Inclinarse Hacia La Luz

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Inclinarse Hacia La Luz

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Red, Writing About Adulthood

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When I was young, probably in elementary school, I thought being an adult meant having a cell phone. At home, when my mother wasn’t looking, I’d snatch her flip phone and play with it. I had a whole routine. Standing on top of a flight of stairs on the second floor of the house, I would open the phone with my thumb and put it to my ear. “Yes, Mr. President, I’m on my way,” I would say all professional-like. Then, I’d clap the phone closed with one hand and while holding an open umbrella in the other, I’d leap down five or six steps onto a carpeted landing. (I knew both James Bond and Mary Poppins were adults, so I assure you, this combination made perfect sense.

In high school, my idea of adulthood was molded by Greys Anatomy and Sex &the City, so naturally I thought being an adult was composed of extensive dating, high heels, witty gossip with close friends and writing newspaper articles on a laptop from a sunny Manhattan apartment with a Jacuzzi-sized coffee in hand.

It’s not so much that I’m afraid of being an adult so much as I had assumed it would be different. I don’t know how to do my taxes, I don’t have a dog, I ride a bike instead of driving a car, I fall short of 5’4’’ and, contrary to my grandmother’s predictions, I have not grown out of this wearing-all-black “phase.” However, I am reasonably financially responsible, I wake up before dawn for work, dress business professional when I teach classes in the financial firm or Petroleum company, I eat my vegetables and I do, in fact write on my laptop with the sun and the coffee and the apartment I pay for and all that. The fact that the apartment is in Bogotá and not in some big city in the states— that I didn’t plan.

I’m going to go off on a tangent for a moment. In one of my Cultural Studies classes, we discussed the process of reality being falsified by living in a world framed by screens. We see a movie that takes place in Rome and feel like we’ve been there, yet when we go to a party, our actual physical presence feels cheap and unreal if we don’t take pictures of the event. If we can’t see ourselves existing, what proof do we have that we actually are? If a tree falls in the woods and no one is there to Instagram it, how can it POSSIBLY get any ‘likes?’ Technology having rooted itself into our lives, we feel safer trusting models of the ideal as presented to us by the media than trusting our instincts. Camera angles, tabloid exposure and social media popularity show us which kinds of lifestyles are deemed acceptable, which aren’t, and which aren’t even represented. It’s understandable why I have a hard time considering myself an adult: I’ve never seen any rom-com sitcom that takes place in Bogotá. Where is my fictional stock character role model to show me who to be? To give me a sense of approval?

Today, I have my own cell phone but I don’t call the president and I can’t even call my closest friends or my parents from it when I feel scared or alone. I think some people think that a person who lives abroad is one who refuses to grow up, someone who has run away from responsibilities. I would argue, however, that we are the ones who have the courage to rewrite our definitions. I think being an adult, like a real one, means deciding what’s right and what’s wrong for you. It means encountering situations which you have never even considered or seen played out in any movie or book you’ve ever seen. It is not marked by any sort of milestone, but by how scared life makes you and by how little you let that stop you.

This isn’t the life I had pictured for myself. I can’t walk in heels and I don’t have any plans, but at least this way I won’t trip trying to get to wherever I’m going. 

Do you remember?

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A year ago today I was out of work.
Eight years ago today I was graduating from high school.
X years ago I was in Kindergarten, learning how the earth revolves around the sun by acting it out; spinning in circles while rounding a fellow classmate.

As humans, we look back, consider the past. Sometimes it’s a good thing: to marvel at the inch marked in the door frame that displays how far we’ve come. We braid hair that— not long ago— wasn’t long enough to entwine, pull tight the locks like flexed muscles because it often takes all the strength in the world to just let something grow.

Sometimes it’s bittersweet or simply bitter, measuring the space between the you of now and the you that you wish you could get back to. We never say out loud, Today is the anniversary of the day I quit having quit cigarettes or the anniversary of the day he/she left me, but the truth of it skulks under the porch of our breath. (Remember the time I blew the biggest soap bubble and for a moment, before it popped, I held it on a plastic wand and thought it might last forever?) We remember that which we accomplish but scarcely remember the fear that prefaced it. We think back to a time when we thought ourselves brave, even if we actually weren’t. We stretch the truth to fit our needs. When we mark our height, we throw on an extra quarter inch for good measure. We nestle into the fiction of our selective memory: tell ourselves that we’ll go to the gym after this last episode on Netflix; that we’re never to blame for our lateness; that everything would be better if we could go back to that perfect summer.

Live in the present? Carpe Diem? Who has the strength to live every die like it might be your last? Or worse to recognize the fact that we waste our days because we know that it’s not? When we live in the present, when we really recognize all that ALL is, we feel guilty for not appreciating it more; for not constantly seizing the day. Instead, we distract ourselves by reminiscing. We hold tight to memories of marathons we ran years ago or old trophies now caked in dust. We console ourselves for being inactive or flawed in the present with the notion that at least there was a shining glory for us in the past.

Or

When we’re not looking back on who we once were, we are fixated on the closed door of what comes next, hoping everything we want could still someday be.  It’s less scary when the door stays closed, when potential disappointed hasn’t yet been fed. Door wide open, the frame is shamed and real: an empty-handed magician’s hat, an exposed Wizard of Oz, a child that becomes a man and stops growing.

We hit the snooze button again and again because maybe, ten minutes later, now will be a little less nowish. We postpone the alarm of reality and by returning to sleep we pray to wake a bit more rested, taller, bolder, more blameless. We pray to find regret as a world that no longer revolves around us but one that might spin and spin ‘til it dizzily rolls away.