Liberating half-liberated love

The year is ending and I am feeling shitty. When I feel shitty, I write because that’s what I do best. I wanted to talk about my vulnerability because it has been on a thousand this past year. I began 2022 alone for the first time in 5 years, I went into the new year, single. I was with a man I was in love with at one point in my life. Love lasted very shortly after his emotional abuse. Gaslighting was his natural talent, and saying, “this is the way I know how to love” was his second natural talent. But we stayed together because he really did love me in his own weird way and I stayed because I thought I wanted to be married at the time and it was comfortable. Besides, he had a good job, he was handsome and he was sometimes nice to me. The sex was okay, more for him than for me. Because sex was a fun chore not a moment for connection and vulnerability. But I was very desperately not in love with him and hungry for something different. I wanted a mindblowing, inevitable connection. I wanted to love someone so good that they’d describe my love as liberating and soft. I want my love to revolutionize a heart. Nevertheless that “something different” hit me like a ton of bricks on a morning in September.

A woman who I truly found beautiful swept me off my feet with a gorgeous smile and a beautiful gap and squinty eyes. She was absolutely stunning. I knew it. I felt it. I wanted it. I tried so hard not to do so because I was still with this man who was trying to progress for “us”. While he tried to progress for the sake of our relationship, I couldn’t convince myself to bring him into my personal space to meet my loved ones. Meanwhile, I am in bed thinking of how to ask this woman on a date. I wanted to speak to her, to be near her. I wanted to know her. He would talk about his day, his shitty coworkers, and the shitty bar he would drink at with his friends and the whole time I’m thinking about her. I see you.

The last time I had sex with my former partner, I thought of her… I thought of the way she had spoken to me that day when we began interacting more. Her aura and mine moved together quicker than she and I did. That made me shake in ways I hadn’t before and he absolutely knew that I wasn’t shaking for him. That prompted our break-up argument. He went his way, and I went my way. Five years of stability, are gone. I felt free and ready to figure out who the hell this woman was. However, I saw some behavior from her that I didn’t like. I felt like she was hard on me without getting to know me. It made me rough on her. But my attraction and curiosity about her were stronger which made me cave. I wanted to know everything about her. She became my favorite book without even reading the story. I asked her what made her vulnerable and her answer is what made me feel deeper intrigue. She struggled with softness and I wanted to softly take care of her. Softly brush her hair, softly kiss her, softly hug her, softly argue with her, softly make love to her. I wanted to give her so much softness but the softness makes her withdraw at times. Withdrawal from one another is hard to deal with when you want this person as much as I wanted her. I wanted her in every way possible. I wanted her and all her levels of intimacy. I want her on the good days, on the days she can’t move from the bed, on the days she can’t stand the world, I want her when she’s mad, I want her when she’s happy. I simply and softly want her. I feel you.

Her. Such a simple pronoun but with thoughts attached to a woman who has never been mine and I have never been hers. I was told that love feels like the feeling after you eat your favorite meal. The love I have developed for a woman who refuses to be vulnerable looks like a lot of things. But the love I feel for her cannot be compared to a favorite meal, a favorite smell, or a favorite memory. My love and likeness towards her look like liberation, freedom and pleasure. Her love is liberating. Her heart is full of freedom. Her hands are full of pleasure that transitions into love. Her hands are very good at love and pleasure. I thank God for those hands because they have made me cry tears of pure body-shocking pleasure. I am very connected to my body therefore I know how good our pleasure feels. This woman who became the Juliet to my Romeo [we also are very much star-crossed lovers, I believe it, right person just at the wrong time] gave me a softness that I have never felt before. Her softness was safe, her softness was warm. But her softness was seasonal. I taste you.

Her lack of vulnerability was always at the front line and that is hard. Not talking, choosing to hide feelings, denial, and frustration is hard. Staying up at night wondering if our fuse will fizzle out is hard. Watching her love someone else is hard. Watching her in front of me and not being able to claim the smile that I fell for when I landed my eyes on her is hard. Not being able to tell her how I really feel is hard. Watching her inner child fight with her adult self is hard. Watching her eyes gloomy when she’s hurt is hard. When she hurts, she reverts back to being a little girl. Her eyes look like those of an innocent child being scolded which reminds me how she is a half-liberated woman. I hear you.
Why half liberated? Because she only pinpoints her arousal in her hands, not the rest of her body. Half liberated because she is trapped in a cycle of mistrust and self-abuse. Half liberated because a liberated woman allows herself to feel unapologetic. Half liberated because her inner conflicts are on liberating herself and her desires yet thinking about the importance of commonality and monotony. Both things are not hers. I recognize a half-liberated woman because I am a half-liberated woman. The chained part of her screams for softness, vulnerability, and understanding. I am the one searching for the key while she covers my eyes in the process, making it that much harder. This leaves me with the question, “how do we become fully liberated?”.

Being Mentally Ill Is Political.

Being mentally ill is political. Being Puerto Rican is political. Having and suffering through any form of chronic illness is inherently political but before I get into politics I am gonna step back really quick. I think I should begin by giving you some background on what it feels like to live with OCD and what it can look like. First and foremost, if you are a nerd like me, information matters to you so let me begin with defining OCD in my own words because medical terms can be scary.

OCD stands for “Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder”  and I bet the FIRST thing that comes to your mind is a person frantically cleaning, flipping a switch, or anything the media has told you OCD “looks” like. In most instances, they show you the compulsions and not so much the obsessive parts of it. The obsessive part of the illness has to do with fearful thoughts like a fear of dying, fear of the dark, fear of getting sick and the list goes on. These thoughts then stick, meaning they go on a loop or interfere with your day to day life. In my case, my “loop”  is a fear of hurting myself or losing control of my well-being. Now, compulsions are the result of the obsession part. A compulsion is something the person does to feel better, at ease, and to alleviate the stress and anxiety that the obsessive thoughts cause. Compulsions can look like constant cleaning, switching the lights on and off, organizing things a particular way, tapping, phrases and more. MY particular compulsion is “avoidance” more specifically, harm reduction. I want to reduce ALL harm possible because my fear is that I will be triggered into losing my mind or hurting myself even though that is not something I want to do or will realistically happen. Now, OCD does not cause suicide, OCD does not and will not make you “go crazy”, OCD does not cause self-harm, no matter how REAL these thoughts might feel and no matter how uncomfortable you might feel. Again, if you are self-harming and you have thoughts of suicide, please reach out for help. It is scarier to go through it alone than to go on recovery.

Let’s get into it now, let me be as illustrative as possible. I want you to think about chocolate cake. I don’t care if you don’t like it, I just want you to think about it. Picture it. 

Okay cool, now DON’T think about chocolate cake. Just stop thinking about it. Think about your day, not the chocolate cake. Did you cook today? DON’T THINK ABOUT THE CHOCOLATE CAKE. Did you go to work today? Chocolate cake? Did you have your morning (chocolate cake) coffee? What are (chocolate) doing tomorrow (cake)? What time do you usually (chocolate cake) go to bed? What do you have (chocolate cake) on? What is with you? Why can’t you stop thinking of the damn chocolate cake? Chocolate cake. Chocolate cake. Chocolate cake. 

Okay… Can you see how that can get annoying and stressful? That’s what my OCD is like except I’d much rather obsess over chocolate cake than the morbid crap that goes through my mind. But this is the thing, sometimes I convince myself that obsessing and dealing with my OCD on my own is easier than me texting my therapist or letting my loved ones help me because being vulnerable, mentally ill, Puerto Rican and a woman is political. Living in an individualist society and being raised in a very religious, patriarchal culture mental illness is not a priority. Instead, you should “pray” the illness away or “push through it.” In my culture being mentally ill is “cosas de locos” meaning “crazy people things.” We are not locks, we are normal folx who need to give our brain a little bit more attention and love than others. On the other hand, you’ll hear that being mentally ill is “cosas del diablo” meaning “devilish things”. Not nice, right? These undertones of judgment have been embedded in me and it has been very hard to be compassionate with myself especially when I was first diagnosed. I kept thinking of how I was a failure, a failure because the one part of my body that controls everything is what is sick. It’s not a fractured bone that I know will heal in X amount of months but instead, the one thing I need the most to function properly is what I need help with and that to me was annoyingly unbelievable. Of course, with therapy, I have come to realize that that is not the case even though I play the in denial card but I am so far from being my most mental health enlightened self. But I am way closer than I was before and that is a FACT. Throughout my mental health recovery journey, I have taken it upon myself to research my illness and how to cope with it along with coping skills my therapist provides for me. One thing I came across super quickly was that most of the blogs and mental health advocates are white women. Yes, their stories have some similarities with mine but it just didn’t quite hit home for me. White folx in general have an easier time in every aspect of society (particularly white men). They have access to therapy, money for professional care, and their feelings are validated. While Black and Latina women have to hide our mental illness because we, in a literal sense, cannot afford to be mentally ill, have a family to take care of, and or society already has a target on us. Imagine being Black and struggling with mental health or Latina and struggling with mental health. We experience the judgment in our own cultures and communities to experience racism, judgment and resentment from those outside our communities. Our anxieties, our depression, our mental illnesses are political. They are political starting from our own communities and even more so to those outside our communities. We are expected to tolerate more abuse. We are expected to have a higher pain tolerance. We are expected to give to others and not to ourselves. We are expected to be neutral even when we are our saddest and our most anxious. Vulnerability for Black and Puerto Rican women is revolutionary. Black and Puerto Rican women expressing vulnerability is a decolonial, anti-racist and an anti-patriarchal practice. Yeah, it’s tiring, being mentally ill is exhausting, but being a non-white woman and mentally ill? That is a different level of exhaustion.

“What Brings You In Today?”

“What brings you in today?” are the only words I remember clearly from December 19th of 2019. Everything from the last two months of 2019 was a complete blur. I only remember bits and pieces and those memories make me feel fragile and small. On December 19th of 2019, I admitted myself into the hospital because I was struggling mentally and emotionally. When the woman at the front desk asked me, “What brings you in today?” I said, “I’m having thoughts about hurting myself.” It was by far one of the worst days of my life, but it was the one day where I was forced to reflect on myself. I finally had to face many of my demons…some of which I voluntarily tried avoiding. Some of my demons were made from abusive romances, work obsession, my sexual preference, being away from the island, starting grad school, and just feeling behind in life. I felt alone, afraid, angry, suppressed, and trapped, to say the least.

After I was hospitalized it took me a long time to come to terms with my illness. I did not want to admit that my brain worked differently and needed more self-care than others. Thankfully, I have the privilege of having an amazing therapist who has helped me throughout my healing process. She has been such a rock in my life. Alana, if you ever read this, you are truly an amazing woman and I am happy to have a therapist like you. Alana has been my toughest and greatest critique. She has taught me that healing cannot happen without self-love, support, and acceptance. All things that I have deprived myself of. Throughout my journey, I have learned that I didn’t love myself as much as I thought I did. I’m pretty sure I hated myself more than I loved myself, but a lot has changed in the last year and let me tell you how. I have finally accepted myself as the bisexual Puerto Rican woman that I am and always have been. I am a proud person on the LGBT+ spectrum. This acceptance was more difficult than it was festive since I had internalized a lot of homophobia from my culture, society and religion therefore I would project harmful ideas onto me. With my self-denial I hurt a lot of women in the process who have shown interest in me and for that, I am eternally regretful. However, I also had to break away from some women who constantly measured my bisexuality, making me feel like a “fake bisexual” because I am too girly or because I spent a long portion of my life “closeted.”  Self-acceptance comes with a lot of brutal realizations, some are beautiful, and some are hurtful.

My healing journey came with many bad days but for every bad day, I got three good ones. I came to learn that I can find balance in my life again and that love means nothing if I do not love myself. I have also learned to understand that therapy is not about “fixing” me, but it is about seeing things clearly. This year I have felt like I have 20/20 vision (haha, made a 2020 joke) because I have been able to listen to my body/mind and hear/see its needs and cater to them. Now, if I need a break, I take it. If I need more sleep, I take it. If I need an extension, I ask for it. I no longer push myself because as my therapist says, “the more you push, the worse you’ll feel.” In no way does this mean that I don’t have days that I repeat some old behavior because I am only human, and this is only year one of my healing journey, but I am doing one hell of a job. But some days are good, and some days are bad.

I have also learned that there is more to life than papers, competition, and work. There is laughter, there is sadness, there is friendship, there are pride parades, and good food with good company. There is so much more that I am dying to experience things that I would have never realized if I would have taken my life last year. In the last year, I have felt more shame than I have ever felt in my 23 years of life. I felt like benign mentally ill embarrassed my parents, my sister, and the rest of my family yet they have been my biggest supported there are days I can’t help but think that my moment of rock bottom is embarrassing and shameful even when I know it’s not. Some nights I close my eyes and think of the Black nurse who brushed my hair in the emergency room. “You have to promise me that you’re going to fight this and make it out of here. We are gonna make you feel better. I got you. You have a long life to live, do you understand?” I didn’t understand at the moment, but I do now. Her hands in my hair and her voice live in my head forever. I do have a long life ahead of me. Temporary pain is not worth a permanent decision.

P.S. my sexual preference is no one’s business but it might be *shock* to some. If this changes your love for me, then you never loved me to begin with. Reflect on that.

If you struggle with mental illness, you are not alone.

Even Puerto Rican Women Struggle with Mental Health

As I write this my hands are shaking and I am not entirely sure why that might be? Maybe it’s because this is the first time I have decided to actually document how I have been doing the last month or so. I usually try to write words of encouragement and positive words therefore, the beginning of this post is probably the opposite of that but it needs to be done. My winter break has been one that I will never forget and the hardest one of my life thus far. I have been struggling with my mental health more than I wanted to admit to myself, my family and friends. For a long time, I was not sure what was wrong with me. I felt like I was losing my sanity every day that passed. All I could ask myself was, why did I feel like that? Why did my mind scare me so much? I began to think that maybe the way to get rid of that desperation was to take my own life or hurt myself to feel some sort of relief. At least that’s what my thoughts were telling me. For some reason, my brain kept and still does continue to connect relief with self-harm or death while I know that neither of those things correlate and are far from the truth. Nevertheless, these thoughts stressed me out to the point where I felt like I was no longer myself. I thought to myself, “How ungrateful of you to think such a thing when you have things that people would die for?” While one side of me focused on all the things I have not yet achieved like getting my license, getting a significant other, getting my doctoral degree, getting my dream job or having a family. All I could focus on was on how behind in life I was.  My brain was on this obsessive thought process for weeks on end. I felt alone, scared, angry and threatened by own mind. It has been the scariest place I have ever visited. A visit that has lasted way too long for my liking. By mid-December, I fell in the hospital because I was afraid of hurting myself. Hours before going to the hospital, I couldn’t think straight, I cried every five seconds, I couldn’t laugh, smile or even keep up a conversation. That’s when I knew my body was screaming for help and I needed it FAST. I told my friend to drop me off at the emergency room. She was nervous but I kept telling her that if she did not drop me off, I would not make it through the night. I have never felt so unlike myself in my whole life like I did at that point in time. Being rushed into the emergency room is a moment I will never forget. I was so afraid of myself and what everyone would think of me. I felt like my world came crashing down. Along with my feelings of helplessness and hopelessness, the support that I received from my family, friends and hospital staff was truly amazing but it did not cancel out the fear that brought me there in the first place. I stayed overnight at the hospital and all I kept thinking about was, “What happened to me? Why did I hit so low?” while having thoughts like “You need to fight. You need to keep going.” all felt so contradicting. The next morning, I was told that what I was going through was stress-induced and that I would need medication. Another moment where my world fell apart because I never thought I would need medication and “prided” myself on not needing medication. Then, I was told to go to therapy and while that was not an issue to me, my former therapist who had helped me so much the first six months of 2019 was out on maternity leave and I had gotten another therapist who threw me over the edge, as the expression says. I went into panic mode when I was told that I needed to look for a therapist because I did not want to go back to the woman who didn’t listen to me or take me seriously after three sessions. After I was discharged from the hospital, I got my phone which was flooded with messages from my best friends calling me “brave”, “strong” and a “fighter” which frustrated me because I did not and still don’t feel like I am those things. Once I got through the messages, I decided to call my insurance to see what therapists around me were accepting new patients. I called a number of practices and still to this day, have yet to receive a callback. The process of calling and trying to look for a new therapist was exhausting since I had to repeat the fact that I was having ongoing thoughts of self-harm and death so loud that led me to admit myself to the hospital. I was frustrated and crying because I want to feel good again like myself and all I could focus on was the fact that no therapist would take me until I thought of my first therapist who has been on maternity leave. I picked up my phone and searched her up. I had no idea if she was back in the office or not but I needed to talk to someone who I trusted. Frantically, I sent her an email and told what had been happening to me. That night I could not sleep because all I kept thinking was “What will I do if she can no longer take me in?”. My nights and days were and still are constantly full of “what ifs”. Anyway, at 8 am the next morning, I had an email from her in my inbox and I thought the whole house can hear my heartbeat. When I opened her message, she said she was glad to hear from me and she heard what had happened and most importantly, she would see me again. Once I read that, I began to sob because I felt some sort of relief through everything that I have been feeling. 

A few days later after the email exchange, I saw her and of course, I told her everything. Many times she reassured me that I did everything right and that what I was going through was more common than I thought but I still felt so alone yet with some type of hope that was not there 24 hours before. After blurting out everything that was going through my head my therapist and my physician decided after a lot of consulting to put me on medication. I was explained that the medication does not work as a happy pill and that it will take time to kick in but I did not imagine how frustrating the process of healing would be. The first week on medication was pure hell, I felt like it was not working, that it was never going to work, that nothing was ever going to help me or that maybe I had something else that was not anxiety and I cried. Each day was and is about surviving one to get to the other which is hard when your anxiety is causing your brain to form thoughts of self-harm and other morbid things like killing yourself. 

 I am currently a little beyond the three-week mark for my medication and I want to say that it has been extremely hard and not a linear process whatsoever. Some days are more tolerable than others. Some days I cry, others I don’t. Some days I feel alone, others I don’t. Some days my intrusive thoughts taunt me every second of the day, some days my intrusive thoughts are so quiet, I can barely hear them. What are intrusive thoughts? I’ll tell you because I did not know myself. According to the ADAA (Anxiety and Depression Association of America), intrusive thoughts are defined as “thoughts that cause great distress” and are thoughts that can be violent and incredibly scary. Intrusive thoughts are also thoughts that come to people who do NOT want to act on them. Again, they are not ACTIONS, they are THOUGHTS. Intrusive thoughts are commonly found in people who suffer from anxiety disorder (like me), OCD, and depression. The ADAA stated that 6 million people in the United States suffer from intrusive thoughts on a daily basis. As I reflect back on these last few weeks a question that kept arising was “Do you feel safe?” which still does not make sense to me. Do I “feel safe”? How would I feel safe when I feel like my brain wants to convince me of doing such bad things to myself? How do I feel safe when I am afraid that I am going to lose my cool any moment or in the future? How do I feel safe when I feel like I will never be okay again? What is “safe” when you don’t know how long it is going to take you to get back up again? It is frustrating, it is a lonely process even when you are not alone, it is uncertain, it is sad, it is happy, it is scary, it is exciting and it is exhausting. Today, I write this acknowledging that it is a hard day for me. I have cried, my concentration has been off and my intrusive thoughts are loud and scary but will I act on them? No. Will I let them win? No. Will I go down without a fight? No. However, the other set of questions is, will I cry? Yes. Will I hurt? Yes. Will let myself feel the emotions? Yes.

 I am not going to call myself  “strong”, “fighter”, “brave” or a “warrior”. I don’t know what to call myself, maybe just Nina? A Nina that is going through a rough time. I know I still feel a lot of shame, stigma, fear, and anger. I think I feel this way for many reasons, maybe one has to do with how I am Puerto Rican and our culture tries to sweep everything under the rug, another has to be coming to terms with the fact that yes, I do suffer from anxiety disorder and the other is me being angry at my brain for recuperating so slowly while producing these frightening thoughts. Even on days like today where I cry like crazy, all I could think is “there is a reason I am still here” and there might be a lot to that statement but maybe one reason is passing my story forward so other Latinx people can see that we can’t ignore mental health and to look for professional help is okay and it is not a “white people thing” or maybe it is an awakening for me to listen to my body a little more carefully. Although I don’t feel well yet, I want to say this, if you are going through a tough time, seek help. Big or small. I know it’s hard and I am not promising you that the healing process is any easier but it is better than not being here or hurting yourself. Mental health matters, you matter. I shared this with you because I exist, my story exists and I cannot ignore my reality or avoid it. Talking about it is a form of healing. Puerto Rican women and men struggle with mental health too.

You are not alone.

Suicide Hotline: 1-800-273-8255

More information on how to manage these thoughts and what they are:

https://adaa.org/learn-from-us/from-the-experts/blog-posts/consumer/unwanted-intrusive-thoughts

https://www.healthline.com/health/mental-health/intrusive-thoughts-coping#1

What does it mean to you?

Last week I had to hand in a seven-page paper on what it meant to be my ethnicity in the United States. Like all things in an academic setting, there was a list of questions the professor wanted to be answered. One of them was “What does it mean to be your ethnicity?” There are multiple ways to answer this question depending on who you ask. In my case, being Puerto Rican meant a variety of things. Being Puerto Rican meant we are a mixture of Taino, African, and Spanish. We carry our African roots in our foods, our language and even in our music. When you hear the timbales your legs and hips come to life. When you hear the voice of the legendary Hector Lavoe, you cannot help but want to dance and sing along. When you realize that everything sounds better in Spanish half the time. When abuelita waits for you with un cafecito and  pan con mantequilla. Being Puerto Rican meant you feel when your heart is going to explode whenever Puerto Rico wins a medal or participates in worldwide sports. Being Puerto Rican meant understanding that our island has a completely separate identity apart from the United States. Anywhere you go, Puerto Rico is heard of. Understanding that our ancestors had a non-stop fight in trying to gain independence and how our youth is still carrying it out today. Being Puerto Rican means you understand we come in all colors but our skin has the ability to withstand the blazing sun. Dreaming of our clear crystal blue beaches and wondering how did you get so damn lucky to be born in a place like this? Being Puerto Rican means that I am part of Paradise. I was born and raised where the ancestors of colonizers vacation. I was born and raised on enslaved soil. I was born and raised on a soil that is much stronger than it’s oppressor. I was born and raised in Puerto Rico, I carry the language on my tongue and the culture on my back. That’s what being Puerto Rican means to me. Yo soy Boricua, pa’  que tu lo sepas!

A Professor Circled “Hence” On A Latina Student’s Paper And Wrote “This Is Not Your Word” 2016

“As a minority in my classrooms, I continuously hear my peers and professors use language that both covertly and overtly oppresses the communities I belong to. Therefore, I do not always feel safe when I attempt to advocate for my people in these spaces,” she added.”

If not all of us are aware from where this quote came from, let me give you some background story! A Latina student that goes by the name of Tiffany Martinez got her essay back and her professor told her “That is NOT your language.” in front of the whole classroom. The professor felt, that Tiffany’s language was too complex to be used by a Latina. When Tiffany was looking through her essay, the professor had circled the word “Hence” and commented, “This is NOT your word”. Tiffany Martinez decided to go public about the professor who discriminated against her.

Even in the 21st century there is still oppression in academic institutions due to the belief that we have learned and read about of people of color being considered less than and incapable of being scholars.

I must add in something extremely personal, those who know me, know that I carry my culture on my back and my native language on my tongue with nothing but pride. Hell, I have Puerto Rico’s silhouette tattooed on my rib cage! I am a PROUD Latina! However, being Latina in the United States is a never ending battle. I, myself have been discriminated against within the public school system many times when I moved from Puerto Rico. I have been told by my high school teachers everything you can imagine. My ultimate favorite line being “You are actually smart for being a Puerto Rican”. Comments that I have learned to pick and choose which ones to react to. However, recently I went through something that I just cannot seem to let go. I am currently, a sophomore at the University of Hartford, a double major in Criminal Justice and Political Science, also enrolled in the Honors program. This fall, I registered for an Honors Writing class, in which I felt confident going in to.When I walked into the classroom, I immediately realized that I was the only Latina and Spanish-speaker in the classroom. The professor came in and asked us to go around and say our name, major and a fun fact about ourselves. When it’s finally my turn I say, “I’m Nina Vazquez, I am a double major in Criminal Justice and Political Science. My fun fact is that I am originally from Puerto Rico, my first language is Spanish.”, pretty boring, right?! I thought it was but the professor thought otherwise. After everyone is done with the icebreaker, the professor stands there and says, “Well, I need a writing sample from all of you. I need it, just in case SOME of you need to be lowered down to a BILINGUAL writing class.” oh, yeah! Stuck me out like a sore thumb on that one. I sit there, stunned and very offended. But decided that I was not going to let a comment like that determine the year for me. I wanted to prove them wrong and show them that being bilingual does not mean I am less capable of writing, talking or thinking in another language that is not my native one. When it was time for the first essay to be due, I knew that I had to make an immaculate paper for this professor to prove myself just as good as the other students in that class. I spent 13 hours editing and revising this paper, going through every line to make sure they would not dock points off for anything. I handed it in confident enough, thinking that I was going to get a good grade. Sure enough…you guessed it, I failed it. When I tried asking for feedback, there was no logical reasoning for the grade I got. The professor flunked me because they thought, I shouldn’t have been in an honors class due to the fact that I was not born in the states nor that my first language was English.  As a side note, the university does not even OFFER bilingual classes! This professor wanted to take away from my learning experience because I did not fit their criteria of what a passing student should look, sound, or be like. Even though, this professor made me question my intelligence and my learning capability. I realized that people like them are the reasons why I want to get my degree(s) and push myself, because success is the best revenge. Just like Tiffany Martinez and I there are probably 100 other Latinx or other people of color going through the same thing. If you consider yourself to fall under this category, I want to let you know that you are NOT alone. You are NOT dumb, You are NOT  incapable, You are NOT what they make you feel like or say that you are. Get educated, get ambitious, love yourself and your roots, because that’s what they hate the most. With that said, no one will ever deprive me from my education.

Source: Griffin, Tamera, “A professor circled “Hence” on a Latina student’s paper and wrote “This is not your word””. Buzzfeed, 2016.

Hopeless Causes and Things Despaired of 1920s-1930s

“The immigrants’ daughters had been educated for this kind of work in commercial and secretarial courses in high school.”

Previously we have spoken about people not being given the right to have education, in this piece these women are given some sort of education. However, the education they are being offered is not one that gives them the opportunity to branch out to another field but preparing them for a job tied to their gender. Teaching women how to be secretaries while their brothers and the other men around them do other jobs and have the potential to getting to the job they want. Even though these women are given education, it is one that still wants them to be “smart enough to do this but not smart enough to do anything more” However, we still see these ideas play out today, where when people think of the “teachers’, they think of women,  when they hear the word “firefighter” they think of a man. It shows how society constructed the idea of how jobs should match up with gender.

** more to be added.

Source:Robert A. Orsi, “Hopeless Causes and Things Despaired Of” in Thank You, St.Jude: Women’s Devotion to the Patron Saint of Hopeless Causes (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1996), p 41

Letter from John Adams to Abigail Adams 1776

“…We know better than to repeal our Masculine systems.”

Abigail Adams spoke to her husband stating that while he was involved in politics that he could not forget the women. Abigail wanting to include women in politics because many women want to work and have a say in the government. John Adams replies with the quotes above. Killing habits that are very embedded into these men will be nearly impossible. Comparing this to now, women still have to work very hard to be included in the political arena. In these past elections we saw that the United States had many people who voted against the one of the candidates just because she was a women and they did not feel like a woman was fit to run a country. This oppression that has modified over the years but still exists of women.

Source: “Letter from John Adams to Abigail Adams” April 14, 1776, Line 23