The eternal struggle

Excerpt from my interview with Beatriz Martinez, professional actress in the VM in Mexico City:
(my translation from Spanish- imperfect)

Me: How would it be, a world where the Vagina Monologues wasn’t necessary? How would the world have to change so that it wouldn’t be necessary to have a play about these subjects, like violence against women and all that?
B.M.: I believe that this world is not the one we belong to. I’m not an optimist, I’m a fighter. And I haven’t let it get me down while I could help it. But, I am not optimist about men. I believe that its our lot to live in this world the eternal fight. And it could be that in fifty years, its not necessary to do the Vagina Monologues, but it would be something else. It would be something else.

Its very difficult to have perspective on our own history, which as it is is very small in relation to the universal history. So, in fifty year, someone might be able to answer this question. [...] With the Monologues, we still don’t have this perspective. And it seems to me that this world we live in is a world of struggle. Today it’s the vagina, tomorrow it will be something else. But it’s a permanent fight. And it seems to me as though the most marvellous part of this is to be alive in the history.
J.M.: Actors in history and actors in the show as well, right?
B.M.: That’s it! That’s exactly it.

Having survived the 14th...

August 16th, 2008

Best Saturday morning ever! Slept in having been out late “working” and interviewing the VM’s actresses backstage before and after the show. Incredible women, learned a lot, felt nervous but professional, and enjoyed the show (for free), which is slightly different with every rendition. Woke up and was drinking coffee, reading the paper, and trying to get the washing machine to work when my landlord’s helped me get the internet up and going here. Brilliant!

And even better, incredibly kind people came to look at the other apartment, German exchange student, and I instantly decided to seduce them into loving the place as much as I do by shamelessly using the kittens, park, and cuban café as bait, which he bit, and will be moving in tomorrow! Tra la la. Surf-rock concert tonight with friends, and dinner at Jess’s apartment makes me unreasonably happy and triumphant to “have a life” here. I could imagine myself living here long term, which as Andrew says, seems to be an affliction of the travel-minded that is simultaneously positive and bewildering. When one could put down roots nearly anywhere cosmopolitan, indecision can reign supreme and flexibility can turn into a commitment-phobic curse.

La Casa Azul

August 10th
Having just finished my second clove and glass of wine, and watching a massive downpour from a misty few feet away, I marvel that I am getting paid for this experience. Its laughably privileged and deliciously hedonistic. Megan would be proud, I am beginning to love storms. I read Lida’s book on DF (interesting, but profoundly biased), and listen to Lila Downs, a great singer my friend Masa lent me over delicious lunch with his well-travelled father. Today I went to Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera’s blue house. I feel a remarkable affinity to her boldness, style and colors. If we played the game of what dead person would you want to sleep with, she would win.
The museum had less of her actual art that I would have liked, but I was shocked by a sketch she had done of an eye with a clock whirling around within it. I have doodled that exact same image, carved it into clay. It makes me doubt my own originality, and also appreciate universal symbols. My art teacher in high school advised against the often blatant and redundant symmetry in my own paintings, and while looking back, tho they aren’t so hot, I think the advise is still useless. What’s the point in making art obscure, when the viewer normally want only to identify with what they are seeing and to feel themselves worthy of art.
The sky is turning a lovely celeste and lavender post-storm. I hope my landlord’s got their new (minuscule!) kittens inside. They are a good/bad influence on me, inspiring day-dreams with their easy love, globalized children, cigarettes, drinks, and falling-off jeans. Their tanned and relaxed presence is refreshing, as are these new furry members of the household. I lick nutella off a spoon, and half-assedly repent my light buzz, as finishing my transcription now seems unlikely.
Jess and I talked about the “no-lugar” our profesora dwelled upon. The limbo zones such as airports, or neighborhoods like Condesa or La Roma, which could be any Europeanized city. These places are good to visit, entertaining to pass by, but ultimately I am relieved I ended up in this humble neighborhood, whose sidewalks are smeared by dog shit and bird seed that the elderly leave out for their paloma friends.
The neighbors have turned on their lights, and their fake stained glass patterns glow warmly. Making me think of a future home where I want to tissue paper designs over the windows. I dream of the door of this house as I am meditatively walk to the Metro. I will paint the panes with a blue sky, and a gold abstract sun in the right corner. I will outline the pains and the door frame with a bold red. Invite people over for relaxed dinner parties where the wine will flow and someone will pick up a guitar and play the Beatles at request. And we will sing. And “we” will be a community, and also there will be a love of mine, who catches my eye as we enjoy our friends, and raises one eyebrow, to reminisce over the hurried fuck on the stairway before everyone arrived; so we smelled vaguely of sex or wax when we shook the guest’s hands and which made me more flushed and pretty than make-up alone could engineer.

Motion of emotion

At the VM session at the Conference they held an open-mic after informal readings of the monologues. I doubted anyone would stand, yet the miracle of silence being bolding torn asunder, even among hundreds of strangers, prevailed again. Woman after woman shared their “vagina’s story” in Spanish or English.

One woman spoke in monotone pain about being raped at five, at eight, at fourteen, at twenty, as she fled from refugee camp to refugee camp. We gave her a standing ovation. Maybe trite, but we didn’t know how else to show our solidarity.

This woman was also the first to start dancing that night, at the closing party that Will snuck me into. I danced near her till we were dripping sweat, moving to the music as though with endless energy, as though women weren’t being raped that very minute all over the world as she was, again, and again, and again.

We danced because our hearts were sore, but also because we owed it to them, we owed it to ourselves, to gyrate our curves, to pop our hips, to enjoy and own the very sexuality that is under attack. We weren’t dancing for anyone else, we were dancing with our sisters, we were the motion of emotion.

Will kept asking me, “are you networking? Who have you met”” But I didn’t work this opportunity, of rubbing shoulders with the worlds foremost gender and AIDS activists or taking advantage of an open bar. Instead, I learned an invaluable lesson from this woman. I am proud to have chosen instead to dance. And I am glad to have lived this moment with her, whether she was aware what it meant to me or not, to see what survival can look like. Because if we don’t celebrate side by side, with our remaining vitality, as well as fight these uphill battles, how the hell do we keep at it our whole lives long?

Magenta Jamaica tea in a purple mug, while it rained, with lighting striking the sky

With my tanned skin and passable Spanish people don’t know how to peg me, only that I’m not from here. Its my eyes that especially give me away. So I dyed my hair darker and I wear sunglasses. A photographer told me I should use this to my advantage, those extra few seconds when people are trying to place me to- what? Jump right in I guess. Everyone also thinks I’m older than I am, which is disconcerting. And which Joyce suggested I use to appear more professional.

I am vibrantly satisfied with how my project is coming along, and I have more transcription than the desire to do it. This satisfaction in being able to focus so allows me to be more observant in my daily life. The lavanderia, whose laundry smells Dawn would love, their turtles in tanks, the scrawled green and silver word Sunshine that I pass everyday on my way to the Metro, how when I’m not having sex I think dancing is just as good, how taxis drive backwards for blocks down one-way streets so as to not be driving “against the law”, how people ride bikes on Saturday, the bus-drivers’ tiny son, identical to him, who solemnly collected my three pesos…

These fill my mind, and I wonder if there is so much more to notice here, or if my eyes are just more thoroughly open. How do I keep my “travel lenses” on when I’m back home? Why do we make these distinctions between travel and daily life, when nearly everyone would admit its all one massive journey and segmenting our lives is purely contrived?

I think I’ll go see the pyramids Sunday, I have the urge to be around ancient creations.

Todas las mujeres, todos los derechos

I love when you ask people here how they are, and they respond, “aqui” (here). How appropriate sometimes, and more honest than the chipper, “great!” that I feel we tend to dole out with more than genuine regularity in the States. How am I? I am here. Underrated to be present-tense, yet one of the great struggles.

Life here has become, rapidly, and surprisingly easily, Normal. I go to a café, do my internet work, transcribe interviews and field notes, eat a salad, then am heading out to catch an artsy film with a friend and coffee later with a new couchsurfing buddy. This may be as settled as I will be for the next year, so it feels like a good place to start, and the fleeting solidarity is all that more appreciated.

The rally yesterday for women’s rights (in conjunction with the World AIDS Conference) was beautiful. I felt part of the evocative, joyful, tide of caring humanity. Even more than other rallies I’ve been to, there was a sense of extreme vivacity, even though so many of the people marching and dancing along are HIV positive and are fighting battles of life and death through their activism. It was profound, and it was familiar.

I sat next to a woman from Kenya on the bus ride to the protest, who deeply moved me, and shared her perceptions with me about how the Monologues have been received in her country. Her wisdom was as apparent as her exhaustion, yet she talked to me and listened to me with the keenest of attention. I feel like a broken record in these posts, as I end with a sense of gratefulness. I have a nasty gripe, and even this reminder about how crappy it is to feel bad is important, as it gives me a sense (of minuscule proportions) of empathy for what it would be like to live daily with a disease.

Some more photos: Jess y Caleb lookin like the Surf-Rock stars that they are after Lucha Libre, my laundry, and my kitchen pre-dinner party.

No time to write, but here are some recent photos. Had a lovely dinner party last night, great new friends, and am off to a rally at the World AIDS Conference- ¨!Todas las mujeres, todas las derechos¡¨and found out they are performing-having a session about the Vag. Mons. @ the conference Thurs. What luck! I´m hoping it talks about Eve´s work in the Democratic Republic of the Congo.

¨corre la voz¨

I shower with incense drifting through the steamy air. Vow to buy flowers for myself on my walk home, as soon as the rain stops- which could be in a second or hours. As soon as my precariously perched kitchen is done I want to invite all the pseudo-friends I´ve me over for dinner, wine, maybe litter the roof with candles to make it cheery, and hope no one falls off.



As much as this journey is about exploring ¨breaking silence¨, in my comparative solitude I find myself quiet. And though the irony doesn´t escape me, I clutch at the conversations I do have, and am, I think, becoming a better listener.



I interviewed the assistant producer of the Monologues today. I felt moved, and exhausted, and reminded of why I am here. Its that part of the movie where everything is going smoothly, where I am walking through the subway like a bad-ass with the Blue Scholars (and Dirty Dancing, lets be honest) pounding through my headphones and what I hope is an ice cold expression, conveying that I remember at least 2 ways to gouge out eyeballs.



There is going to be this big blow out celebration Sept. 1st for their 5,000th production (there has never in the history of Mexican theater been a play in more demand), which is going to be this massive call for presidential action to stop the violence against the women of Juarez, which not only continues, but is breaking all kinds of horrific records of untold brutality. Coincidentally, the World´s Aids Conference starts tomorrow, and I hope to sneak into some of the unbelievably interesting workshops and lectures. My mind is open, and its metabolism is picking up in a way that school sometimes failed to stimulate.

¨...embrace the present with every cell¨

Aug. 1, 2008



I am, I think unreasonably thrilled to have discovered this cuban café near my apartment and across the street from my favorite park (where I often get cheered up by elder-salsa dancing or tai chi classes in the morning). I drink intensely strong cuban café out of a humorously tiny white vasito. Between the caffeine and the hand rolled cigarillo I was gifted by the owner, I feel my heart accelerates and rises to be reflected through my grateful eyes. Thank you. Building routine out of the new takes energy and optimism.



My project is stumbling along, ever quicker and more efficiently. I am nervous about my upcoming interviews, but as my new friend reminded me, that’s what I’m here for, “¡Animo!” I met him yesterday and felt invigorated by this open minded and kind human being. His thoughts and experience so different from mine, but somehow similar enough to add up to us drinking strong Americanos tucked in la condesa. Lucha libre and Surf Rock concert... Both new to me and I expect to be amused and glad to be slurping down some chela with other young people.



I’m reading the most beautiful love story, and right now believe my own is out there, if currently dormant. “Is there a logic, a rule to all this coming and going, all this dislocation? Is there a way to stay put, to embrace the present with every cell?” (ix The Time Travellers Wife) I read as the storm comes, caffeine and nicotine pounding through me, breeze and heavy clouds behind me. Then walk home, passing the newspaper stand where the woman greets me with genuine warmth at least four times a day, and the flower vendor who is scraping cactus every time I walk by, and who tied her grandson to a nearby cart as he napped, and I pass a splash of red. I realize its blood, and I try to tell myself its from one of the negligent dogs that roam these streets and that I wouldn’t be above kicking, but already I am shocked and composing this entry.