Burritonization Of The Brain | Chronicles Of The Young Immigrant Women

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Maybe I should try a tradition to begin this, since the following is a rotten process of a communication-dogma I-invented-dunno-why. This is edited: actually that past sentence was the last I wrote. Here I go. Dear Lord of the bilinguals (and plus), send some help to your daughter who has been living in three languages for years but has been trying-to-speak-only-one for the past four months. Is this about losing my English or my Spanish? No, it’s not. Because there was me saying thank you to the security guard in Copacabana. There I was, not remembering certain words in Portuguese and by consequence there was everyone around evil-laughing at my face. Or when I spoke for an hour using a word in Spanish that I could swear existed in my native language. Here’s the shit this is about: my feelings are on a strike against my confusion. By themselves they chose which language to be in and I did go with the flow. But not anymore. I have now decided it is my job to organize them. So we’re in a crisis. And I’m losing. Because I have absolutely no control. I’m puta at the fact I sometimes don’t feel satisfied with the way I'm telling a story, not angry. Puta. Got it? To me, people me irritando are not ironically querida, they’re sweetie. Tendeu? And sweetie-pie I do not have munchies, I have larica. I’m not smoking weed. I’m smoking um fininho. Um baseado. Um dois. By the way I’m going to take this opportunity to beg the United Statians: learn how to call marijuana correctly. Please call it “based on.” Call it “the little thin”. Call it “a two”. As I was saying, this is about me mixing everything in an attempt to put things in order. During this journey it seems like I have a million different ways of feeling and seeing my own life and emotions. I’m not meanwhile. I’m not por enquanto. I’m mientras. I’m not falling in love again. I’m not enamorada. I’m fudida. You see? I feel like the ingredients of my emotional-recipe are not matching. Basically my brain is now a burrito. I hate burrito. Never understood the concept. Why cheese on top of beans rolled in a dough? Please, why!!!!!!!!! Important to mention: I deeply respect it culturally. That being written, I just figured out one thing, there’s a mission I need to accomplish in the next couple of thoughts: respecting the burrito process of my brain. Which means being at peace with the Union Of Feelings who are now enjoying a latino meal. Maybe that’s a good start. It’s lunch time for these tired workers inside me. From now on I’m embracing (or trying to) the burritoning-revolution of myself. I love when I figure things out mientras escrevendo. Y nada más. 

Indie and Immigrant: a Testimony | Chronicles Of The Young Immigrant Women

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Through the course of this I’ll be assuming you know who Lana Del Rey is. In case you haven’t been blessed by her religion yet, I sincerely suggest you’ll take a moment of your day to listen to the word of God. We both know you’ll do anything to escape your duties, or hell, or both, that’s most likely why you’re still reading my column – just do it. By the way, if you do read me, please let me know somehow. Doesn’t have to be a big feedback, an airplane banner will do. I feel alone here. I feel alone writing in english. I bet Lana Del Rey never felt alone in a language. Most likely because she invented it. And also because words seem to be dancing out of her mouth whenever she speaks. Although that’s very poetic it isn’t why I’m talking about her. Regardless of her sexy yet immaculate existence, what intrigues me the most about Lana is that she is a New Yorker, better said as Brooklyn Baby, who’s absolutely in love with California and will never leave somewhere else again. Imagine the guts (and butt) a woman has to have to actually trade public transportation for rented scooters. Imagine being happy everyday with this decision. Imagine your genetics were practically made out of the Brooklyn Bridge material yet you only write about San Francisco, like, what in the actual fuc*? Magically, she found her artistic place when she started to sign her love for the beach and palm trees and mustangs and west coast’s beers, all very tragically romantic. As tragic as should be every romance you have happening too far away from your mom. Now imagine living on the fault of your mom and San Andreas at the same time. Basically she’s living every immigrant’s dream: to be making money out of the drama that is being away from home but loving it. Lana Del Rey is not an immigrant nor should be treated as one – is the property in which she talks about the state she loves and lives, even though that shi* isn’t that magic at all, that blows my mind. I simply love the way she brings the lifestyle surrounding her to topic whenever she has a chance. I’m a New Yorker all the way and will never understand the perks of breathing fresh air. I love that tiny-and-soon-sinking piece of land. For two months I've been in Rio de Janeiro, writing about who I am when I’m here. Always Lana-Del-Reying my feelings for New York. Brothers and sisters, tragic is the only way possible to describe what it is to be geographically in love. Blessed be Rey. May the lord don’t open any more faults. Amen.

I’m Busy Inside of a Cat’s Belly | Chronicles Of The Young Immigrant Women

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When I was younger (five minutes ago) I thought life couldn’t go on without me. My naive egoic head is leading me towards madness ever since I came to Rio de Janeiro to stay a couple of months. Living in New York City is by far the weirdest challenge for a young adult who believes they’re the center of the universe: everyone there hopes for the same. Being young means trying to control everything around you, especially for this generation as there isn’t a lot of reference. You see, teenaging already sucks, but for us it sucked differently, because we suffered digitally in jeans-to-jeans outfits. Our future looks tree-less, water-less and intelligence-less but hey! at least society understood that low waist jeans were the biggest cultural mistake ever. Which kinda gives me hope. Taking back the control of this narrative, having roots in a country rather than the one I chose to live in, teaches me everyday that peace of mind is never an option. I pretty much think they will be no such thing as being fulfilled for an immigrant. I get really mad when life happens without me. By life I mean things I know. And by things I know I mean whatever I could care about. People die when I’m not present. Buildings are sold. Avenues disappear. Babies are born. Babies grow and they won’t recognize me. New memes are replacing me in my group of friends. My group of friends are not even the same. These friends have new friends and I don’t like them. How dare the people I love are living their lives without me? How come the city that I was born in doesn’t need my bus ticket? How come the city that I chose to live in is not missing my presence in the subway? Isn’t it terrible having to let go of knowing and participating always? Having to choose where you’re losing? Being an immigrant is not like an incomplete puzzle. It’s being the lost piece under the carpet and getting eaten by a cat who will run away in the middle of the night and come back three years later as if nothing happened. Now that I’m older I no longer think life shouldn’t go on without me. I’m sure it cannot. Dear world, you can only spin when I want to. Thank you very much.

New-New York City | Chronicles Of The Young Immigrant Women

Another day walking in the empty and new New York city. I know all corners of Gramercy and the face of every worker in my favorite-bad-deli, just as they know my type of Tuesday bagel. I never really asked their names and I wonder if knowing it would’ve made my chest feel any better when I passed by their closed doors– I don't think so. No apocalyptical movie could guess how sad Manhattan would look like without certain stores and faces. I wandered through the avenues in no rush and there was absolutely no one bumping me. No one to send to hell. In the platform, there was no tourists looking down&up&right&left -all at the same time- to send to hell. There was no me, not a single angry-me, realizing that the hell was being in this station during rush hour. Because the only me standing there was the one surprised that, the hell itself is an empty train smelling like Clorox during rush hour. I didn't know it was possible to feel sad about good sanitation. To me, the scariest part of my life almost-post Corona, is realizing how much I loved the messy, ugly, city of the not-yet-stars. Lonely hearts are now behind masks (as they should) and the fact that I can't tell who's happy and who's sad is taking away from me the magic of my rides home; where I could create many stories just by looking around. Stories that I would write later on during my Tuesday break at my favorite-bad-deli. Thinking that I might never experience again the exact city I chose to live in, is bittersweet. However, I've no doubts the city is improving and that New Yorkers can and will adapt wonderfully to the distance–– by finding new reasons to send people to hell. Corona is silent but its consequences are yelling at me every time I walk out there. I usually yell back. But there's no one to be mad at. This is a type of yell back: a mediocre chronicle that should've been typed in a keyboard full of crumbs of the most horrible bagel in Gramercy. Though I'm ending it in hopes that I'll find a way to read through the masks.

For The Boy I Used to Babysit, Reuben | Chronicles Of The Young Immigrant Women

I never thought about taking care of kids until I moved to New York and caught myself searching for a job that would help me pay for college, at eighteen years old. Most latina women and immigrants are working inside family houses, in different positions. Not always the experience with the parents is the best, for numerous reasons, but I’ve heard lovely stories about their relationship with the kids. As expected, every family in Manhattan is different, meaning you can get to experience literally a world of cultural shocks. You’ll see a lot of kids on the island, growing with aspects of their nanny’s background. I personally love it. Although every story is as peculiar as you can imagine, one thing they have in common: dealing with kids have brought love, light and the company lacking in their life abroad. Many we hear about negative and abusive stories–– which are definitely worth sharing as these workers deserve the voice and rights denied more often than expected, but today I’ll share my connection with this little boy who changed me forever. I hope to hear more narratives of this kind. This is a letter I wrote him the day I left, many years after watching his legs, mind and heart grow bigger and bigger (so did mine)…

“I say I love you every Monday, every Wednesday and every Thursday. And when I say I love you, I say it at least thirty times in all languages I know. I do this to make sure you will remember it on Tuesdays, Fridays, weekends and holidays. Not only this–– I wanna make sure you know that, when you say you love me the whole universe; that lives between your arms; inside your chest; and up your ticklish belly; I love you back all of it and maybe more. Actually, definitely much more. Sometimes I wonder if this isn’t too much for someone who doesn’t reach the bookshelf yet. Then you smile and I feel foolish for thinking there will ever be a love you can't understand.  If only you, Reuben, could reach and hug everyone’s legs in the world, the way you hug mine everyday when I open the door... what a giant piece of peanut butter and jelly sandwich the world wouldn’t be! Can you imagine a world where everybody sings Sesame Street as their national anthem? I bet Elmo wouldn’t build any wall. Besides (there it goes, a word you love) how great wouldn’t the world be, if our biggest fear was a big blue furry monster who eats cookies? I wish the world was made out of your little hands drawing a picture. Reuby, you are the best thing I’ve ever heard saying avocado and hating potatoes. With you and the million rocks you pick on the floor to wash and take care of, I’ve learned so much about choosing which ugly things we will turn into something beautiful. Ruby Buby, you always have so much to say about anything alive... and sometimes your little head, that I love to smell after the five thirty shower, sometimes this head, can’t even follow all of this you need to express. To see you trying is my favorite thing to watch. I want you to know you woke up the best part of me. The part that can still pretend we are nothing but butterflies, flying through the lobby as fast as we can, so we can catch the elevator first, to have a chance to press the button ourselves, because that is independency–– pressing the button ourselves even though it’s always going to the same place, is independency too. This reminds me of how good it is to, at least pretend we have some control over things. I like to think imaginations like yours will save future souls and trees. Rub-bub, when you look at me through your goggles before swimming lessons, and you wish me a good time watching you swim, then adds “be safe!” I know it’s because you want me to wish and tell you the same. This is my every-thursday-reminder that, if we wanna hear something we must say it first. Bubs, I love you one of the best loves I’ve ever felt. The one that’s proud of your scissoring skills, even when along with peeled crayons and million pieces of paper all over the floor. My dear boy, I don’t even think you should be around the many insane things I’ll write throughout my life. However, whenever I try to describe a pure feeling, I need to make sure a part of my love for you is going to be present. I speak my heart out now, because you are a huge part of it. Reuben, I love you and I wish I could write this thirty times. Even though I  think this phrase hasn’t been very original lately, I do need to have this written. It’s to make sure that when the time comes for you to reach the bookshelf, you can read this one yourself. Then you’ll know how much you still are important to me. And to everyone that ever gets the luck of being around you. If you are reading this now: hello, Reuben! Or I should say: Oi, Reuben! I love you every single day.”

I Know a Woman Who Was Born Twice In a City She Wasn't Born In | Chronicles Of The Young Immigrant Women

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The year is 1935 and a ship just anchored in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. Three Italian ladies in their dirty dresses and tight shoes are setting foot in their new life. They're 21, 15 and 12 years old respectively. Their parents found a spot for them to escape the war and I still don't know the reason why the family didn't come together. Later on, and Freud will explain it better than I, this had a tremendous impact in the way my dad was raised. "Italy invaded Ethiopia!" they heard an Italian man scream in melancholic excitement, as they walked down the ramp. The girls were tired of hearing about Mussolini, the sound of his name reminded hunger and fear so they decided not to hear any more news about their land. Besides the pain of being an immigrant in the land of Getúlio Vargas, the girls grew up to be happy, funky and free. Don't ask me how they ended up marrying military men, I'm trying hard not to mention Freud again. Long-short story, the fifteen year old girl became my dad's mom and then my grandma. I didn't have the chance to meet her or hear her stories or complain about the back problems my dad and I got from her. The rumors are that she wrote poetry. So did my dad. I guess writing is the only good thing running in my Italian blood, because unfortunately all the health problems I have came from that ship. I'm glad having disproportionate boobs and back pain is not the only thing we had in common. Grandma died young in a breast reduction surgery. My mom decided to reveal this little secret when I decided I would do one myself. By the way, my mom didn't get along with my dad's family and for that I don't know a lot. In a way is good–– I can create my own version of the story, like I did in the first paragraph. When I was little I was secretly obsessed with my dead grandma, I had a doll that looked like an old lady and I gave it her name. I'd sleep with it every night until my dad died too. My grandma's older sister, a very talented artist, also died very young. My siblings and I shared the room where we hung the crying Italian Pierrot she painted and dedicated to her sisters. My mom always thought it was too much of a sad picture to be in our wall, yet she never took it down. My grandma's youngest sister is the closest to us. She was the one who embraced the Brazilian culture the most. Yet, she didn't give up on her two Italian last names like her sisters did. Her cucina is no mama mia! It's still Rome, but during carnival. She comfortably lives in Copacabana and refuses to move out. Never tell sad stories and curses like the true carioca that she is. Whenever she talks about her sisters, it's always to make them look like the best women in the world. She was like my dad's second mom and "loved him more than her own son" in his words. Burying my dad was extremely hard for her, it's been 11 years and still every time we talk about him, she cries with a smile. My siblings and I don't see her as much as we would like to. I remember the first Christmas we spent together after a while; the same night we figured she lost some hearing; she bursted into tears while looking at my sister's face. Aunt grandma couldn't stop screaming while measuring her nose and eyebrows. It's because my sister was basically born from my dad's spit, all of my mom's work doesn't even show. I miss that night, even the part when we spent 25 minutes at the door waiting for her to come open, as she couldn't hear the knock or our desperate calls. Just because (or specially because) of her excitement when she finally let us in, like that was our first attempt. I haven't seen her in a long time. The last time we talked was on facetime, when my aunt (my dad's sister) died. "I keep burying everyone!" she said and chuckled. Two weeks ago I learned that she contracted the COVID. Italy's collapsing and my first thought is: "she will died with the country she was born in." Immediately I decided to write this and use my thought as the title of this chronicle, in an attempt to get rid of the guilt I was feeling for not being there. But here I am, happy to be editing the last paragraph right now. It's with relief that I delete my goodbye words as she is strongly recovering. I can end this saying she got sick with the country she was born in, but in 1935, Rio de Janeiro gave her the magical power of living. It will be really hard to take Ilse Romano out of Copacabana.

Ode to The Time I Was Right About Our Existence | Chronicles Of The Young Immigrant Women

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When I was a little girl, I used to say my dream job was to be retired. I remember my Mom said it was impossible because this isn't a career or something that you go to college for. My Dad didn't say anything. Because he was already dead. It would be really weird if I had a memory of him saying anything about it. Anyways, I had arguments and I could convince anyone that this was my real vocation. "You don't know what you're talking about, my Grandpa is." Boom. They're done.  But with time I've realized I needed a better and more stable plan for my future.

By the age of 13 I decided I was going to be a millionaire. Because in my head there were only two things I was capable of doing: nothing and destroying society. Yes, I was a very happy teenager, thank you very much. Everything changed that night when all of my friends were smoking pot and Lucas told me to give it a try. I've realized I didn't need that much money to be happy. I basically just needed a few bucks and a garden. And if you're thinking that I have changed my mind about that: you're completely right.

I have no skills for gardening. However, by looking for people that do have skills and a garden, I've gained one more ability: networking. Throughout my childhood I always did art. That funny little artsy kid that will paint your wall and draw you as a dinosaur with three eyes then give a TED Talk about it, was me. I was either impersonating people or grabbing my siblings by the hair to make them my puppets. But acting, singing, playing guitar and especially writing, wasn't a plan for me, I thought they were just part of my story.

I don't remember the exact moment I decided to accept that being an artist was the only thing I could do, but I remember clearly that people would try to convince me to go back to plan A: retirement. Deciding to live my life as an artist I was also giving up on plan B: having a paycheck. To make things a little easier for myself, I decided to immigrate. Why not? Like it wasn't difficult enough to make it in my own language and culture.

For a long time in New York, I could only put in practice the plan C: smoking weed. I did everything but the plan D: to live as an artist. Gladly, I've realized in the very first few months that I would be an artist regardless of how my life goes. I had to agree with myself from the past: it's a part of me. At length, I don't have any plans. And that's not because of a beautiful realization; though I have lots of them; and you should know plan C became a lifestyle; it's because of… the pandemic. Hell yeah, I know you thought you were finally reading a 2020 chronicle that didn't mention the quarantine. The truth is, I'm only writing this to say the entire world is doing exactly what I thought my future could be. Right now, we are learning how we are supposed to be doing absolutely nothing, society is being destroyed by us, all we can think about is getting high and suddenly everyone thinks they can live a life as an artist. I was right this whole time.