Warriors

There are a few people I have picked out to be my own personal warriors. I look up to these people and use them as examples of who I’d like to be someday. They are all fictional. Fictional characters just will never let you down. They can’t. That’s what makes them perfect idols. Here they are.

4. Leon Scott Kennedy: It’s not just the jacket. Here is a man who is a ball of blonde, muscular fearlessness. A strong warrior who jumps into action. There are plenty of people who do the right thing but Leon does the right thing even at the risk of treason. He always knows what the right thing is, too. No questions asked. No one can mock him because he has more important things to think about than the petty issues of other people. He doesn’t need anybody but he is willing to face, in its simplicity, a zombie virus to save the whole world, with or without glory. He’s a Lone Ranger of sorts, except when he needs fancy gadgets. The police department was holding him back with all their rules and red tape. He is devoted to one love, but we all know that’s never going to happen. Ada is awesome but she’s narcissistic. Let’s just face it.

3. Jane Eyre: Jane is very simple but powerful. Practical and naive. Self-disciplined and righteous. Everyone hates her for no reason. They just decide to hate her and instead of developing a personality malfunction she just accepts it without harm to her soul. She uses her weaknesses to her advantage. She’s naturally wise and nonjudgmental despite growing up in deep darkness with misery following her everywhere. Jane’s is a story of Beauty and the Beast except in reality where beauty simply means pure and beast means the jerk who loves you but has secrets that nearly killed you that you shouldn’t forgive him for but do anyway because what’s life without drama?

2. Dana Scully: If I could morph into a single person it would be Agent Dana Scully. It’s hard to describe how perfect she is. Dana is the smartest person I know. She is a surgeon and an FBI agent. She saws into dead bodies without so much as a tremor. She has been abducted several times by various assailants from more than one planet and comes back just as amazing as ever. There are no gender barriers for Dana. She doesn’t even worry about being oppressed because she can’t be broken. You can’t break Dana. No one can. There is a calm, wisdom about her. Also, she has a still way of talking. Dana is the perfect human… kind of.

1. Sherlock Holmes: Sherlock is not perfect. He’s amazing. And I’m talking about Doyle’s Holmes. Not any of the ones you’ve seen on T.V.  What I like most about him is that he doesn’t waste time. He gets stuff done. He doesn’t let other people tell him what is moral or not. He just does what needs to be done and handles justice case by case rather than an absolute rule for all criminals and victims. Sherlock Holmes is timeless because he’s everything we want to be but can never actually be.

No one told me pregnancy could kill me

No one told me pregnancy could kill me. At least, if they did, I wasn’t listening.

I always knew I wanted to have kids.

That being said, by the time I did get pregnant, I was not excited. Terror flooded me. I cried and cried and cried. It’s one thing to imagine being a parent and another thing to make it a reality.

After the initial shock I just kinda felt…

Nothing.

I was neither excited nor displeased.

Even when I heard his heartbeat for the first time it meant little to me. Same with the second time and the third and so on. I mean, I was happy he was alive, of course. Otherwise, it would have been kind of a hassle.

I had zero connection with the supposed miracle I was growing.

In fact, I was so disconnected that I hardly prepared anything for him.

If I had clothes or diapers or even a crib it was because someone else gave it to me and I had to store it.

I figured I’d just wing it.

I was soon on the cusp of labor.

So far, everything had gone smoothly.

No, it wasn’t like those ads where the hot, pregnant woman has her hands placed over her belly in the shape of a heart as she smiles warmly at the prospect of the perfect child that will magically appear clean and precious in her arms with no effort.

But I had little complaints.

Until the night the little destroyer decided to make me feel something.

That something was death.

But I didn’t know I was dying.

I just thought my stomach was trying to push its way out of my body via my spine.

I went to the hospital in mild to very not mild pain.

I was admitted then doped up.

Then I felt great!

Everyone around me was pale and rubbing my arm.

They held expressions of It’s so sad her husband will be a single father so young.

I understood that I was technically in a bad situation but I felt so chill that it was hard to get on board.

They said I would live as long as I got the baby out of me as soon as possible. But labor wasn’t happening fast enough.

They would need to cut him out.

What?

But first, they needed to give me a blood transfusion.

Wait, what happened?

Unfortunately, there was no blood on hand. They would order it from the hospital across town and have it in an hour.

That seems like kind of a long time.

We will try to get it sooner.

Or I die right here?

Luckily, the blood came in much faster! I now had everything I needed to die on the operating table.

I was awake during the cesarean.

It was unpleasant.

The little murderer was taken away and my husband was sent to look after it.

They left me alone to be stitched up and stapled, yes, literally stapled, closed.

After that, I was hooked to my bed via a catheter.

My baby was wheeled in.

Unlike a baby food commercial, I didn’t really care. I was on some more drugs and the baby didn’t seem real or that it was even mine.

I just thought, Oh neat, a baby.

Sometime between midnight and 3am, someone came in. They explained that the baby wasn’t eating and needed to go into the NICU.

I was like, Oh, okay, sure.

Then I went back to sleep. (But not really because who can even sleep in a hospital bed? Especially when you are awoken every hour by a tech who tries to get normal answers out of you at all hours of the night just after you had been sawed into. “Hey, sorry, I just need to test a couple things. How are you feeling?” What? “Are you in any pain?” Who are you? “Okay, I’ll be back later.”)

The sun eventually came up. I was stuck to my bed. My husband was back and forth between me and our son.

It was clear he loved our son very much.

I was so happy for him.

I still hadn’t really met the kid but I was sure he was cool.

Finally, they cut me loose.

My husband was excited to take me to meet the little explosion.

I hadn’t been out of bed for a few days so I was down for it.

He wheeled me down the hall and into a little hand washing area. We scrubbed our hands raw with soap that, to this day, makes my stomach churn.

We approached the baby’s little room and the nurse helped us unclamp him from his feeding tubes and someone pushed him into my arms.

I looked down at his shockingly itty-bitty face.

I realized that he was more than cool.

He was the best human that existed in any lifetime!

He was him and I didn’t even know who him was but he was, and I loved him.

He was worth loving for no reason; just because.

He could have tried to kill me and I would still love him.

Cultural Divide

My family is pretty white. To give you a point of reference:

My memories started when we lived in Wyoming. Which was pretty white also.

But as a family, we felt we were pretty diverse because my dad spoke Spanish fluently and made tacos for dinner almost more than we had spaghetti.

One fateful day, when I was 8, My parents held a family meeting.

We were informed that we would be moving to New Mexico. My dad was thrilled to the point of kicking his feet with delight. My mom seemed happy in her calm and cautionary way.

I, on the other hand, panicked. Despite feeling comfort in the idealized understanding that I wasn’t racist, I was wary of moving somewhere that English was not the primary language. My parents laughed away my ignorance, explaining that we were not moving to Mexico. That we would still be in the United States. “Their state bird is the roadrunner!” My mom was happy to exclaim as though this would change anything. As though I would be so thrilled at the prospect of a roadrunner that I would jump in the car with my dad’s sombrero atop my tiny head.

Unfortunately, this was my only experience with roadrunners:

“They aren’t big,” my mom said, her lips pursed in the way they get when I demanded proof rather than taking her word for it.

I was unsatisfied.

We moved.

Everything was weirder.

“Where are all the trees?”

“This is the desert.”

“What’s that poky thing? A cactus?”

“No, that’s a tree.”

“I thought this was a desert.”

“There are some trees.”

“Where are the cactus’s?”

“Cacti. They’re those little round things.”

“I thought they were tall.”

“That’s Arizona.”

“... The houses remind me of The Flintstones. I don’t want a flat roof.”

“Our house has a flat roof.”

“...”

“Don’t worry. We are going to get used to everything. There’s a roadrunner!”

It was clear that the Warner Brothers had grossly exaggerated the poor animal. Also, it wasn’t nearly as fast as the cartoon which was, perhaps, a bigger bummer than flat roofs and small cacti.

Over the next few weeks, while my parents tried to get things settled, my sisters and I tried to cope. We went outside to play which, in Wyoming, had been our favorite past time. The first thing we learned was to not take off our shoes. Grass was not your friend. It bit you and stabbed you and kept hidden bombs which I called thistles until I was mocked into calling them by their New Mexican name, stickers.

The next thing we learned was that it was far too hot. The sun hated our mountain-prepped skin.

Playing outside was about as fun as that time my sister and I accidentally stabbed each other with steak knives while emptying the dishwasher. Of course, to console ourselves, we went outside to play in our large yard with soft grass and a row of lilac bushes and honeysuckle.

No Longer.

Once school started I was not thinking about our brown and dead backyard. Nor was I worrying about poky plants or what green chile was. I was terrified of meeting new people from this strange land of nothingness.

I reluctantly entered my classroom which was held in something called a portable. The main school building didn’t have room for all the students so they had little classrooms made out of, what looked to me to be, semi trucks.

I walked into a sea of different shades of brown skin and black hair. I remember being grateful for being a brunette myself. I quickly realized that my favorite Mattel doll, Theresa, was no more Mexican looking than I was.

I stood in the doorway, magnetized to my mother’s sweet leg. The teacher asked for someone to volunteer to show me around and teach me the way of things. Nearly every girl raised her hand. I was not used to that either. In Wyoming when the teacher asked for help the only person who raised their hand was the class suck-up.

I felt a little better; enough to let go of my mom and allow her to go home.

The first week was rough but I was quickly accepted by all.

For 8 or 9 years I was happy. I still missed green plants and community activities that involved my own culture rather than one I was admiring from the outside but, all in all, we were integrating well.

Then tragedy struck.

Loss of health.

Loss of work.

We were forced to move in with family in Utah. For one day I was excited at the prospect of change. The next day I was sobbing until I had a headache.

Everything was hard.

I started school. There was no such thing as a portable. The school was a large, expensive, brick building. I stood in the classroom doorway, staring at a sea of blonde heads and fashion icons.

One girl took it upon herself to take me under her wing. She was nice but we had nothing in common.

Lunch was unusual. The black kids sat with the black kids. The Samoan kids sat with the Samoan kids. The gay kids sat with the gay kids. I wasn’t used to that level of division.

I soon found comfort with the Colombian kid who sat with us. He may never know how much it meant to me to laugh with him. We weren’t close but those few lunches that we got to spend time together will never be forgotten.

I eventually found friends in an obscure group of people who were isolated from others and even each other.

I also got to know my extended family more. They weren’t so bad. (There's one black guy in the bunch. Try to guess which one!)

 

It wasn’t long before we eventually made our way back to New Mexico. Despite their not having the superior cacti, I felt like I was back home.

How I use my imagination to not have to experience my own emotions

I have always lived inside my head. I built a box around my mind and sat inside of it, creepily staring out at people with a pair of super strength binoculars.

Occasionally I have attempted to step outside of myself. It is very refreshing on the outside. Life has potential and ambition. I find myself shedding feelings of doubt and fear.

Unfortunately, I also find myself deeply bored.

On the outside, the sun shines.

In my head, the sun rises over a man lying in a vacant field. He is just waking up with no memory as to how or when he got there nor how there came to be dried blood on his hands and clothes.

See what I did there?

I don’t know at what point I began use fiction like sponges for my own gain. I’ve been making up stories in my head since I was maybe 7 or 8 years old. Eventually, I think it was just a natural progression.

Whatever is going on in my life, I just attach those feelings to someone else so that I don’t have to feel them quite so much.

I’m suffering from a bad cold; cue fictional character in my head to have to sit through an important meeting as he sneezes and coughs, looking oh so silly.

I’m starting a new job in the morning; BAM! character has only moments to live if she doesn’t crack the code before the mysterious caller finishes breakfast.

I have very intense, over-dramatic feelings.

But you wouldn’t always know it because they only exist in my brain.

I use this method to make myself laugh and see how little I have to worry about. If things played out in the worst-case-scenario bit in real life then I know I can always put a character into a much worse situation and they will live through it.

I’m never alone.

I am aware of how crazy and creepy this makes me sound.

I am also aware of how this could backfire on me. Maybe I’m not able to cope. Maybe someday something truly terrible will happen and I will completely shut down and end up in an insane asylum shouting nonsense about peoples who never were.

At least I won’t be bored.