Chapter 2: Love at First Sight
I don’t regret my post-secondary education. Although the past years of unemployment and unpaid full-time internships have made me question the effectiveness of those four years. I discovered a world full of political correctness, alienating theories, and academic protectionism. My education made me question the unquestioned, and I forgot to continue questioning the questioned. More clearly, I got lost between the two political spectrums and my two NAFTA’s worlds.
The gap between the North and South was a recurring team in my lectures and the topic of my conversations with my fellow immigrants and representatives of the “Global South.” We talked passionately about our world, as if we had experienced poverty, starvation, and oppression. Probably we were being discriminated here, but I’m pretty sure many of us were like our “oppressors” in our so-called homelands. At least, there we were not the neglected. We are international students for God’s sake!
It is nice though. To have these conversations in a classroom, rather than in a war zone or refugee camp. To talk about the ‘real shit‘ while zipping red wine, rather than ‘poor-quality’ water. To rebel against the first world while wearing Western clothing, rather than our indigenous dresses.
Friday, August 28, 2009
Five hundred years and it has just touched my skin. My land was ripped and it continues to be a slave. My heart is crumbling into pieces and I have no strength left to pick it up. You just got here and took my right away. My brown skin, and my heretic language and beliefs are my shame. My land has been stolen and I just woke up.
It is traveling through my veins, boiling. It destroys every cell inside me, and my stomach just wants to explode. My neck is cracking, while myself is just gone. I have become dull and empty. I am your garbage can, your free-love prostitute.
My women, my blood, were taken, raped, and torn. My land has been violated and nobody has been punished. My land has been murdered and there is no crime scene. My people have been displaced, abused, oppressed, executed, sentenced. Their power was stolen and they never got it back. We never got it back. I haven’t fought for it.
My homeland is falling; my mother is crying. Fragmented by their borders, dehumanized by their education, and colonized by their weapons, our minds live in prison. I am no hispanic woman, no latina. I am Maya, Azteca, Náhuatl, Zapoteca, Olmeca, Totonaca, Huasteco, Otomí, Tarahumara, Huichol. My body is visa free and my soul is waiting to be unchained.
When I wrote this for my former blog, I just felt like writing something ‘different’ about my history, about our story, about us women. After reading what I wrote, I got the chills. Why was I making myself part of those women? Why do I identify myself as Mayan or Aztec, even though when someone tells me I look Mayan I get offended?
Have I been hating Europe, the U.S., and everything they stand for because I’m jealous? Because no matter what I do I can’t deny my roots and I will never be privileged. I will never be their definition of privilege. I’ll always have a struggle to fight?