui, Zapoteca, and many more.

So now you know it. If someone tries to offend you by calling you “Indian” or “fag,” lift up your head, smile, send them a kiss and tell them, “Yes, I am. And I’m proud of it until death.” I do it all the time because I am a FAG and a Mexican INDIAN.

El 16 de Septiembre/September 16

2007-09-18T08:06:00.000-07:00

La Independencia Mexicana

El 16 de septiembre es un día muy importante para los mexicanos así como el 4 de julio lo es para los norteamericanos. A comparación de la gran fiesta de independencia de los gringos, las celebraciones de la independencia mexicana comienzan un día antes: el 15 de septiembre y con el “Grito de Dolores.”

Aunque el grito se lleva a cabo a la media noche, o sea el 16 de septiembre, los mexicanos se reúnen horas antes para celebrar a lo grande. El zócalo en la Ciudad de México se llena de colorido, puestos de comida, música, y patriotismo. El 16 de septiembre no se trabaja y la gente festeja el día descansando, disfrutando de unos buenos tequilas, y admirando el gran desfile militar.

Para todos los paisanos residentes en los Estados Unidos, celebrar la independencia de México no solo es parte del orgullo mexicano sino también algo nostálgico al celebrar nuestra independencia en un país ajeno.

Como inmigrantes, legales e ilegales, celebramos la independencia de México reuniéndonos en ciudades como Los Ángeles, San Francisco, Albuquerque, Chicago, Houston, y muchas otras. El 15 de septiembre, todos por una noche somos iguales, no hay diferencias de clases, ni de estado, o de preferencia política; el de la gran ciudad se une con el del pueblo y el rancho, no hay diferencias de raza (sí dentro del ser mexicano, también existe el racismo hacia los indígenas) y ni diferencias religiosas o sexuales. Todos por una noche somos compatriotas, nacidos en la tierra del nopal y el águila, donde el Azteca construyó sus pirámides, y donde los revolucionarios derramaron su sangre por la libertad en contra del la gran España.

Los que somos inmigrantes legales celebramos con orgullo con los que somos inmigrantes ilegales. No hay diferencias, aunque sabemos que los que somos inmigrantes legales, podemos viajar a nuestra patria y regresar cuando queramos, mientras los que somos ilegales, aunque podemos viajar a nuestra patria, sabemos que el regresar quizá no sea posible. Y si lo es, entonces llega a convertirse en un juego lleno de azar, peligro, e incertidumbre.

Los que somos inmigrantes en los Estados Unidos celebramos la independencia de nuestro país con orgullo, celebramos con orgullo y al mismo tiempo con nostalgia, nostalgia por nuestra tierra, nuestra gente, nuestra comida, nuestros bailes, nuestras tradiciones, y nuestra libertad. Pero lo más hermoso de todo es que por una noche todos, pero todos como mexicanos, nos unimos a celebrar nuestro orgullo mexicano sin importar en que creemos, como somos, o como le hacemos para ganarnos la vida en esta “Tierra de la Libertad.”

Mexican Independence

September 16 is a very important day for Mexican people, just like July 4 is important to American people. One difference between Mexican Independence and American Independence is that the Mexican festivities start a day before, on September 15 with the “Calling of Dolores.”

Even though the traditional “grito” takes place at midnight, meaning on September 16, Mexican people get together many hours before to celebrate with gusto. The Zócalo, main plaza in downtown Mexico City, is transformed into a colorful place filled with music, food and patriotism. People don’t work on September 16 instead they rest and celebrate with good tequila while watching the Mexican military parade.

For all Mexican residents living in the United States, celebrating Mexican Independence is not only part of being proud but also an issue of nostalgia because we celebrate the independence of our country in a foreign land.

We immigrants, legal and illegal, celebrate Mexican Independence as we gather in different cities around the country, cities like Los Angeles, San Francisco, Albuquerque, Chicago, Houston, and many others. On September 15 we are all the same; there are no differences of class, or state, or political differences. The ones from the city unite with the one from the small town; there are no race differences (yes, there is racism and discrimination against the indigenous Mexican people), and there are no religious or sexual differences either. All of us, for one single night are united because we were born in the land of the cactus and the eagle, where the Aztecs built their pyramids, and where the revolutionaries spilled their blood for independence against Spain.

As legal immigrants, we celebrate with pride with those of us who are illegal immigrants. There are no differences even though we know that as legal immigrants, we can travel to our country of origin and come back whenever we want to, while those of us who are illegal immigrants know we can travel back to our land but coming back isn’t really a possibility. And if it is, the trip becomes a dangerous, unknown, and full of fear game.

Those of us who are immigrants in the United States celebrate the independence of our country with pride; we celebrate with pride and nostalgia at the same time, nostalgia for our land, for our people, for our food, our dances, our traditions, and our liberty. But the most beautiful thing of all is that we all, for one single night, all of us as Mexican people, get together and unite to celebrate our Mexican pride without caring what each of us believes, how each of us is, and how each of us struggles to survive in this “Land of the Free.”

Recuerdo/ I remember

2007-09-11T20:15:00.000-07:00

Recuerdo.

Recuerdo exactamente donde estaba y que hacia seis años atrás cuando las dos torres se calleron.

Recuerdo mirar la TV, sin creer realmente lo que veía, pero pensando que era una muestra de la próxima película de hollywood.

Recuerdo ir al trabajo, escuchando la radio, mi programa en español había sido interrumpido. En su lugar, la voz de Jorge Ramos describía lo que aún no podía creer.

Recuerdo llegar al colegio y ver a los estudiantes parados en el estacionamiento, callados y en shock.

Recuerdo caminar hacia la carpintería donde los estudiantes de teatro me esperaban, sus ojos pegados a la televisión portátil la cual había traído el supervisor de carpintería. Todos miraban la televisión, unos lloraban, otros se miraban aterrados.

Recuerdo ver sus caras, sintiendo un gran dolor en el estómago, algo que aún no puedo describir.

Recuerdo tratar de entender lo que pasaba, tratando de sentirme fuerte y listo para hablar con los estudiantes, tratando de convencerme que estaba bien y listo para seguir siendo su maestro, un guía para aquellos que necesitaran ayuda.

Recuerdo que me preguntaron si presentarían las escenas que se habían planeado para ese día. Recuerdo decir que no con la cabeza y agregando, “deberíamos de mirar y platicar, y quedarnos aquí. Es lo mejor.”

Recuerdo, días después del incidente, recibir las noticias que un amigo había estado en uno de los aviones, y que su pareja había peleado con él horas antes de partir.

Recuerdo llamar a la pareja de mi amigo, preguntarle si se encontraba bien. Recuerdo su respuesta: un pausa silenciosa, un suspiro largo y un llorar interminable.

Recuerdo ignorar todo, sin querer hablar con nadie, pretendiendo que nada pasaba, ignorando que había perdido a alguien, como muchas otras personas, pero no como muchas, yo me encontraba lejos de los incidentes para realmente involucrarme.

Recuerdo seguir con mi vida, tratando de sobrevivir lo que pasaba dentro de mí. Recuerdo escuchar los tantos mensajes de voz que me dejaba mi amigo, informándome de los últimos acontencimientos y su estado emocional.

Recuerdo sentir que no podía hacer nada al respecto, y que el llorar, el estar de luto, hablar o pensar acerca del 9/11 no resucitaría a mi amigo.

Recuerdo estar enojado y de repente ignorar todo y alejándome de todo.

Recuerdo sentir un terror inmenso por mucho tiempo.

Recuerdo llorar en mi oficina y en los baños, antes de comenzar las clases. Recuerdo hacer esto por muchos días después de lo ocurrido.

Recuerdo no decir nada acerca de mi amigo, quien lloraba a diario porque su pareja se había ido para siempre.

Recuerdo tratar de sentirme fuerte, tratando de continuar mi vida pero fallando miserablemente.

Recuerdo asistir a un servicio religioso, donde yo y muchos otros celebramos la vida de nuestro amigo, el cual ahora se convertía en una memoria más.

Recuerdo abrazar a mi otro amigo, quien lloró y rió al mismo tiempo. Recuerdo detener las lágrimas y tratando de ser fuerte. Recuerdo decir, “Lo siento” y irme del lugar.

Recuerdo como el tiempo pasó, y yo tratando de mantenerme a flote. Pronto mi vida continuó, hablando de todo con todos, desde familiares a amigos y estudiantes. Recuerdo hablar, discutir y tratar de entender y lidiar, pero nunca mencionar que uno de mis amigos, como otros, había sido víctima de los actos tan horribles.

Recordé las torres, los aviones, las víctimas, mientras miraba un programa de televisión esta mañana.

Recordé a mi amigo y recuerdo todo lo que hice para poder ignorar la realidad de las cosas.

Recordé, hoy, por primera vez en seis años, a mis dos amigos y lo que les pasó. Recordé el que lloraba y me dejaba mensajes casi todos los días; recordé al que se fue sin saber que nunca regresaría. Recuerdo como traté de ignorar la realidad de la tragedia. Recordé a mi amigo y lloré. Hoy, por primera vez en seis años, por fin me animé a hablar acerca de mi amigo, de lo que le pasó a él y muchos otros.

Le extraño mucho; le quiero mucho y hoy, recuerdo.

I remember.

I remember exactly where I was and what I was doing six years ago when the two towers went down.

I remember watching TV, not really believing what I was seeing, but thinking it was a movie trailer about the next blockbuster.

I remember driving to work, listening to the radio, my favorite Spanish program had been interrupted. Instead, Jorge Ramos’ voice was describing what I still couldn’t believe.

I remember arriving at the college, seeing students standing in parking lots, quiet and in shock.

I remember walking to the scene shop where all my drama students waited for me. Their eyes glued to a portable TV the shop supervisor had brought in from the prop room. They were all watching, some of them crying, others looking terrified.

I remember seeing their faces and feeling a strong empty feeling in my gut, something I can’t still described.

I remember trying to understand what was happening, trying to feel strong, and ready to talk to the students, trying to make myself believe I was okay and ready to be a teacher, a guide for those students needing any help.

I remember I was asked if we were going to do the scenes scheduled for the day. I remember shaking my head and saying, “We should watch, and talk, and stay here. It is best.”

I remember, days after the incident, receiving the news that a friend had been in one of the planes, and that his partner had fought with him hours before.

I remember calling my friend’s partner and asking if he was okay. I remember his answer: a long pause, a long sob, a long cry.

I remember shutting down, not wanting to talk to anyone, pretending nothing had happened, ignoring I had lost someone, like many other people, but unlike many, I was far away from the incidents to really get involved.

I remember going on with my life, trying to survive whatever was happening inside me. I remember listening to voice messages from my friend, who constantly kept me updated on his whereabouts and emotional state.

I remember feeling that I couldn’t do anything about it and that crying, mourning, talking, or even thinking about 9/11 couldn’t bring my friend back.

I remember being angry and suddenly shutting down, ignoring everything at once.

I remember being terrified for a long time.

I remember crying in my office and in the restroom, right before starting classes. I remember doing this for many days after the incidents.

I remember not saying anything about my friend, who constantly cried because now his partner was gone, to anyone.

I remember trying to be strong and trying to continue with my life, but failing miserably.

I remember going to a religious service where I, and many others, celebrated the life of a friend who was now becoming a memory.

I remember embracing my other friend, who cried and laughed at the same time. I remember holding up the tears and trying to be strong. I remember saying, “I’m sorry” and walking away.

I remember time passing by, and me trying to keep up with it. Soon I continued living my life, talking about everything with anyone, from family friends to friends to students. I remember talking, discussing, trying to understand and cope, yet I never mentioned that one of my friends had been, like many others, a victim of such outrageous acts.

I remembered the towers, the plains, the victims, as I watched the television program this morning.

I remembered my friend and I remembered all I did in order to not face such reality.

I remembered, today, for the first time in six years, my two friends and what happened to them. I remembered the one that cried and left me messages almost everyday; I remembered the one that left not knowing he would never come back. I remember how I tried to avoid the reality of such tragedy. I remembered my friend and I cried. Today for the first time, after six years, I actually dared to talk about him, what happened to him and to many others.

I miss him very much, I love him very much and today, I remember.

¿Cómo Hacerle? What to do?

2007-09-11T16:07:00.000-07:00

No sé si a ustedes le ha pasado esto: están en una relación, todo parece ir bien, planean un futuro y de repente, saz, ya no quieren estar contigo.

La noticia te cae como un balde de agua fría. El cuerpo te tiembla, por unos segundos no sabes si lo que escuchas es solo en tu imaginación o se lo dicen a alguien diferente. Cuando por fin puedes reaccionar de una manera adecuada, los ojos se te llenan de lágrimas y cuando quieres decir algo, tu voz se te va y lo único que puedes hacer es sostenerte pues sientes que el suelo se abre a tus pies.

Estoy seguro que como a mí, a muchos de ustedes les ha pasado eso. Y si a alguien no le ha pasado, no se los deseo. Esta vez escribo no para decir que el amor es algo bonito y que duele. Eso ya lo sabemos todos. Ni tampoco escribo para decir que si estás enamorado y te corresponden, las posibilidades de que te dejen es de un 50 %. No. Eso también ya lo sabemos.

Hoy escribo porque me pregunto, ¿cómo es posible, que después de tanto tiempo, se pueda comenzar a vivir una vez mas sin la persona con la que haz compartido los últimos nueve años de tu vida?

Juan Gabriel, cantautor mexicano, lo dice en una canción: “no cabe duda que es verdad que la costumbre es mas fuerte que el amor.” Y eso me pasa. Sé que mi pareja ya no me quiere y con el tiempo que hemos estado separados, yo comienzo a olvidarme de él. Pero lo que se me hace imposible es vivir sin su compañía.

Salir al cine solo o con amigos no es igual sabiendo que mi pareja no está para compartir los malos momentos de una actuación obviamente errónea. O para compartir los minutos de risa causados por las tonterías mostradas en la pantalla grande.

Los fines de semana, aunque uno trate, son largos y solitarios. Las noches son frías y vacías, y aunque la mascota fiel te acompañe no te dice palabras dulces al oído, ni te abraza de repente a media noche. Y si se duerme en tu cama, no es lo mismo que tener al ser que amas junto a ti.

Ahora hay que acostumbrarse a comer solo, a ver televisión solo, a salir a pasear a los mismos lugares solo. Si, es cierto, están los amigos, los familiares, las mascotas. Pero nada es lo mismo. Desde el momento que te dijeron que ya no te querían, que ya no querían estar contigo, y que era mejor partir, todo es muy diferente. Lo ves todo de una manera distinta, lo escuchas todo de una manera no antes escuchada. Aunque traten, nada ni nadie puede ayudarte. Todo y todos te dan aliento pero solo el tiempo puede reestablecer tu normalidad, y eso lleva mucho, pero mucho tiempo. Y eso es peor que el balde de agua fría que te echaron cuando te dijeron que ya no te querían.

I don’t know if this has happened to you: you are in a relationship, everything seems to be going well, you plan your future, and suddenly: zaz, your partner doesn’t want to be with you.

The news hit you like a bucket of cold water. The body trembles; for a few seconds you don’t know if what you hear is directed to you or to someone else. When you finally are able to react in an adequate manner, your eyes are full with tears and when you want to say something, your voice is gone. Now, the only thing you can do is to hold yourself as you feel how the floor splits in two under your feet.

I am sure many of you have gone through the same thing. And if something like this has not happened to you, I don’t wish it upon you. I write not to say that love is beautiful and that it hurts. We already know that. I don’t write to say that if you are in love and they love you back, the possibilities that you might be left behind is a 50 % chance. No, we also know that. I write because I ask, “How is it possible, that after a long time, one can start over without the person you have shared the last nine years of your life?

Juan Gabriel, Mexican singer and composer, says it in a song: “There is no doubt that it is true, routine is much stronger than love.” That is what I am going through. I know my partner doesn’t love me anymore and I know that the time we have been apart, has helped me to start to forget him. But what’s very hard to do is to live without him.

Going out to the movies alone or with friends is not the same knowing you can’t share the bad acting moments done by the actors with your partner anymore, or knowing that you can’t share the few moments of laughter caused by the dumb things happening in the silver screen.

Weekends, even though you try, are long and lonely. The nights are cold and empty and even though you have a pet, he can’t whisper sweet nothings to you; he can’t hug you in the middle of the night. If your pet sleeps in your bed, it is not the same as having your lover next to you.

Now you have to get used to eat alone, now you have to learn how to watch TV alone, to go out to the same places you used to visit alone. Yes, it is true. You have friends, relatives, and pets, but nothing is the same. From the moment your partner told you that he didn’t love you, from the moment he told you he didn’t want to be with you anymore, that he wanted to go on his separate way, you see everything different, you hear everything as never before. Even though people try to help you, no one and nothing can lift your spirit all day long. Everything and everyone gives you hope but only time can replenish your spirit, only time can spring you back to normality. That takes time, lots of time. And that is worse than the cold bucket of water that was dumped on you the moment your partner told you he didn’t love you anymore.

El comienzo/The Start

2007-09-11T14:44:00.000-07:00

¡Hola Gente!

Bienvenido a mi blog de loculas. Aquí encontrarás, por lo regular, cosas acerca de lo que pienso y de lo que opino. Esto es un lugar para expresarme, el cual espero lo disfrutes.

Hello People!

Welcome to my locuras blog. Here you will usually find about my thoughts, opinions, and what I think about life. This is a place to express myslef, a place I hope you will enjoy.