“brown boys” by florentino diaz |
For much, if not all of my life, I have felt sensitive. I
have felt and “acted” sensitive: tearing up through any emotion, even happy
ones, howling after any scrape, cut, or bruise, and spending too much time
alone with my mother. Of course, “sensitive” was not the word the other boys
were flinging at me. Sensitive was a word reserved for my mother. Sensible, tierno, delicado. And while she
definitely worried about her sensitive son, especially when she wondered about
what kind of man I would grow up to be, it seldom bothered her and she never
hesitated to listen to me cry, even now at twenty-three.
Sensitive is not a fun place to life your life out of at
times. Sensitive, in a world that seems to spin on aggression and competition,
keeps you lonely, it keeps you anxious, and it keeps you vigilant—of your
behaviors, your words, your reactions, and your thoughts. Layering onto that
natural inclination to surveil myself harder came homophobia, racism, and
machismo. Growing up brown, effeminate, and queer brought the harsh magnifying
glass right above my most tender parts and eventually, I trained my own mind to
second-guess itself, to belittle itself, and to never be content with where I
am, but instead to draw happiness from the possibilities of what I could become.
To no surprise I became clinically depressed.
I was lucky enough to enter college around such an
exploratory age—my late teens and early twenties, something many people take for granted. It is at this university
where I began to reconcile my need to express my sensitivity with my desires to
provide myself a career path. Naturally, I was drawn to social movements. Finally, I was living in a reality that was supposed to
validate my struggles as struggles beyond things I needed to “fix” about
myself. Finally, the issue existed outside of me. Finally, there was space for me to be disappointed by life,
shocked by violence, and left in tears by the atrocities I could not seem to
stop focusing on. Finally, my set of skills: communicating hurt, holding
people accountable to their passive/micro aggressions, and doing the emotional
labor of others seemed like it was going to pay off big time; I was going to be
a social worker! Or something…
"untitled" by patricia bordallo dibildox and florentino diaz |
One of those early and very formative places was within the
ideological terrains of Chicanismo. While it seemed a generational thing I
could not fully sync with, I noticed emerging subgroups within the movement
calling themselves Xican@s, Chicanxs, and even Xicanxs that spoke to a more
present-day experience of Mexican American-ness that took time to look at
gender, gender expression, diversity of sexualities, and bodies. But the “new”
Xicanx identity was not very accessible. There simply was not enough writing or
art being shared around that dealt with these “denser” topics as they
intersected with race and nation. The works of these young Xicanxs was kept
archived not across paper, but across slam poetry performances, blogs, art across our
bodies in the forms of tattoos and piercings, within relationships, in dance steps,
and in dreams.
Fortunately, while in school I was able to learn from the
more classic identity: Chicano, as it stood in the sixties and seventies. Now
research savvy, I dove deep into the movement’s history and found an eerie
parallel to my own internal conflict. But before that, I felt “wrong” again.
For such a long time after initially connecting myself to the political
alignment of the Chicano, I was hyper-surveilling myself again. I was host to
thoughts that felt less rooted to me and more connected to an external
understanding I absolutely had to internalize and had no role in creating, much
like masculinity.
All my life older men had made me feel ashamed for trying to
balance and reconcile my emotions and my logic. Older men had chastised me for
not dwelling on values like tirelessness, toughness, sacrifice, order, and
individualism (ego) exclusively. My hopes to be all those things and also be
fragile, whole, chaotic, communal, and compassionate were not allowed in
masculinity. This did not change among the writings, histories, and narratives
of the popularized Chicano movement. Again, I found myself in a space full of
men, this time with my peers and some elders that romanticized militancy, legal rights,
and logic to pursue their idea of liberation.
It was not until I stumbled across intersectionalism that I
began to see that eerie parallel I mentioned early. Intersectionality, and by
extension the works of legendary and contemporary radical poets and feminists
of color, often queer Black women, gave me a new insight into myself that I am
eternally grateful for. I began to believe in an authentic self. I began to
understand the bigger picture of what it means to be Ramiro and in that
overwhelming experience, I noticed the complexity of the self, but also how the
self is a mirror or microcosm of social movements. It became apparent that
mining my past for insight and making peace with said past would help me return
to a life that takes place in the moment. After all, for me, anxiety has never
been anything but an obsessive fixation on the future with shame and guilt
shooting up from the past, barring me from sacredness of the moment.
Just like that, “Chicano” became “Ramiro”. I saw the
movement much how I saw myself: an amazing force thirsty for freedom, but with
skills unbalanced and emotional creativity undeveloped. That lack of balance
came from self-sabotage. It came from refusing to listen to the ways my logic
and emotions naturally reconciled themselves within me, from refusing to be
patient, from refusing to be my complete self in everything that I do, and from
refusing to be intuitive. But it did not always feel like self-sabotage because
it was rewarded so often. I experience a much easier life, filled with far more
opportunities for me to be remembered as "important", all because I man. In
other words, because the Chicano movement’s foundation was created almost
exclusively by men as a result of their fear for all things feminine within
themselves (and by projection, women), the movement fell into fragility so
quickly after its prime as a result of sabotage, a lot like myself in later college years.
Author bell hooks refers to this self-sabotage psychic self-mutilation. “The first act of violence that patriarchy demands of males is not violence toward women. Instead patriarchy demands of all males that they engage in acts of psychic self-mutilation, that they kill off the emotional parts of themselves. If an individual is not successful in emotionally crippling himself, he can count on patriarchal men to enact rituals of power that will assault his self-esteem.”
Like all people working against the system, movements also
fall into states of fragility and depression. But when faced with fragility,
the best thing one can do is to feel it through and through. To learn from it. To
embrace this cyclical flow between abundance and scarcity of energy, as is the
flow of the seasons, as is the flow of self-care. But without any voice to lead
that healing, without anyone to validate that importance of breaking before
rebuilding again (to winter and then spring), the movements became a massive
vehicle of community harm, notably at the expense of women. However, it was not
that those experts on healing, wholeness, and transgression were not there, it
is that they were not welcome. Queer men, women in general, non-binary people,
Black Chicanos, or anyone that wanted to focus on the present issues (sexism
included) were preferably unheard and excluded from the movement that was too deep into its long-term goals. So, the
Chicano body could not hear itself because it artificially segmented itself
instead of doing the hard work it takes to deal with everything the body needs. In the case of Chicanismo, sexism and sexual pleasure were ignored despite being vital to the true collective, among other issues.
Professor Cotera’s project then becomes a metaphor for
therapy in my eyes. I see the work of digital archives as something like giving
one’s self therapy through honesty. But, instead of individual experiences, the
pieces we must reassemble for this act of macro self care are whole stories of
people, as people, not events, represent and carry the collective memory of the
Chicano movement. In collecting these incredibly necessary oral histories we
are beginning to make peace with our past as Chicanos. We are learning that
time is in fact not linear, and that the past has as much to be planned for as
the future, for there is no chance at living a liberated tomorrow without
coming back to the present and being content—being happy, well nourished, and
critical Chicanos before objects of activism.
I enrolled in professor Cotera’s class to learn more about my
process and myself, as much of it is still extremely confusing. I enrolled
because Cotera is providing a safe and effective model for us to practice
history reunification, reconciliation between the emotional and logical, a
balance that does not live in camps of masculine and feminine, but inside each
of us, all the time. I enrolled to thrive as sensitive, to embrace my uniqueness and reorient myself into the true Chicano movement, which I believe is more accurately the Chicana movement.
In healing the Chicano movement, in healing myself, I hope
to discover the true nature of the Chicano movement and its sensitive side. Which, with each passing
day of this class, seems that it was clearly carried on the backs of gender and
sexual minorities. We are essentially redefining Chicano by bringing the movement
closer to its roots through memory recollection. We are not comparing, “bettering”,
or perfecting anything. We are simply trying to be authentic in how we heal from the trauma we inflected on ourselves, which is a trauma often learned outside ourselves and through the toxic systems of sexism, racism, and imperialism. And that is a
lesson that will extend far beyond the classroom. This is the lesson of
recovery.
“these great divisions hurt me but i’ll find home again” by florentino diaz |