Girl Anachronicles

What a way to end the year! Just yesterday (day next-to-last of 2010) our roommate and closest living being (right along with Caprica and Gallifrey) was fired from her job. Some people might debate about whether it was deserved or not, and I think it’s a bit less debatable about whether due process was followed … the Devil is in the details. But to add insult to injury, I’ve known of at least one (maybe 2) persons who have outwardly and publicly rejoiced at her dismissal (who knew the Munchkins had moved from Oz to Earth and had become so daft all of a sudden? Oh, they already were daft… Turn to Wicked for answers).

Ding-dong the witch is dead! (besides, Elphaba was so much more!)

What’s interesting and different about this whole situation is that, although my initial reaction was the empathy rage that always fills me when I see an injustice or injury done to people I love, it eventually fizzed out. Of course it’s worrisome that our pockets will once more be a little bit tighter – what? You didn’t think we’d leave her out in the open, emotionally starved and alone. Why would we? We love having her around!

… and of course it’s infuriating that the people that planned this out to ensure my friend’s dismissal (all enveloped tightly in a hissy fit from the district manager) are the same group of people that swiftly turned my dream job into a living nightmare a year ago (all with the help of a broken leg at the wrong time, lousy managerial decisions, and eventually the demise of a friendship, going down in flames in front of clients and coworkers).

But somewhere, in the midst of all this unraveling of passions and emotions, a calm little center (who knows whence it came!) reminded me that: 1) this is not the end of all, 2) all things can be worked out, and 3) this is the perfect opportunity for my friend to finally break free from the chains of retail, and to start doing what she really wants to do.

Hell, she might have looked like she led a “pointless little life”, but those who say this know very little of the potential that simmers under the surface, sprouting wildly from canvas to canvas. I think it’s time to let that wild caged animal roam free. Her dismissal has offered the perfect opportunity for that.

So we must thank the idiots and fools who gloat and boast in their Facebook and Twitter accounts that they “have been finally ridden of the witch, ha-ha-ha!” Yeah. Her keepers. They’ve finally gone and set her free. Idiots and fools, they will never know the favor they did – if they knew, maybe their smug grins would melt off their faces. Let them live in oblivion.

Who needs to suffer fools anyway?

Cada vez se me hizo más difícil escribir – o expresar lo que sentía … hasta que al final no lo hice más. No por los medios usuales. Claro, hubo intentos de cuentas alternas, parajes secretos en el ciberespacio, recovecos que tampoco me sirvieron de alivio pero que no pienso borrar porque uno nunca sabe cuándo los vaya a necesitar de nuevo.

No sé qué me pasa (o qué me pasó; quisiera pensar que no se va a repetir)… Quisiera culpar a las hormonas, al calor / frío de verano / invierno (cosas imposibles en este punto kármico de la isla, en el mismo cruce del Ecuador y Greenwich) … quisiera culpar a los demás, pero está un poco difícil apuntar un dedo cuando los otros cuatro que completan la mano están apuntando a uno mismo. Al final lo que queda es la auto culpa. Y empezar a remediarlo.

Aún así, no puedo ignorar las señales que me envía mi cuerpo (las cosas no andan como habitualmente, es un poco preocupante y no puedo descifrar si la tensión es la causa o el resultado).

El año se termina y, lejos de estar haciendo resoluciones insulsas que se marcan con el sellito “12/31″, ya hace rato mi resolución fue … otra. Pero ¿quién soy yo para negarle la gracia al último día del calendario 2010? Si hago una restrospectiva, lo que veo es espantoso, y si miro al futuro lo que veo es espeluznante. Estoy rodeada de horrores, y de entre este jardín de lo macabro me toca crecer y continuar echando hojas, a ver si algún día mi sombra es suficiente para proteger a los que amo.

Mientras tanto, me toca resguardarme en el ajetreo de los estudios y el falso sentido de urgencia del trabajo; es como continuar laborando con pala y un cubito en el Titanic. En un rincón, ante mi atónita mirada (llena de envidia) veo la larga fila de motas negras y marrones, ojitos brillosos, narices al aire, bigotes eternos… todos ellos caminando por la soga hacia fuera de la nave, hacia … ¿el mar?

¡Quién fuera rata!

¡Tan dramática! Pero no miento: el “abismo” es ese hoyo negro llamado “maestría”, la cual comienzo este semestre que viene. 30 de agosto: esa es la fecha en la cual la academia me va a tragar.

…aunque ya me tiene tragada. Hacía tiempo no actualizaba en el blog, y la única excusa (mala) que puedo ofrecer es que he estado más pendiente a los asuntos de la matrícula que otra cosa. Ha sido un poco sobrecogedor por las siguientes circunstancias:

- Yo recibo exención de matrícula gracias a que mi pareja trabaja en la UPR

- La fecha límite para someter la solicitud de exención para el próximo semestre era a finales de julio.

- La fecha en la cual yo habría de hacer mi matrícula sería el 10 de agosto – esto debido a que soy estudiante de “nuevo ingreso” en cursos graduados. Nos recibieron con orientación y toda la cosa, y obviamente con recomendaciones acerca de los cursos a tomarse en el primer semestre. Podía hacer mi prematrícula, pero no necesariamente iba a hacer el mejor escogido.

- Intenté orientarme con el personal del Departamento de Traducción, y me dieron un ‘la’ acerca de los cursos que debía tomar. Intenté hacer prematrícula antes de la fecha estipulada, y ¡claro! de los 3 cursos que quería tomar, uno salía cerrado. El detalle es que todos los cursos que voy a tomar deben aparecer prematriculados cuando voy a someter la solicitud de exención. Si no aparecen en la pantalla whatever-they-call-it, no otorgan la exención. Si sometía la solicitud con cursos de más (preemptive strike), tampoco me otorgaban la exención. Estaba en un impasse con el sistema.

- Pero hablando se entiende la gente: la oficial de Beneficios Marginales en el Departamento de Recursos Humanos me dijo que, dado mi caso, llevara la solicitud de exención tan pronto lograra hacer mi matrícula, que ellos la trabajarían con prontitud.

De todos modos, la incertidumbre (que ha lugar, porque el sistema administrativo de la UPR ha demostrado ser de todo menos eficiente) me tenía los nervios roídos. Asistí a la orientación, me pompié con el prospecto de empezar el camino hacia mi nueva carrera, solicité matrícula para los cursos que había escogido… luego llevé la solicitud de exención … y “color me surprised”, ¡la exención bajó en cuestión de un día! Tengo todos mis cursos y no tuve que pagar sino cuotas de mantenimiento y tecnología. ¡Hurra!

Así se ve mi programa de clases:

Voy a estar tomando Sintaxis de español, Conceptos Básicos de Traducción, y Semiótica … la última es la que me tiene especialmente nerviosa. Sé lo que es la semiótica, y sé que una clase equivalente (en la facultad de Comunicación) logró reducir a Ezequiel a las lágrimas (casi … sí, exagero un poco).

De todos modos: ¡9 créditos! Whoohoo! Voy a estar hasta las cachas en lecturas. Lunes, miércoles y jueves han sido arrestados por mi deseo de hacer una maestría. Wouldn’t have it any other way…

Ahora, hay poco wishlist para este semestre (aparte de la costosa Gramática Española de la RAE, que cuesta un ojo de la cara y abarca dos hermosos volúmenes. Y un carnoso diccionario de etimología, sólo porque sí). Pero lo que me tiene la cabeza comida es esto:

Un nuevo bolígrafo de Sharpie: Liquid Pencil. Espero que no sea tan mierda como el Eraser Mate de los ’80… pero si escribe tan bonito como un lápiz (lo que me enseñan en la foto es más o menos eso) … bueno, definitivamente está en mi To Shop List. Sólo falta que salga. (Tanta cosa por un BOLIGRAFO)

BTW:

GOOD NEWS, EVERYONE!

¡Aprendí a hacer arroz! Para aquéllos que me conocen bien, probablemente les corre un “¡Por fin, puñeta!” por la mente. Pues les cuento que efectivamente, por fin. Y aparentemente, me queda muy bueno. Ya he hecho arroz con cebolla y tocineta (ése fue el primero, con la ayuda y guía de Eze), arroz blanco, arroz con coco y arroz jasmín. ¡Enhorabuena!

…yyy, para mi familita que en ocasiones vive en nostalgia por las artes culinarias de mamá (y que todavía no nos ponemos de acuerdo a ver quién se aprende cuál receta), les cuento que también hice hoy, por primera vez, el fabuloso bizcocho de ron. Yup, Bacardi Rum Cake, que acaba de perder – a mis manos – todo el caché de los ’60 porque lo hice con Ron Barrilito y Palo Viejo. ^_^ Bizcocho de ron pa’ la recesión del nuevo milenio. Luego les cuento cómo quedó.

I never told my whole prom story (in blog form). I mentioned it in passing in one entry about three years ago, but I never went into detail about the whole tragedy of it. A few weeks ago we were talking about this among friends and I told them the whole story, and one of them – bless her soul! – said: “Everyone’s entitled to a prom night!”. Prom night was a myth I pursued after my own prom had passed. I insisted in participating in my brother’s and my sister’s proms, seeking to capture whatever I thought I had missed in my own. Some would call it pathetic, but I know I was desperate.

My brother’s prom came a few years after my own. I had already graduated from college and had one of those temporary office-clerk jobs after a disastrous stint at a computer systems corporation. I jumped at the opportunity of spending the night at my brother’s hotel room with my then-boyfriend, Oscar. It wasn’t half bad: we scrammed early off the dance floor and beelined to the hotel room, we ordered room service, we got drunk, we went to sleep, and I woke up a few hours later when my brother and his friends came in with a bottle of rum. I had my rum shot, and then it went up my nose. Epic. Hilarious. But not my prom.

My sister’s junior prom was epic too, for all the wrong reasons: I got a flat tire and I had to change it. Imagine that: a girl bedecked in a spectacular, long evening dress full of glitter and satin… changing her car’s tire with great effort, getting all sweaty and dirty (and bloody knuckles too). Yeah, some may see it as a sexy fetish. I won’t judge you, guys, but I beg to differ. Her senior prom was a disappointment too, although I did see one of my elementary school ex-classmates attending the same prom. Maybe this disorder isn’t so strange after all. The Prom Vampire Syndrome.

So what went so wrong that I had to go stealing my siblings’ prom? I’ll tell ya…

It all started on the planning phase, I suppose. Back in 1995, merengue was all the rage (I think it still sort-of is, you won’t find a party in Puerto Rico without its merengazo long set). The artists of the moment were Olga Tañón (complete with pre-op nose) and Tony Vega (where IS he now?), and the class president would simply NOT have prom night without ‘em. These merengue divas were fucking costly, so the budget had to give somewhere else. I’ll tell you where it got cuts: the yearbook (it never got printed. Instead, each of us got it in digital form in a CD-ROM… about 8 years later), and the location for the prom.

It’s important to think about the size of our graduating class: each grade was composed of 9 – 10 classrooms, each classroom had at least 20 students in it. Being conservative, the number would be 180… then take off about 10 (dropouts, people that chose not to go, etc) … 150 – 160? Okay, let’s go with the 150, it’s nice and round. Now add parents and prom date for each one of those students – let’s say, to compensate, that each student brought only one parent and one date – and you get the sheer number of 450 souls to attend the event.

Where was my prom being held?

Parque Julio Enrique Monagas: it was a fucking tiny room at the top of a fucking tiny mogote (flat-topped mountain). The place is perfect for a small wedding, a business meeting … something small.  My class prom was not small. I’ve seen hotel ballrooms filled to the brim for a prom of a graduating class of 60 students. My class was NOT small. But they HAD to have Olga Tañón and Tony Vega. I hate merengue, so you can guess where that left me and like-minded people: very, VERY upset and resentful. I wasn’t gonna enjoy Olga Tañón! I definitely wasn’t gonna enjoy Tony Vega!!! Why did I have to lay low and accept this decision? Well, maybe ‘cuz I was way stupid!

Now, on the personal front, you’d think I had more control of the variables. I had a pretty clear idea of what I wanted as a prom dress:

The original one was way cooler: it was a white underskirt with black overskirt. Very ska!

(Something like) this, of course, paired with my dearest Doc-Marten-style boots… And I also had a very precise picture (as in: “I had a magazine cutout”) of the makeup job I wanted… minimalist, sweet, just a bit of attention to the eyes, nothing fancy. I was never a huge fan of makeup.

The gown was the first let-down. Money was short, this much I knew, but I was never told. So, when the time came to choose a prom gown, I was painfully aware of the price tags over anything else. I didn’t dare to go over $100, and I ended up choosing an $80 dress in the kind of slinky fabric I hate (you know the one! sticking to all the wrong bulges and seams…) It didn’t even look like a prom dress: slinky black little number, long but only down to my ankles, with a double row of silver-colored buttons down the front, with a ruched section of fabric in the middle, criss-crossed with thin bands of the same fabric … sort of going for classic-greek, but not quite getting there…

Then my mother thought it wise to get me some control top pantyhose AND some control-top panties …

..now do NOT breathe!

oh, yes! The same! So you can guess how many muffin-tops I had … about a THOUSAND! And I couldn’t do anything about it because I only thought of trying the whole thing out the same fucking day of the prom! Stupid stupid me!

My mother also thought it would be a great idea to have our personal stylist (of that time, she’s long gone, thankfully! Dreadful woman!) do my makeup for me that day. To be honest,  I thought it would be a great idea too – I’m less Michaelangelo and more Pollock with my makeup brushes. The woman arrives and I show her the magazine cutout I had saved for months (!!!), told her “I want something like this!” … and to this day, I remember her words “¡Ay, no! ¡Esos ojos de vaca cagona!” (translate for yourself, if you don’t speak Spanish, but … yes, something to the effect of a cow shitting … enjoy!) Then, she proceeded to do whatever the hell she wanted to my face.

And I swear, to this day, that the woman did what no other living creature has dared: she made it look like I was wearing another woman’s face as a translucent mask.

THIS woman's face. Desiree Lowry: beauty pageant queen extraordinaire. COMPLETELY different face! C'mon!

Nothing has ever been more unbecoming ever again.

(and let’s not even talk about The Hair, although, to be fair, I only acquired peace with my own hair within the last few years)

So, feeling completely unlike myself and very self-conscious about my general appearance, we set out to the prom. The first warning flag of All The Things That Would Go Wrong was the line for the elevator: long, serpentine… The ballroom was on top of the mountain, and the only way to get there was a single elevator. Now, why it was taking so long would be a surprise. We were first supposed to walk in one by one as a few words on each student would be read over the mic. I don’t know how in the world they were keeping the order straight: 150 students arriving randomly at any given moment would not make it easy. However, for me, this would be a highlight – or so I thought.

The wait was long and tortuous. My feet were killing me: no boots for me, my mother wouldn’t have it! So instead, I was wearing shiny black high heels. I have flat feet, so you can imagine. I never wear heels.

After more than an hour’s wait, we were finally at the top, albeit still at the end of a long line that ran from the ballroom all the way across a hallway that led to the elevator door. Then I saw it happen: the diva Olga Tañón whooshing past us in a fucking hurry. And then the line started to move.

As I pranced into the ballroom, I realized they had completely skipped the idea of reading anything other than the students’ names as they walked in, so it was “Diana Campo”, quick picture with my father, and that was that! Later on, I learned that Ms. Tañón was in such a hurry that she gave the ultimatum that she either started within 30 minutes, or she was gone (with full pay, of course!). So, any glory that dissenting students would have at least walking into the room was foregone in favor of this fucking bitch.

Way to go! You can stick that manicured thumb up your flaccid twat, you miserable whore!

Moments later my father pulled me apart and told me my mother was feeling sick, so we had to go. I don’t blame her: the ballroom was small, its ceiling was quite low, and by 15 minutes in, I was feeling like fried fish under the spotlights. It wasn’t a nice place to be. I bid my adieus and went home for the night.

So, does everyone deserve a prom night? Maybe.

I was thinking about this today and I realized that maybe I should have taken better control of the variables I could control: the attire, the makeup, the hair. I didn’t have to accept what was being handed to me right off the bat.I could have gotten creative, like sewing the dress or look for bits and pieces off older garments from home or the Salvation Army. I could have practiced the hair and the makeup at home, maybe raid mom’s makeup box. I could have taken the whole thing into my hands and run with it. It was my prom, after all. If it were today, that’s what I’d do.

But then I remembered what was really going through our minds back then: mom was surviving cancer. Plain and simple. There was no time nor energy for anything other than that. My involvement in school issues was limited, competing with my other escape (boyfriend, sex…). The whole teenage-side of my life, I think, was sort of a cardboard facade waiting to peel off at any moment. It was gone long before my senior year, but I kept up with the motions of being a graduating brat. My heart wasn’t into it, though. Had I really been into it like a normal teenager, I would have gotten a $200 dress like my step-sister’s (2 years down the road):

..not so great for leaping and prancing...

… oh, wait, I did wear that one … to fuck some other boy in his car… jeez, I’m such a smutty fucker. Nah, I don’t deserve a prom.

He estado out of the loop por algunas semanas ya. No he visto a mi madre en dos semanas y no he hablado con mi padre en el mismo tiempo. La mayoría del tiempo lo he pasado enconada en mi casa, en un estado de estupor entre dormida y despierta, con un dolor de espalda que probablemente trae el nombre “Colchón Viejo” tallado en su origen, celebrando a media potencia cumpleaños y aniversarios…

Una de las razones para este comportamiento de hibernación en pleno verano es La Monografía. La Monografía, que me ha venido quitando el sueño desde principios de semestre, cuando (a mí nada más) se me ocurrió transar con la profesora: a cambio del primer examen parcial, mejor hago una monografía. Sonaba a “¡excelente idea, Diana Campo!”, especialmente porque quería ir acostumbrándome nuevamente a ese tipo de tarea académica para cuando me empiece el martirio de la maestría (ya falta poco, falta muy poco).

Lo que no me esperaba era la infatuación (rayando en adoración)  que iba a desarrollarse con la profesora: su nivel de conocimiento y erudición, especialmente acerca del tema que había escogido para la monografía, era intimidante. ¿A quién rayos se le ocurre ponerse a hablarle a la prof. Luce Lopez-Baralt acerca de Don Quijote?

A esta guanaja que está aquí.

Tras mi mamá haberme pagado (tan generosamente)  un cursillo de 10 horas contacto acerca del Quijote – con la propia profesora, en la Academia Puertorriqueña de la Lengua Española, – yo estaba cada vez menos y menos segura de mí misma. De lo que estaba segura era de que no había NADA que yo pudiera decir del Quijote que Luce no hubiese escuchado ya como 300 veces… ni aún cuando se trataba de un paralelo entre Don Quijote y The Neverending Story.

Yep! Pasar un verano torturándome con lecturas obligadas: best summer evah!

Esa ansiedad se convirtió en una fuerza paralizante: no importa cuánto leía o dejaba de leer, no me sentí apropiada en ningún momento. Ni James Parr, ni Ruth El-Saffar ni Jorge Luis Borges me ayudaron a sentirme en mayor confianza con el tema. La extensión del semestre por la huelga tampoco hizo mucho por mi bienestar emocional: tenía más tiempo pero, en vez de escribir o leer, era más tiempo para atormentarme con la tarea que me esperaba.

Lo que me sacudió fue mucho más pueril: un sueño. Mejor dicho: una pesadilla. Sin entrar en los detalles más absurdos de lo que vi, Luce me tenía reunida para hablar acerca de la monografía y comenzó a hacerme preguntas acerca de lo que yo pensaba acerca del Quijote. En resumen, la Luce de mi sueño estaba negándome la dualidad maravillosa de la locura de Don Quijote, cosa que me parecía absurda porque Luce es la primera en quedar deleitada con los juegos mágicos que Cervantes se gasta en su mejor novela.

...también había un cojonal de dulces y helado en el sueño, pero eso no viene al caso.

En fin, con ese sueño quedé asegurada de que lo que sabía del Quijote, lo sabía bien. Y me puse a escribir.

Y lo comparto con mis lectores porque no es justo que no actualice mi blog en una eternidad y luego no tenga nada que mostrar como resultado:

Monografia_DianaMCampo

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