Stitching a picture together 

It’s been legit ages since I’ve posted. What can I tell you? That I got a promotion at work? A new car? That I heckled a piece of shit comedian so badly that he lost his mind on stage, and I was proud of myself? That I’ve been demonstrating against horrible, evil people? Or that I’m done with my first degree and am planning my next big move?

Yes. All these things are true. 

But I’ve just traveled the better part of 1,000 miles in the past two days and I’m spent. 

Come back and sit a spell. I’ve got lots of stories to tell you. 

For now, please enjoy this picture of me this weekend with the nicest cat with the most toes. 


I’m on the threshold of greatness, girl. 

My maternal grandmother only finished 4th grade. My paternal grandmother wasn’t allowed to go to school because her father said all she would do in school is learn how to write letters to her boyfriend.

I took the same basic algebra class three times. I’m neither proud nor ashamed of it. It just is. Third time’s the charm and today I finally passed it with the help and encouragement of an incredible old school math teacher and my crew cheering me on.

Special shout out to my friend Richie in Mexico who would help me via What’s App with my homework. Technology is amazing!

(Also, an indescribable amount of tea that made me a gold member at Starbucks. I appreciate the kind baristas, and their peach tranquility. Thanks!)

I struggled miserably with this class all three times mostly because it didn’t come organically to me. I would open the book, have to really work hard to make sense of the soup of letter, numbers, signs and lines and want to go to sleep.

This is lame, but true. If it’s not fun or I’m not good at it, I just get sleepy and want to pursue other things, for example a nap. Is that normal?

I’m one class away from finishing my associates degree. This, in the grand scheme of things is minute, but in this moment is monumental. I am the work of generations of women who were denied vote, voice, power and presence. I am the dream of every woman who bled for me, that came before me, beloved, repressed or otherwise. I am the prayer of my immigrant father, the darling granddaughter to my everloving grandmother Hortencia, the prized Hope Diamond of my mother Esther.

I’m not perfect, my roads far from linear timelines. I’m constantly late, but am still never convinced I’m not perfectly in sync with another clock.

Tiny crumbs have lead me to the first course of success. I’m starving for it. I shall have everything I want now, and nothing will stop me.

Barron Trump is an anchor baby. 

So people were tweeting mean things about Trumps youngest son, which TBH weren’t even that mean. Things like, he is super pale (he is, so what?) and he looks like he would rather be playing Candy Crush than be at the inauguration (then again, many of us would have rather been playing Candy Crush than living through his father being inaugurated…) so what is mean about that?

 I feel like people don’t know what mean is. You know what’s mean? Someone calling you an anchor baby. I’ve been called an anchor baby. Oh, you don’t know what an anchor baby is? 

So then, by this definition, I wouldn’t be an anchor baby, as my mother was born and raised here in the US but people have still used the term on me as my father is from Mexico.

 That said, in these days that have been filled with racism, homophobia, Islamaphobia, bigotry, misogyny and every other kind of hatred you can think of, I have been thinking- I may not be an anchor baby, but Not My President Trump’s youngest child Barron IS indeed, by this definition, an anchor baby. 

Trump doesn’t love anchor babies.
I’m just saying, if he can call them anchor babies, I can call his crotch dropping an anchor baby BECAUSE HE IS. 

Petty in pink, signing out. 

Aren’t I the luckiest?

I started a new job in the later part of 2016. I can’t talk too much about it, because I don’t know who’s listening (reading…whatever…) but I will say that at first everyone was too enthusiastic and it made me suspicious. Then towards the later part of the first month of training I got to meet the CEO and she is legit amazing. She talked about being a feminist (confirmed, she is) her vast music collection (extensive and varied) and how if you can’t see it, you can’t be it and that is why she considers it her duty to take on so much, so she can open those doors.


Today, I was observed by a supervisor and never felt nervous, like AT ALL. He sat next to me and listened to my calls for almost an hour, which didn’t feel like an hour at all, and his feedback was good. Like, really good.

Anyway, it is so bizarre to me to be almost 6 months into this job and it still feels so giddy new. I still keep in touch with my former colleagues, always telling them to come work with me and they keep telling me no, and I am such a selfish brat, it’s a miracle I am telling them to come work with me, but I am. And you know why? Because I am drunk in worky lust. I sit in front of a gigantic window that is keeping my winter blues away. I am blissed out because of the dorky birthday greeting they gave me. I am beside myself with joy because I already got a raise.

I was recalling how my last place of employment trumpeted the benefits of meritocracy but paid me miserable wages. I was remembering how my old supervisor shut me down when I talked about my fandom and my current boss loves to see me squee about it, because, he said “It’s the part that makes you, YOU”

Today I was again feeling all this Disneyland workplace happiness, and I almost wanted to cry.

Then this evening after work I watched this hilarious Sanrio short that somewhat reflects what  I used to be: A repressed, overworked  little red panda, Aggretsuko:


And it is so marvelous to not be her 100%, hating her job, being weighed down by a heavy, demanding, micromanaging boss. It feels good to bask in autonomy.

Also- not a red panda, but whatever. 

Just the same, Aggretsuko loves to sing metal and drink beer… so you know. There is still room for her in my heart- just a little happier.

Brown girl problems-racism, joking and basic bitches.


Have you seen Babel? The movie was so moving to me, explaining how very small the world is, and getting smaller daily. With the current climate of bigotry, hatred, racism and hostility, I often reflect upon this movie and try to make sense of it all. I cannot, but I try.

I particularly loved the dynamic of the nanny Amelia and the children in the movie, they loved her, she loved them. She spoke to them in Spanish, they would respond in English. It was no big deal, very natural to them all.

I had a little boy I used to look after here in Michigan and we lived an exchange that was quite similar-but I was a teenager, so it was more of a little brother, older sister relationship. The evenings I looked after him (at his house), he knew when it was time to have dinner at my house and would tell me so. He knew the smell of my mother’s cooking, even from across the street (where I lived) and would tell me what was for dinner. I spoke to him in Spanish, he answered in English.

I recall seeing him for the first time of being away from Michigan for years and it was stunning. He had just started his first year of college. His mother made us recreate a picture from when he was a little boy- I had just gotten back from Mexico, and was walking over to his house. He saw me walking up to his house and ran over to me, screaming “Sansa! Sansa!”- his nickname for me. I excitedly scooped him up and threw him on my back. His mother heard him screaming, peeked out of window and grabbed her camera. She captured his delight at having his “big sister” back.

This return from Mexico, he was too big for me to carry, he is no little one anymore. He scooped me up and threw me on his back- no small feat. 

My little boy is grown and beautiful now, I am so very proud of him and all he does.

That said, on that particular vacation I was sent face first into a spiral of humiliation and racism that almost made me tap into the worst, most basic parts of myself, the ones that want to knock a bitches teeth out, watch them pick them up their teeth and then drink their blood.


I know you’re saying that isn’t very nice, and you’re right, it’s not.

But I’m not a very nice girl sometimes, in case you’re new here, so there’s always that.

Also, what the hell does that photo of Amelia have to do with this post and/or knocking out teeth?

It has EVERYTHING to do with this story.


So here’s how it started-at a get together, someone asked me how I got to Michigan…