rgc
The Original RGC
Wednesday, May 28
Wednesday, May 21
Free Falling
He told me just after about a week of knowing me that he was going to make me fall in love with him. This I had to see. I told him that I would let him try.
After spending a year recuperating from a damaged relationship and then spending an exorbitant amount of time dating over 5 months with a number of false starts and several narrow escapes I had had my doubts about any new guy I was dating. We met over cocktails to see what would happen. We were both in it more for the story than for the date. After our initial phone conversation, I thought he was going to be a bit too gregarious and that two big personalities would never find a way to mesh. He seemed humorous enough but maybe too funny. When would I get to tell my stories and share my quick wit? Whatever. At least the drinks would be free. He had agreed to the date because I work part-time as a clown and he just knew I had to be a little off. He had, as he says often, kissed a lot of frogs and upon seeing me initially thought I might actually be the queen of the toads. Apparently the lighting and first glance had turned me into the perfect vision of a not so attractive fat girl.
Three house specialty drinks later we had found ourselves immersed in four hours of loud, spontaneous laughter and lots of story telling. He reached for my hand and we talked a bit more. It was a Sunday night and the bar had only a few patrons. He told me a story about some transsexuals on his block hooting and hollering at him. I laughed and he told me I had a beautiful smile and leaned in for kiss. One more toad for the list. But this toad could kiss and this toad laughed at all his stories- the quirkier the better.
That date that was meant to be a non-event ended about a week later. It was a week that made us both hopeful for the future, made us believe that two people could actually date with the objective of landing in a relationship devoid of games, hiding and emotional unavailability. Four weeks later, after spending nearly every day together, we had shared stories of past lovers, past horrors, and crazy families. Food, drink, long walks, and hours of conversation and laughs led us down this path we both call trouble. And last night he asked, “Did I make you fall in love with me yet?”
“Do you really want an honest answer to that question?” I asked timidly.
“Yes. The honest answer”
“Yeah, you made me fall in love with you.”
“Isn’t that a little fast? It’s only been a month.”
“I know. That’s why you weren’t supposed to ask me that. It was my little secret,” I responded.
“Well, I’m glad you love me because I love you too.”
“Isn’t that a little fast? It’s only been a month,” I teased.
“Sometimes you just have to take a chance in life. Thank god you said you loved me. I would have been left looking crazy.”
I laughed. “No. You knew I loved you.”
“Yeah, I did.”
After spending a year recuperating from a damaged relationship and then spending an exorbitant amount of time dating over 5 months with a number of false starts and several narrow escapes I had had my doubts about any new guy I was dating. We met over cocktails to see what would happen. We were both in it more for the story than for the date. After our initial phone conversation, I thought he was going to be a bit too gregarious and that two big personalities would never find a way to mesh. He seemed humorous enough but maybe too funny. When would I get to tell my stories and share my quick wit? Whatever. At least the drinks would be free. He had agreed to the date because I work part-time as a clown and he just knew I had to be a little off. He had, as he says often, kissed a lot of frogs and upon seeing me initially thought I might actually be the queen of the toads. Apparently the lighting and first glance had turned me into the perfect vision of a not so attractive fat girl.
Three house specialty drinks later we had found ourselves immersed in four hours of loud, spontaneous laughter and lots of story telling. He reached for my hand and we talked a bit more. It was a Sunday night and the bar had only a few patrons. He told me a story about some transsexuals on his block hooting and hollering at him. I laughed and he told me I had a beautiful smile and leaned in for kiss. One more toad for the list. But this toad could kiss and this toad laughed at all his stories- the quirkier the better.
That date that was meant to be a non-event ended about a week later. It was a week that made us both hopeful for the future, made us believe that two people could actually date with the objective of landing in a relationship devoid of games, hiding and emotional unavailability. Four weeks later, after spending nearly every day together, we had shared stories of past lovers, past horrors, and crazy families. Food, drink, long walks, and hours of conversation and laughs led us down this path we both call trouble. And last night he asked, “Did I make you fall in love with me yet?”
“Do you really want an honest answer to that question?” I asked timidly.
“Yes. The honest answer”
“Yeah, you made me fall in love with you.”
“Isn’t that a little fast? It’s only been a month.”
“I know. That’s why you weren’t supposed to ask me that. It was my little secret,” I responded.
“Well, I’m glad you love me because I love you too.”
“Isn’t that a little fast? It’s only been a month,” I teased.
“Sometimes you just have to take a chance in life. Thank god you said you loved me. I would have been left looking crazy.”
I laughed. “No. You knew I loved you.”
“Yeah, I did.”
Tuesday, May 20
random spottings
so, i was walking into the bank and a woman with an arm of tattoos and an 80's rocker/ mullet is walking out. i was a bit a ways from her, but i knew even though it had been years. so i yelled 'emily'. she looked up, i waved, she looked confused. i said 'it's rachel'
we chatted for about 5 minutes. she seems very calm and good. she lives in the area with her girlfriend. she was on her way to court to fight a thing with not having tags. i told her i did jury duty the day brit brit was at the court house because she has always loved her. she told me a story about being on a jury about a homeless man that was trying to shank people on the bus. we didn't really catch up. but it was cool to see her and we greeted and parted with hugs.
we chatted for about 5 minutes. she seems very calm and good. she lives in the area with her girlfriend. she was on her way to court to fight a thing with not having tags. i told her i did jury duty the day brit brit was at the court house because she has always loved her. she told me a story about being on a jury about a homeless man that was trying to shank people on the bus. we didn't really catch up. but it was cool to see her and we greeted and parted with hugs.
Monday, May 12
The In Between
“So,” he asked to provoke, “how often do you use your White privilege?”
I laughed and squeezed his arm that was interlinked with my own as we walked through the streets of Downtown Los Angeles enjoying the swap meet like atmosphere of the wholesale stores. He always knew that referring to my part-White heritage would get me riled up. And as frustrating as it can be when people determine my race on my behalf as if doing me a favor, I understood his question, even if it was asked in jest.
My life has been spent in the ‘in-between’ of a multi-racial identity. Born to a mother of Mexican heritage and a father of mixed European ancestry, I have always been distinctly aware of race, especially my own. This level of awareness has often inundated my thoughts and daily existence: “What race does so and so think I am?” “Am I Mexican enough?” “Am I ‘acting’ too White?”
As a child, my mother took the time to explain to me that it was quite possible that as we walked down the street many people might think that she was my nanny or that I was adopted because our skin color was different. My heart sunk as the idea of not being completely connected to my mother in the eyes of strangers permeated my mind. After that day, I looked for the similarities: hands with long thin fingers complete with even the same lines across the knuckles; the nearly indistinguishable oval face with distinct high cheekbones and pointed chin; muscular calves; wide, warm smile that crinkled our eyes at identical angles. I must have spent hours unconsciously staring, unsure of what I hoped to find. Now, decades later I realize I was in search of my cultural identity. This is my first memory of my race actively defined by those around me.
I understand what my mother hoped to communicate with her statement: we were different and were going to experience different racial identities. She hoped to prepare me for a mixed-race experience. Not long after that, I remember coming to a realization while watching ‘Punky Brewster’ a sitcom from the ‘80’s about an adopted girl. The lead character, Punky, reminisced on how similar she looked to her biological mother who had died.
Tentatively, I asked, “Mom, people know I’m your daughter because we look so much alike, right? They know I’m not adopted, right?”
She was taken aback. I wonder if she connected my question to her statements.
She said softly, “Yes, m’ija, people know you are my daughter.”
This was the beginning of a life long experience of racial confusion, blur, creation and destruction. Race and identity have been through lines of my life; both woven in my stories or reflections and intermingling in my moment-to-moment existence. Not a breath is taken without a conscious understanding of my racial (rather, bi-racial) identity.
At the age of 12, I decided that I would one day learn Spanish so that I could more fully communicate with my abuelita. My younger brother and I had been raised in a predetermined ‘English Only’ household even though my father was fluent in Spanish and yearned to share this connection to our roots. My mother had decided before I was even a fully developed thought in her womb that her children would not endure the humiliation that she encountered as a Spanish speaking student in schools that were nothing short of hostile to the sounds of non-English. And with this decision, I lost my voice before I uttered my first word.
To this day I speak Spanish hesitantly even after 8 years of formal study, living in Mexico and extensive travel through Latin America. I never did speak to my grandmother in Spanish as I never felt I could speak well enough to impress her. She passed away without ever knowing that she was my inspiration for learning the language I have come to love so much for its poetic rhythm and harmonies.
At 14, I changed my name to better suit me. Until my first day as a freshman in high school, I had lived my life with a name that never quite fit and I decided to take on my mother’s maiden name in conjunction with my father’s Scotch-Irish surname. I became, what I like to call, ‘a hyphenated’. And in so many ways the little dash that I added between names spoke to more than just the addition of another word. It defines my experience in the in-between. I am not one or the other; I am both. It is recognition of my mixed experience rather than a singular one- a combination, not a separation.
I have found myself more than slightly amused at the confusion I cause for others. Upon a first encounter with some, a person will wrinkle their forehead and scrunch their brow, pause and then ask, “What are you?” It is as if they have seen for the first time a creature from another land. I don’t play coy or act as if I do not understand what they want to know. After this many years, I understand they want clarification on what ethnicity box to check on my behalf and instead of making the process any more difficult, I give them what they are looking for: my answer is always, “I’m mixed; Mexican and White.” It is the part of my life where I fill in the blank for others as concisely as possible. This is a frequent event even with those I assume are familiar with my background. Recently, a friend whose family I have known for several years asked him, “Que es Raquel? What is Rachel?” We both laughed as he said he responded with an indignant “Mexican, duh!”
I am often shocked and surprised when someone who doesn’t know me identifies me as White. But I feel this same way when I am identified as Mexican without first declaring my heritage. When I am at a supermarket and am spoken to in Spanish, my shoulders pull back with pride and I become a little more alert to what is going on as a smile will cross my face even if just being asked the time of day. And because I am acutely aware of my ability to ‘pass’ as White or as Mexican, I often feel obligated to tell people my racial mixture and identity so as to ensure that they do not feel lied to or misled. This obligation asks for no information in return yet sits with me constantly.
My walk in the cracks of my racial existence has made me privy to many comments or moments that continue to outline my identity. These are sketches of my memories…
…. a White classmate and acquaintance once leaned in to whisper to me, “Why do they always talk Spanish?” seemingly unaware that I was one of ‘they’… when I receive a moving violation ticket from an officer, I am anxious for the end of the exchange so I can see what is written for ethnicity—score card: 2 White, 2 Hispanic—tied, how appropriate… at a medical appointment, the doctor fills out my paper work and wonders aloud, “Now, how do you spell Caucasian again? I just can never remember”. I interject with, “Actually, I identify as Latina. I’m mixed race. That’s why the last name.”… An aunt (from my father’s side) once noted with a blend of discomfort and delight “You do that hugging and kiss on the cheek thing. That’s because you’re Mexican”…
I live a mish-mashed mix of a multi-racial reality where, most often, others have painted the strokes of my identity. I have learned much from those around me about how I walk in the world of the ‘in-between’: simultaneously a woman of color and woman of White privilege. My skin color has at once allowed me access to the basic rights deserved by all but denied to many and has also called into question how well I really belong to the dominant race and class.
As I return to the moment and the question of the frequency of the usage of my white privilege, I reflect on the numerous times my skin and mixed-heritage have come in handy- both deliberately and unknowingly: I never fear being harassed for my race. I am asked by friends to be a spokesperson in restaurants, in government offices, at the bank, and at schools all because I’ll be perceived as white and therefore the calm, sensible one in moments of conflict. I get made fun of for not knowing certain things that ‘all Mexicans are supposed to know’ or for my pocho Spanish and yet am deemed too ethnic and called out for being too into racial politics by people who want to see me as White.
This is my reality. No box to check that will quite explain all the crevices I fit into or the experience of being one person living in many identities. Race, culture and identity are more fluid than a category will allow and ultimately I have come to embrace the various aspects, histories and visions of myself.
I laughed and squeezed his arm that was interlinked with my own as we walked through the streets of Downtown Los Angeles enjoying the swap meet like atmosphere of the wholesale stores. He always knew that referring to my part-White heritage would get me riled up. And as frustrating as it can be when people determine my race on my behalf as if doing me a favor, I understood his question, even if it was asked in jest.
My life has been spent in the ‘in-between’ of a multi-racial identity. Born to a mother of Mexican heritage and a father of mixed European ancestry, I have always been distinctly aware of race, especially my own. This level of awareness has often inundated my thoughts and daily existence: “What race does so and so think I am?” “Am I Mexican enough?” “Am I ‘acting’ too White?”
As a child, my mother took the time to explain to me that it was quite possible that as we walked down the street many people might think that she was my nanny or that I was adopted because our skin color was different. My heart sunk as the idea of not being completely connected to my mother in the eyes of strangers permeated my mind. After that day, I looked for the similarities: hands with long thin fingers complete with even the same lines across the knuckles; the nearly indistinguishable oval face with distinct high cheekbones and pointed chin; muscular calves; wide, warm smile that crinkled our eyes at identical angles. I must have spent hours unconsciously staring, unsure of what I hoped to find. Now, decades later I realize I was in search of my cultural identity. This is my first memory of my race actively defined by those around me.
I understand what my mother hoped to communicate with her statement: we were different and were going to experience different racial identities. She hoped to prepare me for a mixed-race experience. Not long after that, I remember coming to a realization while watching ‘Punky Brewster’ a sitcom from the ‘80’s about an adopted girl. The lead character, Punky, reminisced on how similar she looked to her biological mother who had died.
Tentatively, I asked, “Mom, people know I’m your daughter because we look so much alike, right? They know I’m not adopted, right?”
She was taken aback. I wonder if she connected my question to her statements.
She said softly, “Yes, m’ija, people know you are my daughter.”
This was the beginning of a life long experience of racial confusion, blur, creation and destruction. Race and identity have been through lines of my life; both woven in my stories or reflections and intermingling in my moment-to-moment existence. Not a breath is taken without a conscious understanding of my racial (rather, bi-racial) identity.
At the age of 12, I decided that I would one day learn Spanish so that I could more fully communicate with my abuelita. My younger brother and I had been raised in a predetermined ‘English Only’ household even though my father was fluent in Spanish and yearned to share this connection to our roots. My mother had decided before I was even a fully developed thought in her womb that her children would not endure the humiliation that she encountered as a Spanish speaking student in schools that were nothing short of hostile to the sounds of non-English. And with this decision, I lost my voice before I uttered my first word.
To this day I speak Spanish hesitantly even after 8 years of formal study, living in Mexico and extensive travel through Latin America. I never did speak to my grandmother in Spanish as I never felt I could speak well enough to impress her. She passed away without ever knowing that she was my inspiration for learning the language I have come to love so much for its poetic rhythm and harmonies.
At 14, I changed my name to better suit me. Until my first day as a freshman in high school, I had lived my life with a name that never quite fit and I decided to take on my mother’s maiden name in conjunction with my father’s Scotch-Irish surname. I became, what I like to call, ‘a hyphenated’. And in so many ways the little dash that I added between names spoke to more than just the addition of another word. It defines my experience in the in-between. I am not one or the other; I am both. It is recognition of my mixed experience rather than a singular one- a combination, not a separation.
I have found myself more than slightly amused at the confusion I cause for others. Upon a first encounter with some, a person will wrinkle their forehead and scrunch their brow, pause and then ask, “What are you?” It is as if they have seen for the first time a creature from another land. I don’t play coy or act as if I do not understand what they want to know. After this many years, I understand they want clarification on what ethnicity box to check on my behalf and instead of making the process any more difficult, I give them what they are looking for: my answer is always, “I’m mixed; Mexican and White.” It is the part of my life where I fill in the blank for others as concisely as possible. This is a frequent event even with those I assume are familiar with my background. Recently, a friend whose family I have known for several years asked him, “Que es Raquel? What is Rachel?” We both laughed as he said he responded with an indignant “Mexican, duh!”
I am often shocked and surprised when someone who doesn’t know me identifies me as White. But I feel this same way when I am identified as Mexican without first declaring my heritage. When I am at a supermarket and am spoken to in Spanish, my shoulders pull back with pride and I become a little more alert to what is going on as a smile will cross my face even if just being asked the time of day. And because I am acutely aware of my ability to ‘pass’ as White or as Mexican, I often feel obligated to tell people my racial mixture and identity so as to ensure that they do not feel lied to or misled. This obligation asks for no information in return yet sits with me constantly.
My walk in the cracks of my racial existence has made me privy to many comments or moments that continue to outline my identity. These are sketches of my memories…
…. a White classmate and acquaintance once leaned in to whisper to me, “Why do they always talk Spanish?” seemingly unaware that I was one of ‘they’… when I receive a moving violation ticket from an officer, I am anxious for the end of the exchange so I can see what is written for ethnicity—score card: 2 White, 2 Hispanic—tied, how appropriate… at a medical appointment, the doctor fills out my paper work and wonders aloud, “Now, how do you spell Caucasian again? I just can never remember”. I interject with, “Actually, I identify as Latina. I’m mixed race. That’s why the last name.”… An aunt (from my father’s side) once noted with a blend of discomfort and delight “You do that hugging and kiss on the cheek thing. That’s because you’re Mexican”…
I live a mish-mashed mix of a multi-racial reality where, most often, others have painted the strokes of my identity. I have learned much from those around me about how I walk in the world of the ‘in-between’: simultaneously a woman of color and woman of White privilege. My skin color has at once allowed me access to the basic rights deserved by all but denied to many and has also called into question how well I really belong to the dominant race and class.
As I return to the moment and the question of the frequency of the usage of my white privilege, I reflect on the numerous times my skin and mixed-heritage have come in handy- both deliberately and unknowingly: I never fear being harassed for my race. I am asked by friends to be a spokesperson in restaurants, in government offices, at the bank, and at schools all because I’ll be perceived as white and therefore the calm, sensible one in moments of conflict. I get made fun of for not knowing certain things that ‘all Mexicans are supposed to know’ or for my pocho Spanish and yet am deemed too ethnic and called out for being too into racial politics by people who want to see me as White.
This is my reality. No box to check that will quite explain all the crevices I fit into or the experience of being one person living in many identities. Race, culture and identity are more fluid than a category will allow and ultimately I have come to embrace the various aspects, histories and visions of myself.
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