La Isla del Encanto

The last time I wrote, I was in a bad place emotionally. To be honest, my base anxiety is still higher but I don't feel quite so hopeless. It was an embarrassing post to write. And as tempted as I was to delete it, I won't. Because I promised myself to use this space to allow the good and the bad to flow. I'm hoping that by not reppressing things, I can gradually turn the tide toward the positive, and develop resilience. I do not wish for an easy life. That feels meaningless to me. Like the cheap dopamine hit of scrolling or eating a sweet that didn't come from my oven. It seems an odd journey. At times I yearn to pour out more and more while feeling disconcerted at baring things here.

But today I hoped to remember more peaceful times in my life. I have lived in the United States for almost 23 years now. I moved here because I thought that the vastness of the country would hide me from myself, and grant me better opportunities on top of that. At the time I dreamt of being a fashion designer. I went to a vocational school during my high school years in Puerto Rico, where I learned art theory, fashion illustration, draping, pattern making, sewing, and embellishment techniques. It was a wonderful era in my life. I know some people don't remember high school fondly, but I was very lucky in that regard. The school seemed to attract students who were diverse but collectively, seemed mature. Perhaps it was the fact that we were learning a trade, or the grade requirements to enter. My fashion teacher was a true mentor, the last one I had in my life. She was demanding but I felt like someone believed in my ability to grow. I think of her often to this day.

I don't often indulge in nostalgia (perhaps because I don't remember a massive amount to be nostalgic about). But my years in Puerto Rico are ones I think of fondly. I moved there when I was 10 years old after my parents separated. My father is not a good man. He married my mother in Puerto Rico (they are both from there and met at a Navy dance), took her to the US away from her family, didn't allow her to get a job, traumatized her into not driving while she was learning to... in short he did what was common back then. Ensure she was a good housewife but wholly dependent on him. He ultimately cheated on her when I was a little girl. He left the house and my jobless mother. She moved to the island to be safe and to have the family support she needed. We moved with my Grandmother and Auntie, and she got a job. It was not a perfect transition of course. I was devastated to leave the US, and Grandma blamed my mom for the divorce. Sometimes I would feel the tension beneath the surface, but in the end, Mom did the wisest thing knowing what resources and skills she had. It was a nice childhood overall. Puerto Rican people value the tribe, which felt sometimes cloying but more often it meant safety. I grew up there in my formative years, with all the drama of being a teen and undiagnosed autism, but I felt like it worked out. I often remember the warm sun, loud music, and boisterous laughter. Mom inviting friends for coffee, neighbors dropping in with a bag of mangoes, or achiote or plátanos for tostones. Walking downtown and eating ice cream from los "helados de los chinos" and dropping by the botánica for some incense and baby Jesus candles because the New Year horoscope claimed that Sagittarius people needed to light those things and wear turquoise on New Year's Eve for a prosperous 1999. Los Rosarios when someone passed. Helping Auntie and Grandma make pasteles that they sold. My job was to toast the banana leaves on the stovetop.

The music!

So much richness. Salsa, merengue, bachata (though when I was a kid bachata was old people's music), plus all the hits from the US. Pop ballads from Italy by Laura Pausini, Nek, Eros Ramazotti. One time a Turkish song charted! "Simarik" by Tarkan.

The one thing I missed was the ubiquity of books. There was no library in my town then. But there was a mall with an American-style bookstore I would go to often and blow my small allowance on. Budgeting was important, so I'd spring for Signet Classics which at the time were $2.99 - $3.50 per book. And thus in the warm sun, I read Mary Shelly, L.M. Montgomerey, Bram Stoker, Kenneth Grahame, Harper Lee, Tolkien. In the end, I was not starved for books, and I was lucky to have had the chance to live in an era with minimal distractions, and at an age where I could devour classic after classic without fretting about a million other diversions and responsibilities.

I think I was very lucky for my childhood in many ways. As if the universe saw where the sadness lay, and tried to heal it with the voices of my Puerto Rican family and friends.