Best son. Better son 

Who doesn’t like dogs? Why do these people exist? 

Don’t trust people who don’t like dogs. A wise woman once said this. 

Dogs are love, loyalty and kindness. Dogs are everything. 

My little son knows when to dance. Knows when to be a couch potatoe. Knows when to go to bed. Yes, he’s able to cover himself and go to bed at a respectable hour. Can your son do that?

Bolder. Stronger.  Member. 

Yesterday, I signed up for membership with the climbing gym. After a year of thinking about it, it’s finally done. 

It’s become a new place of sanctuary for me. Usually dope music on the speakers. A space where my bestie and I encourage and challenge each other. A space where we can speak in Spanish and for the most part, we have secret conversations. A place that isn’t too far away from our favorite pizza joint. Showers. A sauna. A small weight gym. Yoga classes. 

Yeah.. goodbye world! Ok, fine. I’ll take office hours Tuesdays and Thursdays between 3pm-6pm. 

New me. Nah. 

Yesterday, I finally got clip-in shoes for my road bike. Pearly whites that say: I’m grown up. I’m a serious cyclist now. I’m a cyclist. Officially elite. Elitist. A new class. I’m moving on up. Let’s do this Weezy! I’m concerned. I’m not ready to leave behind so much of myself. Can I still be a badass Latina? 

First, I let go of my single speed for a road bike with gears. Then, I got shoe baskets for my pedals. Now I’m clipping in?

I felt grounded on the single speed. Literally. It was heavy. It was truly my taste and feel. Matte black and bright purple. Now I ride a temperamental bitch. I don’t trust her. She likes a heavy hand and I don’t like putting extra effort into her. She doesn’t know me. I don’t know her. She’s the JLO to my Mimi. 

It’s bad enough that I’m a Whitina on the Westside. We’re paying lots in rent. We visit the ocean. We surf in it. We swim in it. Now, I’m clipping. I’m the enemy. I guess the timing is right. 

My Dad is an ambulance mechanic. He’s basically been one my entire life. He started with Goodhew. It was a great experience for him. And he made it clear that AMR was the competition. They were a strong corporation. They were the contrarios. Well, guess who started working for them in 2017? My Pops! Don’t fire him. He’s cool. Times change. He’s the one who is really moving up. 

I’m now the jerk in a rainbow sea of people who think they are better than everyone else. My gear combined can now equal some peoples monthly rent. How can I compete in White sports without feeling guilt?

The triathlon was another uncomfortable sport. I signed up because I could. I signed up because: hey, I’m an athlete. I can do this. But there is no therapy for being the Other at clinics and training sessions. 

But really. This isn’t new. New year, new me. Nope! This is what it means to be First Generation. Taking calculated risks. Learning new skills. Trying new hobbies. Going where our parents haven’t gone. Confusing them. Making them proud. And living happily. 

Lower Classy. Watch it. 

Yes, I wasn’t paying full attention when the panel was introduced for the Gender discussion. But from what I heard, El Pollo Loco is being intencional about hiring trans employees. At least in the Western region of the United States?

I’ve always been down with grilled chicken. But now I will see one and go out of my way to get SOMETHING. 

Cristela Alonzo’s Netflix comedy special was gold. Pure gold. And because someone I know mentioned they started it and didn’t finish it, I was skeptical. Who starts a comedy special and pauses it? Must have sucked. Right?

Cristela is honest. Her stand up is built upon truths of living in the United States. She further explained; no, she wasn’t born here. But yes, as a first gen, her family unit shared the immigrant experience. 

I won’t ruin too much. Let’s just say I’m ahead of the game by already competing in a Triathalon race.   What what!

Lower Classy. Cristela Alonzo. Netflix. You’re welcome. 

Sabor de mi tierra natal. 

Let’s eat more El Pollo Loco. 

I attended a gender discussion at FOX! From what I heard, I’m inspired. I’m pumped. It’s too late to put into words now. I need to wake up, get the bike ready, drive to Long Beach and bike 30+ miles. Lifecycle training. 

We will try to have El Pollo Loco afterwards! Matt always liked them. Now. We have more of a reason to eat there weekly! Happy Husband. Happy life. No. Not even close. 

Boxer. 

We certainly do create our own boxes. One of mine is the title of this blog. 

Whitina. White Latina. It’s true. I’m not an Afro-Latina. I’m a guerrita. Puro Chiquimula. And it’s layered. My Dad’s side comes from the mountains. But only Ancestery.com can tell me how much of me is a Colonizer. How much of me is Native? My best friend is Oxacan. Maybe we are cousins?

First generation. Guatemalan American. Today I quoted the Hamilton soundtrack. Immigrants, we get the job done. And I shouldn’t have been surprised to be told that I wasn’t an immigrant. Technically no. I did not immigrate. My parents did. With documentation and without. But culturally, how can someone else measure it? I’ve measured. We are a family unit. We are immigrants and first generation. We went through the immigrant experience together.  

  • When I asked for permission/ explained the concept of a sleepover. You have a bed here. Why do you want to sleep on the living room floor at your friend’s house? 
  • Whenever I heard my Dad speak in English with us versus how he spoke when someone White was present. 
  • When friends came over and my mom asked me a question– they asked, what did she say? And I’m like, you didn’t hear her?
  • When I finally realized Sundays at church was the only time my parents got to speak Spanish with other adults. Their only friends. Their only friends. Their only community outside our family unit. Long distance calls were expenses we couldn’t afford. 

Female. Lady. Womyn. Yep. Not a man. 

Californian. Born in Los Angeles. Done. 

Done with boxes for today. 

Going away. 

The days are counting themselves down. 

I’m hopeful and helpless. I’m ready for change and reminded of the uncertainty ahead. 

Student loans never seem to go away. It’s putting the pressure on us. Can I be picky and follow my dream? Am I really OK with walking away from a 401K? Will Trump go away? I heard that question voiced out loud. Marching didn’t make him go away. Wearing a safety pin didn’t create a safe space or stop any kind of immigration ban. I feel that all of that was for yourselves. Yes, you. 

I recently made the mistake of fb stalking people from my hometown. I see privilege. And I know that engaging would be stupid. Very stupid. So instead, I simply unfollow. 

This is why I get such anxiety every time my mom wants to go to Target. Target. It’s just fucking Target. But from the car to the front doors, I already spot two people I recognize and pray they don’t recognize me. But I look the same. I should have hit the pipe a little harder. 

Every day is a day closer to death. Every day is an opportunity to be better than yesterday. My short countdown is a reminder of my value. Countdown. Here we go!