MODERN IFIGENIA

There was always an internal confidence my dad had that made me proud of him and jealous that I didn't carry. That confidence was borne from him being a man, not any man, but A MAN-a fully grown adult who didn't depend on anyone to meet his needs. Americans only conceptualize of machismo from an American masculinity lens, but machismo is a bit more complex than simply a more extreme version of American masculinity, while machismo does demand that the woman in the household cook the meals, it also demands that if the woman is sick, is not around, or just walked away, a macho can cook a meal and feed himself and his family-a macho doesn't need ANYONE. If clothes aren't laundered a macho would show up to work in clothes he washed and pressed himself, because, again, he doesn't NEED ANYONE, having a wife to do all of the household chores is just a "perk" of being a man. I am not glamorizing this outlook as it is highly toxic and problematic; just as in the U.S

I think of 2020 as a missing year, a lost year. My friends and I often joke that 2020 just doesn't count. I have internalized that message so much that even my math is affected; between January 2016 and January 2021 there are only four years. But if I am honest with myself 2020 was not lost, it freed me and the people I work for from unnecessary restraints, it gave me the space to prioritize and make a habit of prioritizing my health, and the time to really think about what I actually do and don't need to be happy.  I. HOBBIES: A.  I started 2020 with the goal of picking up pottery. I took courses at my alma matter which was probably the best decision ever, not only did I learn something new, but being so far removed from home meant that there was zero chance of running into work. It was also nice to connect with people on a level other than what I could do for them. Unfortunately, classes had to end, but to be bad at something and for that to be normal and expected was incredi

To be honest, I forgot this fruit existed. It wasn't until my mom showed up with this baby's bracelet that a bunch of memories resurfaced. We can't really remember its name, but google searches lead me to either kuru, curu, awarra, awara. I am not sure whether those words are Spanish, English, Warao, Arrowak or Carib, but they are a fruit I have never again eaten since leaving Venezuela. This is a fruit for the patient. It tastes delicious-a nutty, fibrous, cashew-ish flavor, but there is little flesh to it, so you have to peel it very delicately, lest you accidentally peel off all of the flesh. It was a fruit that frustrated my instant-gratification self, so only the elders had the patience to feed me this fruit.  It was rarely sold in the markets, so the only time I would have it was when we visited our elders in the more rural/jungle-ish regions outside of the city. I can't even tell you in which direction we went, but the grand aunts and uncles always had lands with

I woke up this morning to a baby puking on me while smiling unapologetically. For the first time her lack of inhibition worried me. This Mother's Day, I thought I'd be reflecting on being a mother for the first time and jot down some mushy words, instead, I think back to the day I walked in on my mom having greater aspirations for my daughter than she did for me.   My dad raised me to thrive in the world I deserved, my mom raised me to survive in the world I was born into. Needles to say, my dad's parenting was liberating and empowering, my mom's was stifling and suffocating, so of the two parents I always rebelled against HER. She would often say that I was created fighting her given how difficult her pregnancy was with me. She was right, my earliest memories with my mom are of our arguments. We fought like the swords of two warriors: I was driven by a desire to be free and capable, her by fear that I might suffer consequences the patriarchy metes out to misbehaving wo

 "How do you frustrate a Jew? Place him in an oval and tell him there is a dollar in the corner" ---to my non-anti-semitic mind, this joke didn't make sense-how is lying to someone okay and why would it be unreasonable for them to be annoyed you lied to them? I would come to learn the joke is funny if you already knew that Jews were greedy. In a class of over 20 students, mostly Christian white, this joke made sense. To me, the Indian kid and the Polish kid, it was confusing; to the African American kid, it was obvious.  The man making this joke was not wearing a Klan's hat, he was the very loveable baseball coach at my high school. Everyone liked him, he was a decent man-the respect he received for decent meant that I had to figure out what was wrong with me for not getting the joke, that it was normal to get the joke, and the one African American kid who objected to it must have just misinterpreted what everyone else construed as lighthearted fun. "How do you m

I often write about my experiences as an immigrant; a series of moments of flux and transition, amusement and discord, complete openness and heavy walls. There is very little that is fixed. As I grow older though, the notion of "home" becomes stronger and stronger, increasingly fixed and solid in some ways but geographically unstable and dispersed. As I grow older and older my pangs of homesickness are sharper-every once in a while I sit and can't stop myself from yearning for people and places that have nothing to do with each other. I now understand that stare my mom has when she is enjoying a very fresh and ripe fruit-she is here eating the fruit, but she is also "there" enjoying it. When I was young it would get on my nerves to see her disappear, but now, I respect her brief moment of meditation on time,  place and belonging. So when I say I am homesick-its not in quite the same way people who are born and raised in the same place speak of homesickness