Historia de una niña

This is the story of a girl.

Fast forward to her 24th year:

This world is too big for me, I think. It’s 2 am on a Friday night, and my body feels as if it’s missing out. As if it’s skipping the jovial days of drunkenness, hallucinogens, and regrettable mistakes.

It’s hard to do that when your life has suddenly being politicized. It’s as if you were carrying your country on your back the whole day, like “El Mundo” card from the Mexican lottery. I’ve assigned myself the unofficial ambassador of Mexico in the United States, yet I’ve no censorship or diplomacy.

Mexican lottery card

Unfortunately, I’m not colour blind. Whiteness permeates every corner of the room and travels through my spine causing abrupt chills.

Fast backward to her 6th year:

The streets of Cancún are quiet for a humid summer night.

Fast forward to her 18th year:

American tourists are everywhere. I’m making out with a boy from Michigan who loves how I roll my Rs and play with my tongue.

Fast backward to her 6th year:

The four Voladores de Papantla (Dance of the Flyers)  are swinging around. It is fascinating, astonishing, vibrant. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen them, and I can’t stop smiling. I can feel the air awakening my hot skin as if I were flying with them. The sound of the flute roots my feet and the floor embraces them, while the performance reaches its climax. We become one: the flyers, me, and the land of Cancún.

As we walk along the boulevard, I begin screaming purposelessly  “Viva Mexico,” “Viva Mexico.” My family laughs.

“Viva Mexico,” “Viva Mexico,” my mind repeats voraciously as if she knew that one day I’ll forget this.

Fast forward to her 24th year:

Forty-five minutes have passed, and my mind keeps pushing me to ask the question. I cannot ask anything, I reply. I really don’t know American history and its relationship with freedom.

Hand goes up. Eyes look at it. Brain stops.

AHM. AHM. I don’t know if this will make sense, I say as my disclaimer. But for me, the concept of American freedom is based on the lack of freedom in non-American countries, especially “developing” countries. (When did I start calling the United States, America?!). And the daily maintenance of such freedom is based on the daily exploitation of those “non-American” citizens, especially in the “developing” world. Do you think there will ever be a full acknowledgement of this fact? Probably not by the whole American society, but at least by those who call themselves “progressive,” or “leftist.”

Stupid question, I think. Silence. Awkwardness. The nine Americans in the room look at me. He proceeds to answer. His progressive rhetoric evades my question. The session is over.

You cannot blame everything on us, another “he” tells me.

Little did he know I was actually blaming myself.