The Divided States of America

November 8, 2016 – I was working late. I sat in the conference room of the ad agency I work at with the TV on, watching in disbelief. My stomach in knots. It’s hard to focus on client presentation decks when the fate of your country is being played out in numbers across a screen.

It was 10:39pm PST and the numbers stood 215 to 264. It wasn’t over, but it was over.

I was so exhausted from the past week at work that everything just felt so surreal, almost like a bad dream; but waking up this morning, there was no escaping it.

With a heavy heart and a nervous uncertainty about the future, I lay in bed with tears in my eyes. My ceiling a blur.

I couldn’t stop thinking about how this wasn’t supposed to happen.

I lay there, trying to muster up the motivation to rise up to a new day, new challenges, new projects, emails, my morning commute – completely uninspired.

I was never really a fan of Hillary’s, but it deeply affected me to know that a woman who had spent over 30 years on a such an incredible career trajectory in pursuit of this very point in her life had been essentially told that a man with zero political experience was more qualified than her to be the leader of the free world.

A persistent feeling of impending doom followed me throughout the day.

As the daughter of immigrants, I can’t help but reflect on how I would not be here if Trump was president when my parents immigrated to this country that I call home.

A Guatemalan mother.

A Lebanese father.

A gay sister.

A cousin married to a wife with a Muslim family.

A black best friend.

And me, a woman in the midst of it all.

Some of the most fundamental and important facets of my life, lying in direct opposition of what the president-elect wants this country to be comprised of.

How did we get here?

I sit here wondering if I truly know what it means to be American? If everything I thought I knew about America has been a farce.

You see, I think people such as myself, live in a bubble.

I have the privilege of living in California where diversity is the norm and in my neighborhood, minorities are the majority. Having a progressive, liberal mindset is the status quo, especially among my group of educated peers and colleagues.

This is why I failed to realize that Donald Trump actually had a chance to win.

I failed to realize that my version of America is not the rest of America’s version of America.

I no longer feel like I know my own country anymore.

Naïve, I know.

I feel like a stranger.

This place that I’ve lived my whole life no longer feels safe.

I have profound fear of what is to come. Not only for myself, but for the people I love.

Trump’s America has no space for a female minority such as myself.

Where do I find my space?

Where do my African American friends find their space?

Where do my Latino friends find their space?

Where do my Muslim friends find their space?

Where do my gay friends find their space?

Are we being punished for being vocal?

Was this really a “whitelash” like Van Jones said last night on CNN?

I think so.

There is a deep divide in this country and that divide has roots that date back to when and how America established itself from the beginning.

So what is the solution?

Well, I think we’ve started to uncover it. We as Americans need to start getting comfortable with being uncomfortable. We need to continue speaking to issues that are at the heart of the matter. This dialogue on race and gender and inequality has only barely just begun.

We will have the next 4 years to stand together and make our voices be heard.

This is not a time for complacency.

We can’t make America great again because there’s really no point in our history where we’ve ever been that great to begin with. BUT that doesn’t mean America doesn’t have the potential to be great. We can make America great. Even with Donald Trump as our president.

You know why?

Because Donald Trump is not the person we encounter in our day to day.

Making America great begins with standing together in the face of adversity and refusing to back down or shy away from what is right. Making America great begins with loving each other, even when we don’t all agree on the same things. Making America great begins with mobilizing our communities to resist hatred and bigotry. Making America great begins with listening, empathizing, and being willing to embrace a point of view that is different from our own. Making America great begins with comforting your grieving neighbor instead of judging the source of their grief.

I am sad. I am fearful. I am anxious. But I am not hopeless.

Trump can build a wall, threaten to take away my rights, & insult my people but he can’t take away my hope and my faith.

***

“My friends, let us have faith in each other. Let us not grow weary. Let us not lose heart. For there are more seasons to come and more work to do.”

– Hillary Rodham Clinton

Dating in 2016

Grab em by the pussy.

Lol. K not really.

But kind of.

Trump’s words, his “locker room talk,” hold some actual weight in the arena of many men’s views on women.

This is not to say women are innocent either…many women are equally at fault for objectifying and using and manipulating men to fulfill their own selfish desires.

In the age of Tinder, dating as we know it looks very different than it did for our parents and their parents.

I’ve noticed patterns, themes if you will, in millennial dating.

As an attractive, single, young woman I’ve been on plenty of dates. I’ve also been the subject of much misogyny. And have been left questioning myself time and time again.

I’ve compromised.

I’ve settled.

I’ve done things I didn’t want to do in order to receive validation.

I’ve often been left wondering what was wrong with me.

Questioning my qualities…am I not pretty enough? Cool enough? Fun enough?

You know that scene in Gone Girl where Amy finally loses her shit and talks about how she pretended to be “the cool girl” so her husband would like her? I can totally relate.

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve bitten my tongue so I wouldn’t look “crazy.”

After a lot of self-reflection, I realize that all that tongue biting wasn’t healthy or productive because it ended up getting translated into resentment. And man resentment is ugly.

Anyways, back to millennial dating…

I’ve noticed that as young adults, many of us are reluctant or resistant to becoming vulnerable.

Open, honest communication seems more difficult than it should be.

Intimacy is often strictly physical.

“Ghosting” has become a widely understood term for when someone just disappears, no longer answering your calls or texts with no explanation.

It leaves us wondering. And hurt. And resentful.

So we vow to stay closed off. Sometimes consciously, sometimes sub-consciously.

And sometimes we turn into the people that contributed to us building our walls.

Social media doesn’t help either.

Or porn.

Or Tinder.

Over-stimulation and unrealistic expectations.

How do you keep someone’s interest when there are so many distractions and vice versa?

How do you get someone to agree to monogamy when a booty call is in their pocket?

I think the issue with dating in 2016 is that everyone wants to save face. No one wants to admit to rejection. There’s a lot of ego. And pride. People want to have their cake and eat it too.

However, I will mention that my views on this issue are not comprehensive. No one’s really is (on any issue) because everyone has a different world view and perspective shaped by their life experiences and surroundings.

I was born & raised in LA (the Valley to be exact) and I’ve heard that us Angelenos have it a little rougher than most. Now, I obviously don’t know how accurate that is because I’ve never actually lived anywhere else. But I can tell you my dating track record has been anything but spectacular which makes me more than happy to blame my dating grievances on living in LA (lol).

I’ve never been in a relationship that spanned more than a year and even the ones that lasted that long were with people who didn’t even acknowledge me as their girlfriend.

But I didn’t say anything. I didn’t voice my thoughts or feelings. I was “the cool girl.” And apparently cool girls don’t advocate for themselves.

I’ve since vowed never to change or be anything for anyone that strays from what feels right to me. If that means not being cool then fuck it, I don’t want to be cool.

I won’t pretend to have the answers or solutions to an area of life I haven’t seemed to master (I mean, who really ever does though?). I think dating and intimacy are aspects of our lives that are forever evolving and changing. It’s fluid. Which is why it’s changed so much over the years.

My only hope for this generation and ultimately for myself is that we will find enough contentment within who we are to be able to embrace and open up to the truth about what we want and what makes us feel good, without fearing what other people will think of us.

I hope we will become more respectful and thoughtful and considerate and reserved and loving and loved and most of all, love ourselves so that we can be open to receiving the good.

Also, I’ll end with this…there are some pretty incredible people in this world and I’m a firm believer that when the timing is right, you will meet one of them.

Timing is everything.

Overcoming Grief

TRIGGER WARNING: SUICIDE

10 years ago today, my Aunt Tawnia died. She committed suicide. In the garage of my home. I found her. Hanging.

Grief is such an interesting thing. It’s sort of like a fire. It can become all-encompassing. Suffocating. Raging on without permission. Smoldering. It burns. And it leaves it’s indelible mark on all that it touches.

There are the days when you can’t get out of bed. Where you would rather be dead than face the world. This is not weakness. This is your mind commanding your body to survive.

The mechanisms of survival are wide-ranging in a world where profound pain runs rampant.

So I survived. Merely survived…existed, for years. It was all I could do to hold on; lest I face a similar fate.

My rage, my anger, it came to a compromise with understanding and acceptance once I got a taste of the demons which my aunt may have been facing. Empathy is powerful.

It was 3 o’clock on a sunny, Monday afternoon. September 25, 2006. My aunt’s phone keeps going to voicemail. Mom’s working. Who’s gonna pick me up from school?

I just started the 10th grade a month prior after a less than stellar freshman year performance.

I was determined to turn it around. This was my year.

I call mom. “Aunt Tawnia’s not answering.” “I’m still at work. Can one of your friends give you a ride if you give them gas money?” “I’ll Ask.”

“Mom, Taylor’s gonna take me home.”

Taylor was a junior. She was cool and she drove a BMW. She agreed to take me home.

When we pulled up to my mom’s house, I thought Taylor was just going to be dropping me off. Instead, she asked if I wanted to study together and I was just happy she was going to be coming in so I wouldn’t have to be home alone until mom got home. I hated being home alone. It creeped me out.

Taylor and I go inside and set our stuff down in the office. I offer her something to drink. She asks for a soda.

The office was connected to the kitchen which connected to the laundry room which then connected to the garage where the refrigerator with the sodas was.

I open the door connecting the laundry room to the garage.

I step down into the garage and open the refrigerator door which is directly to my left, against the wall.

The garage is dark.

I open the fridge and grab the sodas. I think they were orange. Or diet. Whatever.

I head back into the family office and hand Taylor her drink. We spend the next hour or so on Myspace. We hadn’t gotten any homework done yet.

Mom calls.

I tell her Taylor stayed to study.

Mom invites her to stay for dinner. Taylor Agrees. Mom was gonna make tacos. My favorite.

After spending a little more time on the internet, we decide to start getting some school work done.

But first, Taylor asks for another soda. She had finished hers.

I go to the garage a second time to get her another soda. This time, I accidentally ripped the box of sodas as I was trying to open it.

Sodas come rolling out all over the floor.

I get annoyed and crouch down to pick them up and put them back. The garage was dark. Just a dim light coming in from outside through the drapes over the windows and a glow coming from inside the open fridge.

The sodas rolled everywhere.

After I put the last one back, I stood up to inspect the ground and make sure I hadn’t missed one. As I turned around to head back inside the house, I caught a glimpse of something hanging from the ceiling.

Adrenaline.

Heart pounding.

I run inside screaming.

Taylor’s on the phone with someone.

She asks me what’s wrong.

I start laughing hysterically.

I can feel my blood pumping.

My heart is in overtime.

I’m laughing and crying simultaneously.

I think I’m going crazy.

I’m seeing things.

I’ve lost it.

I was sure of it.

She keeps asking what happened.

I tell her I think I’m going crazy.

“What are you talking about?”

“I think there’s someone hanging in the garage, but I’m not sure if I’m just seeing things.”

“Oh. My. God. What are you talking about?”

She gets off the phone.

“Will you please come look with me?”

I’m shaking.

We walk to the laundry room.

I open the door leading to the garage and flip on the light switch.

We peer inside together.

My heart sinks.

And sinks.

And sinks some more.

My stomach hurts. Like I just got kicked.

It hurts to breathe.

I’m staring at the back of a woman’s body.

Who is this woman?

It takes a minute to register.

I couldn’t see her face.

It’s Aunt Tawnia.

I can tell from the flip flops dangling from her feet.

So many details.

The rope around her neck.

The broken crate she had stood on.

Her purple fists in a ball.

I run inside the house hysterical.

I’m crying. I’m screaming. I’m hyperventilating.

I’m in a fucking nightmare.

I call mom.

She answers.

I’m crying. I can’t talk.

She asks what’s wrong.

More sobbing.

She starts to get mad.

“GABY, WHAT’S WRONG!?”

I give the phone to Taylor to talk to her.

I physically can’t get the words out.

“There’s someone hanging in your garage and Gaby thinks it’s her aunt.”

Silence.

“Okay, I’m coming.”

Taylor and I sit in front of the house awaiting my mother’s arrival.

I’m too scared to be inside.

Mom gets home.

Her mini-van pulls up the driveway and I run up to her as she’s getting out of the car to give her a hug.

She pushes me aside and heads straight for the door.

Stone-faced.

I follow her inside crying.

She goes into the garage to look for herself.

I wait in the kitchen.

She comes in a minute later and collapses to the floor.

I’ve never seen mom cry like this before. My insides feel like they’re going to break with every shudder.

I feel powerless.

Watching my mom cry on the kitchen floor that day hurt more than seeing my aunt hanging from the wooden beams in my garage. My aunt was gone. But mom would have to bear this pain forever.

Selfish.

That was my initial thought.

HOW COULD YOU BE SO SELFISH?

Who was going to tell my cousins?

I guess Taylor’s not staying for dinner…

The fire department arrives.

They ask questions.

My high school boyfriend shows up.

He tries to comfort me.

God bless his heart.

Mom has to identify the body.

She has to go look her sister in the face. Lifeless.

I stay the night at Taylor’s.

I never go back to mom’s.

She moves to a new house a couple months later.

The damage has been done.

I cry everyday for years.

PTSD rears its ugly head.

I get flashbacks.

I see people hanging from the trees at night when I’m driving.

I sleep with all the lights on.

I avoid going into any garage.

Until I don’t.

Time has a way of healing things.

Families have a way of rebuilding.

Grief is a strange thing. It comes in waves.

Now the waves are light. The tide is low. The rip tide is gone.

This was the first anniversary of my Aunt’s death that I didn’t remember until someone reminded me.

I never thought this day would come.

Life is for the living.

Today, I am alive and well.

I am grateful.

I am empathetic.

I am compassionate.

I am forgiving.

I have forgiven you.

It only hurts when see my cousins’ faces.

They look so much like you.

They miss their mom.

I’m so lucky to have mine.

I no longer merely live to survive. I no longer merely exist. I thrive. I rise above.

Each day holds the promise of the possibility for something better than its predecessor, as long as you allow it.

Love and hope and forgiveness are forces that transcend fear and pain and grief.

Don’t ever give up.

(If you or someone you know struggles with suicidal thoughts, one resource is the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline, 1-800-273-TALK (8255). The Lifeline is available 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. The deaf and hard of hearing can contact the Lifeline via TTY at 1-800-799-4889. Suicide is never the answer.)