Girl Anachronicles

I’m writing out of what could probably be a very out-of-place anger. I know everyone has the undeniable right to pursue his or her own happiness. So undeniable and common-sense is this right, that it was included in the U.S. Passport (it’s a small quote from some forefather dude who spoke nicely enough to be quoted in a passport design). The pursuit of happiness is, in short, one of the few things that every sentient being should be allowed.

My father shipped away some years ago (I think 5, to be as accurate as possible) to the mainland U.S. to search for his own happiness. His contracting business here was not working as well as it used to: maybe a symptom of what would later become a nation-wide meltdown of the economy. I was surprised, though, that he bought into the widespread myth that “things in the U.S. are better than in Puerto Rico”. The last few years have proved that the puertorican’s inability to adapt to a recession has been the lifeboat of some U.S. franchises and  companies (Dennys, Sears – to name a few). While the American’s purchasing habits have been deeply altered by the steep fall of the market, puertoricans remain blissfully oblivious and spend entire days at the mall buying things they don’t need to make them feel better about the problems they think they don’t have. Things are fucked up all around, but Puerto Rico is trapped in a bubble of delusion that has kept the boat afloat.

So, why am I angry?, you might ask. I truly believed my dad could make it fine out there. First there was Texas, then Fort Myers, and now Orlando. The stories in all these places have been the same: he scrounges for jobs, some directly related to what he used to do as a contractor, others way below what a man with 2 Master Degrees should be doing for a living. All of this, just so he can barely scrape by… all of this just so he can pay the debts that have been piling up for months and years, all of this to follow a dream that, from where I’m standing, has been long defunct. Changing places to “have a better life” almost never works like that: the things that truly make you unhappy will follow you wherever you go.

Dad went away looking for I don’t know what, running from something that was never very clear to me. I wanted to empathize and be supportive, and I think I HAVE, most of the while. Today I received a few forwarded pictures, though, and I realized something that is clearer and stronger than any pursuit for material wellness or “peaceful community living” could ever be: Dad moved away and he took away with him the opportunity to grow old among the ones that love him. He left with his wife, who no doubt adores him (which is the only solace I get out of this situation: her unconditional love and support of him is what has kept him alive, and for that I am grateful)… but the rest of us are here. Sons, daughters, grandkids, all of us missing them terribly, and needing from them the one thing they could always muster in droves: emotional support, presence, peace, a temple, a place to come home to.

I miss that, I miss what was home: a place that no longer exists, that was left behind in “10 Years Ago”.  I miss my Dad, I miss his wife… a phone call can keep me posted on what’s going on, but it can NEVER relay a hug. I’m missing my dad growing old … I think this hurts as much as never seeing your own child grow up. And Dad, even though he knows what’s going on with us, is missing us growing into full-on adults, the true product of the seeds he planted for years.

I think that somewhere along the way he lost sight of the real wealth that counts in life: it’s not so much about having the perfect house, a job that earns well,  an organized and peaceful neighborhood. The real wealth is being able to spend your life surrounded by the people you love and who love you. The real wealth is not missing the things that will give you a richer and happier death, when you start remembering what your life was like.

Maybe this is a temper tantrum of mine… maybe I have no right to ask.

… or maybe it IS an inalienable right: the right to enjoy your parents will you can.

To my aunt & progeny (and uncle too, if he’s so inclined to include himself):

Very simple – if you so hate being related to me, what business is it of yours to keep coming into my blog to read whatever I have to say? The fact that you do and then go and make snide comments in your own spaces speaks volumes of you more than it does about me. I can only conclude one thing: it’s not so much that you care about the subject, much less that you give a flying fuck about what I think – I think you like the freaking gossip. You like the crisis. You like to be able to be self righteous about something. Just like Grandma did. So it proves my point in the previous post. Feel better now?

So, one last message: FUCK. THE. HELL. OFF!!!

My mother wished me to write down what I saw a few weeks ago when I visited her mother at the geriatric home. It was breathtaking, to say the least, and I had tons to say about how she really was an old lump of meat that didn’t recognize anyone. Since then, she has gone twice to the emergency room, X-mas has come and passed, and I’ve been left with tatters of free time scattered among big chunks of work that have left me too exhausted to write anything coherent.

Today, however, it has become clear how things are working themselves out in this slow, agonizing death of my grandmother: to compensate for the glaring absence of my mother’s brother and sister (the ones”in exile”, or whatever tickles their funny bone to be called), it has become our responsibility to take over our mom’s and aunt’s efforts.And by “our”, I mean my brother, my sister, and I. And today I noticed, this is tearing us apart.

Our grandmother polarizes even in the throes of death. Not quite contented with having done all the harm she has to the generation that precedes us, she has also done quite a fine job of demoralizing the 2nd generation and tearing at the reedy fabric that has (sort of) bound us together for the past few years now.

Or maybe I’ve come to realize “family” is a four-letter word, and that blood has no fucking meaning at all, unless you want it to. Yes, that must be it.

Thing is: my sister, my brother, and I are taking the brunt of a responsibility that is definitely not ours to shoulder. It’s stressing us and the relationship among us to the point of breakage; and if there is one thing I do not want for myself and my peers, it is to replicate what happened between our  mother and her peers.

I’ve had quite enough with taking a swig of sour repressions and recriminations every time I try to even pretend I have a family beyond the core of mom-dad-peers. Now I’m facing the prospect of having those same repressions and recriminations passed down to us via undue responsibilities and tasks. Responsibilities and tasks that don’t belong to us. Responsibilities and tasks that at least half the brood have shunned just so they can have peaceful lives.

Guys (aunt & uncle that probably read me): you WIN BIG at shaking off your burdens, but you are an EPIC FAIL at leaving behind the legacy of hate, resentment and sorrow of your mother. You think that by fleeing physically from your mother has saved you from a similar fate? Think again, and look really hard at your relationships, specially your relationships with your kids, and especially the way your kids see your own relationships with your mother. What you want to escape is the “vicious circle” of dysfunctional relationships. What you are teaching your kids? “Your mom is expendable”.

And in the meanwhile, the only three that have to shoulder the burdens you’ve shaken off are being brittled apart prematurely. In a few decades’ time it will be this all over again with our mother. I hoped that it would’ve been the only time we’d have to live this, but we’ve had to come through before our time to cover the gaping hole our mother’s peers leave. Fuck you, guys.

“Family” IS a four-letter word.

I am fully aware that my whole family can eventually reach this blog and read whatever I have to say regarding them, regarding my life, regarding … whatever. I am not and will not be apologetic about what I write in here, even though it may wound sensitivities. If I choose to write what I feel, I will do my best to keep it honest.

Regarding my last post, it apparently drew my uncle’s attention (and I’m pretty certain of HOW he got here, since he had never contacted me before and had no easy access to my contacts and websites). I understand that he, as well as my mother and her sisters, will each have a very unique way of seeing things, of appreciating situations, of living their lives. I respect that, and I try my best to keep to myself and not  intrude in their lives. However, as all human beings, I will have my own opinions about that, and if it is totally relevant, I may even share them here. I do not intend to question their reasons for doing (or failing to do): I just observe, and as an observer of life, I post here, in my own very personal, albeit very public, space.

I just want to make it clear that all comments I make here are solely my own, conclusions to which I have arrived by observation (even more than by listening to third parties, I too can see what’s happening around me and come to my own conclusions at 30 years old). And there will be certain comments that may be hurtful, specially when it comes to a certain grandmother, and oh PLEASE! Do not come demanding respect for her: if you feel she deserves YOUR respect, by all means, she is your mother. If I refer to her despectively, hasn’t it occurred to you that I may have my own, very personal reasons?

So let’s leave it in the clear: I am not a parrot. I am not spewing out a re-chewed version of something told to me. The opinions and comments in this blog are purely mine, and as such, just as valid as anyone else’s. I do not appreciate anyone coming into my blog to tell me that the opinions forged about my family during the last 30 years of life are wrong. I, too, am entitled to a personal view of this family. If it disagrees with others’ views, well, then … we’ll have to agree to disagree. Everyone in my close family knows how I feel, and respect it, even if they do not share it. I never expected someone so truly detached from my life to come lecturing me about “how things were”. I was also there. I also watched. From this side, it looks totally different: doesn’t make it less true.

BTW: I will not publish my uncle’s comments, just so he knows. Since those are his own personal issues, I do not feel in the liberty of disclosing them here. I may disagree with my family, but I do respect their privacy.

A veces trato de verle el sentido a la forma en que esta familia se ha desbandado.

Mi papá y Martha hace ya más de 4 años están viviendo fuera de la isla: se fueron a buscar una mejor vida, cosa que todavía nos cuestionamos: “hasta qué punto lo habrán logrado?” … porque si nos dejamos llevar por lo económico, “nanai cucas!”, como diría papi.

Mi abuela (la única que nos queda ya, después del lento deshoje de abuelitos que hemos visto desde hace 10 años) terminó tostá y encerrada en un hogar de ancianos. Allá la van a visitar mi mamá y mis hermanos todos lo fines de semana. Mi tía menor la visita [supongo que] cuando le entra la sensación de culpa, y mis otros dos tíos extranjerizados creo que todavía niegan que la mamá se les está muriendo, y prefieren desentenderse de la pelota de masa vieja que ya ni habla ni reconoce. Yo ni me he ocupado de visitarla, mis razones tengo, pero se me ocurre que después me voy a arrepentir de no haber hecho las paces con la doña de mi madre.

Mi hermana se ha ido enajenando de la familia en un lento proceso de emancipación emocional. Aún no entiendo la estrategia, pero ya llegó al punto culminante: hace poco avisó que se va de la casa con su novia. Este fin de semana entrante firman contrato y entregan depósito: toda una serie de etcéteras de adultos que me hacen sentir vieja cuando veo a mi hermanita bregando con eso.

Mi hermano ha sido el que menos se ha apartado del núcleo: se mantiene en contacto con los que importan y no se ha perdido en un bosque de amigos e intereses externos. No significa que a veces no me quede muda cuando me percato de que este ex-ponketo rebelde ahora se pone camisa de botón y manga larga y un pantalón de vestir para ir a trabajar a la Milla de Oro. Se siente como un anacronismo, circa Siglo 21.

Anoche analizaba todos estos detalles, a dónde ha ido a parar cada partícula de la familia, y me preguntaba si alguna vez pensé que así se sentiría nuestra adultez. A mis 21 años puede que no estuviera tan perdida como mi hermana, pero sí estaba tomando decisiones peores (metiendo mano con gente irresponsable, abortando, hundiéndome en mi propia crapulenta miseria). Si alguien me decía que 9 años más tarde: mi hermanita estaría Livin’ la Vida Lesbian; y mi hermano, bandeándose en el paraíso yuppie-boricua… me hubiera reído y mucho.

Ahora, qué bueno que nadie vino a contarme que mi papá cogería los bártulos y se iría de nuevo y por buen tiempo!… eso me hubiese destruído con bastante antelación. Mejor dejar esas lágrimas para ahora, cuando realmente tocan y tienen surcos por donde correr.