I'm falling in love with my ex all over again

When I describe what it feels like to be back in New York City after having lived in Madrid the past four years I say it's like reuniting with your ex; you feel like you know this person and yet things have definitely changed.

Last night, while I was waiting for the J train at the Myrtle stop, I got into a convo with two MTA employees that were watching me on the platform. I just finished my torta and was looking for a trash can when they asked me what I was looking for. After pointing me in the right direction, it was down the stairs by the turnstiles, I came back upstairs.

"Hey, do you mind if we ask you something? We have kind of a debate going."
"Sure, shoot."
"We wanna know if you're from New York or not."
"I am, I was born and raised in Queens, Jamaica. Wanna see my ID?"
"Nah nah nah, I believe you, it's just that you went really far to throw out your garbage and I was saying that if you were from NY you would just throw it out anywhere."
"Well, I went to throw it out because it's the right thing to do, I'm not gonna litter knowing there's a garbage can, it's no biggie, it's not like it's mad far."
"Oh, you said 'mad', you are from NY, haha, but we thought you went to the Popeye's to throw it out."

We talked a bit more about this and that and not long after the train came. I shook their hands, wished them a good night and was off on my way home.

As I sat on that J I started to reflect on what just happened. It's true that I'm a native New Yorker, I am and I always will be. I'm more than that, though. I'm also a madrileño, I'm also European in some ways, I'm no longer just a New Yorker. I'm something else, a hybrid, a product of the experiences I've had abroad.

As I walk around my city now I marvel anew and at the same time know her well, I know her intimately. I'm a native and a foreigner... and that's just fine.

Why the hyphen?

I am Salvadoran-American. I am neither entirely one nor the other, I've noticed this time and again living abroad. It's a dichotomy that I've lived with all my life and, in this post-Trump world, I'd like to celebrate it. 

My first language is Spanish. Until the age of five I spoke nothing but Spanish and when I began school I was placed in an ESL program for kindergarten and first grade. I really loved those first two years of school at PS 182 in Jamaica with Ms Rodriguez. Early on there was a boy that was picking on me and she told me, "if someone hits you, you hit them back twice, if someone kicks you, you kick them back twice, don't let anyone take advantage of you". Those words stuck with me and, though I'm a pacifist, I recognize her good intentions. She was also the one that recognized that I needed glasses because I was having trouble seeing the board during class. 

I also really liked that, even though we were learning English, the program didn't reject our Hispanic roots and we also learned Spanish vocabulary in class. At home, I would watch TV in Spanish, my favorites were Chespiritu and Carusel. I also watched Sábado Gigante with my folks on Saturdays and had to tolerate my mom's novelas.

At home, being Latino was and continues to be an intrinsic part of me. I couldn't live without pupusas, beans and rice are staples and I'm a domino fiend. Living abroad in Spain I finally got the opportunity to hone my Spanish and now I'm capable of not only speaking fluidly but also thinking in Spanish. 

It wasn't always peaches and crema, though. 

At some point during my teen years I had a bit of a crisis. I rejected my heritage and wanted nothing to do with it. My parents would speak to me in Spanish and I'd respond in English. I would trade homemade food for fast food almost on a daily basis; the cashier at Wendy's recognized me and even offered to make me homemade food one day. 

Growing up in a rough neighborhood, and to overprotective parents, meant that I spent a great deal of time at home watching TV. I watched hours and hours of TV. I've watched complete series, Empty Nest, Golden Girls, Seinfeld, Saved By The Bell, The X-Files, Hercules, Xena and the list goes on. As a result my accent is an amalgam of accents and doesn't truly reflect my hometown. 

In my late teens it all started to make sense, however. I met many more Latin-Americans like me, kids born to central- and south-American immigrants who also yearned to find a niche in the American patchwork. Kids who spoke Spanish with their parents and Spanglish with me. 

When I first came to Spain the first thing I did was look for a Salvadoran restaurant. Whenever I made breakfast it was almost always an American one, two eggs and toast, the eggs with ketchup and jalapeños, of course. I can make pupusas and Philly cheesesteaks from scratch. Sometimes I make fresh Salvadoran tortillas and beans to go with it. My favorite cheese is Salvadoran, queso duro, though I do miss American cheese and American heros, bocadillos pale in comparison. 

It was difficult adapting to life in Spain, adapting to their customs, but three and half years on I've come to love European life. This morning I ate at the bar out front, had toast with salt, olive oil and tomato spread. I'm a huge fan of the tapa and the caña, a tiny glass of beer, and can spend hours at a bar placidly having both. 

The thing is, here I'm more Latino than American because of the way I speak Spanish. I refuse to change the way I speak, refuse to adopt the vosotros, and see it simply as unnecessary, like if I were to live in the UK and all of sudden began speaking with an English accent. The consequences of my choice sometimes reflects in my treatment by spaniards, Americans are held in high esteem whereas Latin-Americans are regarded as an underclass. I often can see this paradox, many people don't know how to treat me or how they want to treat me and it's this conflict that I've had to live with my whole life. 

I'm American as flan. As Salvadoran as ketchup on my eggs. I use "vos" with my family and curse like a sailor after a few drinks, the ghetto boy from Queens, NY is never far behind. When I stub my toe I yell, "coño", but my preferred language, in many ways, will always be English. And I think that dichotomy's quite all right, it's as American as pizza and hamburgers. 

"Lo llevas en la sangre"

Yo bailo salsa. Me encanta. Tomó clases dos veces a la semana, salgo con los salseros a menudo, cuando coincidimos, y escucho salsa en casa porque me gusta. 

Anoche tomé una clase de salsa que era fuera de lo normal en una escuela de danza. Era un intercambio y como siempre, al hablar con una de los asistentes al evento, me comentan "a pues como eres latino tú lo llevas en la sangre, no?". Es decir, el hecho que sea latino automáticamente significa que puedo bailar salsa y otros bailes latinos. Incorrecto. 

Te cuento mi historia. A la edad de 13, por ahí, me di cuenta que las chicas les encanta chicos que pueden bailar. Yo no tenía ritmo, nada de nada, y era incapaz de seguir cualquier ritmo, aún con el merengue (que se supone que es el más fácil de los ritmos latinos). 

Mi mejor amigo, Jason, se empeñó para enseñarme cómo bailar porque Jason, aún a esa edad, ya era un crack con el tema. Empezó con tocar música y intentar encontrar el ritmo básico, algo que se me escapaba. Pasamos horas así, el tocando música y yo dando palmadas donde pensaba que caía el ritmo. 

Le pedí a una prima, Margarita, la esposa de mi primo Mario, que me enseñara como bailar también. Ella me enseñó merengue, bachata y un poco de salsa y mostró mucha paciencia, que en esa época pisaba, no bailaba. 

Pasaron años y tuve muchas y muchos profes; Blanca que me enseñó en los bailes del instituto, tambien hubo una chica brasileña de un campamento en Rochester. Conocí más a la vergüenza que la gloria y conté con la paciencia de mis parejas. 

Luego, a los veinte y pico, mi amigo Leo, uno de mis mejores amigos, empezó a tomar clases de salsa en línea. El me contaba, "vente a las clases, te gustarían, aprendes mucho y hay muchas pibas!". No le hice caso. Todos nuestros amigos en común fueron a las clases, todos se volvieron en cracks o al menos podían bailar bastante bien. Al ser cabezón, no les hice caso. Pasaron años. 

Un día, después de haber intentado de aprender de forma auto-didáctica por muchos años, decidí tomar clases. Al fin me entregué a la locura de los demás, es que lo de seguir a los demás lo llevo fatal. 

He tomado clases con Piel Canela, con Lorenz y sigo tomando clases aquí en Madrid, en la Tabacalera y en la Traba. Sigo mejorando, poquito a poco, gracias a los profes que ofrecen su conocimiento y las parejas que me toleran. Y sigo mejorando, pero sin tener esa base no podría entender el baile como lo entiendo ahora. 

Así que por ser latino o por escuchar la música en mi entorno no me han ayudado llegar a este punto. Y tampoco es porque lo "llevo en la sangre". 

My salsa teacher is English, and?

A couple weekends ago I went to a house party. At the house party I was chatting with some Latin Americans and mentioned that Ian, who was having a bit of difficulty with cumbia, I think, was my salsa teacher. Their reaction? An incredulous, "Hiiiiiimmmmm?!", which was followed by giggles. 

Why did it surprise them? Was it because he was having difficulties with another Latin dance? Perhaps because he doesn't "move his hips enough"? Or was it the obvious reason, because he's not Latin American? 

It's not the first time I've come across this, not the first time I've heard criticisms of him. Let me say this first, Ian volunteers his time, he's not paid to teach, doesn't make a dime off it and doesn't teach for a living. He's a computer programmer. He began teaching because in our collective, which is self-run by the collective through assemblies that we hold, the then teacher left and no one stepped up to teach. He did. A big fucking E for Effort. 

Secondly, who are we to judge? Who says that salsa needs to be taught by a Latin person? Sure, there are nuances, there are cultural elements that perhaps a Latin person may provide but the reality is we live in an increasingly globalized society. Borders are lines in the sand that can be traversed with the click of a mouse. And it's dance, that art form that regardless of where you come from, where you live, if you can dance you can dance. One of my closest friends back home, Leo, is one of the most phenomenal salsa dancers I've ever seen and he's Filipino. And learned by taking classes. 

I understand where the possessive nature of the argument comes from, however. As a New Yorker I sometimes think that "pure" Hip Hop should have a New York sound. I give preference to NYC MC's. Southern rappers, rappers from just about any other locality, need to be vetted first. Why? There's this idea that your origins will influence who you are and how you do things. There's also another axiom: it's not where you're from, it's where you're at. 

I get where the argument comes from, the sentiment, but the fact of the matter is this: if someone does something better than you and can teach you that shouldn't that be more valued than where they're from? 

Inspired by William Carlos Williams

Tortilla de Patatas

I made a tortilla de patatas and left it out on the counter to share with my roommates, they took a piece larger than I imagined

Would you rather...

Bulls, prior to their bloody, violent death, are treated like kings. Knowing that you'd meet such a torturous death, yet live an otherwise idyllic life, would you choose it?

I got on this topic during the beginning of one of my classes when we discuss just about anything. This time we got on the topic of Barcelona's historic come-from-behind win over PSG which prompted my other student, Lore, to remark that "those millions of euros wasted on football could be used otherwise". I said that Rome had gladiators to calm the mobs, nowadays it's football and bullfighting. Jesus asked me if I liked bullfighting (corridas in Spanish) to which I replied that I've been to one but that I didn't like it. He seemed unnerved and put off by my response, anxious to explain why it's a good thing. 

One of the points he made was that bulls are treated like royalty their entire lives before meeting their fate in the ring. He said, "I'll probably live 80 years fucked, at least they see some glory". It made me wonder, would I trade this life for that? If I could live the perfect life knowing what awaits me, would I? 

Of course the poor bulls have no clue where they'll end up, they have no choice in the matter, but it is an intriguing debate. 

The other point he made was that if it wasn't for bullfighting there wouldn't be another purpose for growing bulls, something I can neither corroborate nor deny. What I do know is this, I've been to a corrida because I wanted to see firsthand what it was about. I saw 6 bulls perish that night, watched spectators revel in the bloodshed and never once did I flinch. Do I see the point in it? No. 

Would I trade my life for that? Call me stubborn but I do see the value in all the suffering we endure and wouldn't want to see my life diluted by a lack of it, I always say life is just peaks and valleys. It is tempting, though...

How do you become a New Yorker?

You don't. You can feel like a New Yorker, you can live the majority of your life there, let's say, you're a 90 year old grandma and moved there for college, but you won't really be a true New Yorker.

Why? There are certain elements that make New York special, especially in your developmental years. I went to PS 182 for kindergarten through 2nd grade (where two of those years I was in an ESL program). For third grade I went to PS 82, both were in Jamaica, Queens. We moved the summer after third grade to Astoria, a more affluent neighborhood filled with Greeks and Italians, and so I went to PS 84 for fourth through sixth. "PS" stands for "public school" and is only used in NYC. Most other schools around the country name their schools after people, McKinley Elementary School, for example. Junior high I went to JHS 141 and then it was High School of Art & Design. 

What made the schools I went to so unique were the diversity I experienced at such a young age. During fourth grade my best friend was Peruvian and the rest of my friends/classmates were from the Philippines, Montenegro, Poland, Greece, Italy, Puerto Rico, Bangladesh, Ireland, South Korea and Brazil (those are just the ones I remember). Being around kids that were really different culturally from me helped me develop cultural sensitivity and tolerance. 

There are other things too. New York, most people forget and tend to idealize, is pretty dangerous, especially during the 80's. I wasn't allowed out, I couldn't play with the kids on the block, but that doesn't mean that the violence bubbling outside didn't directly affect me. It's the reason I spent so many hours watching tv and movies. The reason my brother had to be smuggled out of our building wrapped in a blanket and driven secretly to Maryland. I remember the graffiti that blanketed the subways, top-to-bottom cars and the interior of the subway cars covered in tags. 

The 90's were marred by the emergence of the Decepticons and later the Bloods and Crips, not to mention more homegrown gangs like DDP (Dominicans Don't Play), Nietas and Latin Kings. During my high school years I found myself visiting friends in every corner of NYC; Williamsburg, LES (the Lower East Side) and Bushwick weren't places you wanted to find yourself in late at night. 

The reason I mention those neighborhoods is because NYC has a lot of universities, hence a lot of transplants, and thus many folks that after a few years call themselves New Yorkers. And many of those folks are my friends, that's why it's a delicate subject in some ways. 

So I come back to my answer and why it's an emphatic no. I live in Madrid now, I've been here for the past three and half years. In my time here I've adapted to the way of life, I eat a typical Spanish breakfast, which is toast topped with salt, olive oil and grated tomato, and know how to order it like a local, "una barrita con tomate y un café con leche fría, porfa". I've adopted the local vernacular, have tapas all the time, know the time to have vermouth and can botellón like nobody's business. Thing is, even though I feel very madrileño, I'll never truly be one. Growing up somewhere molds you, shapes your values, develops certain instincts. Take my approach to strangers, I'd be friendly while remaining suspicious of you until it's clear you're not a threat. That's what New York does to you, it's a trait I'll have my entire life most likely. 

There are other elements too. Think of it in the opposite way, say you're from a small town, like Bar Harbor, Maine. If I move to Bar Harbor and within a few years of living there called myself a... Bar Harborian? would you take me seriously? The fact of the matter is that most folks want to be New Yorkers, or Parisiens or Madrileños, because it's glamorous and recognizable and prob because of Friends. It doesn't work in the opposite direction, however, I don't see a whole lot of folks clamoring to be considered from Fargo. 

And New York ain't that great. I should know, I've lived the first thirty years of my life there. It's infested with rats, roaches and pigeons. It's still fucking dangerous, if you find yourself outside the gentrified zones. The subway is badly run, Chinatown during the summer months smells like an open landfill and it's so goddamn expensive. I may be a cool New Yorker and but take into account that our new Prez is also a New Yawker.

So when people ask you where you're from be proud and say, "I'm from Fargo", because I'll catch you out, anyway.

Inspired by this article in the NY Times:

http://nyti.ms/2hVRB0Z

Kicked Out

So I got kicked out of my apt. 

Saturday evening, as I was preparing my grocery list and skyping with my gf, I get a What's App message from my roommate (anyone who has lived in Spain knows that What's App is king here, you can even use it as a verb). He said in the message that he wanted to have a word, it was important and he wanted to do it over a drink. Bet. 

I didn't have a clue what it was about but I knew it was regarding the flat. I arrived at the Cafe del Teatro, a couple blocks from home, and found him working on his laptop. The cafe was chic yet homely, hipster except for the fact that there weren't hipsters there but local folks. 

We jumped right into it, I didn't have time to dilly dally. 

"Larry, I'm asking you to leave the apt. The reason is because I'm sick of living in the tiniest room in the flat and want one of the larger bedrooms. I know how this goes, I've been kicked out of a place in the past and was given little time so, because of it, I'm giving you a month to find another place." We'll call him Asier, out of respect for his privacy, and he said all this matter-of-factly and once he said it I knew that this was a final decision, not something to be discussed or debated. 

"Tell me the truth, Asier, what's the real reason for kicking me out, be straight with me. If it's a bigger room why are you kicking me out and not one of the other roommates?"

"The main reason is because I want a bigger room... though I won't deny that our prior conflict didn't influence my opinion. We've had our run-ins but that's not the main reason."

"Look, Asier, I'm not gonna mince words, you're fucking me over. You and I had a verbal contract, back in August, that I would stay until the end of June. I wasn't planning on deviating from that and now I have to look for a new place, to me this is coming out of left field. I knew we had our differences but I also thought we'd moved past it."

"Well, the other day I was in my room and you were in the kitchen with a friend when she began to say, 'Is this the same flat where you were arguing with your friend...' and then you cut her off. Well, I heard the whole thing and it really bothered me and I was about to come out of my room and say something but thought better of it."

"You're right about that, that's how it went and I admit that that was silly of her to do but what I told her wasn't shit-talking because I have no problem telling that to your face. Furthermore, Asier, I understand that this is a decision you've taken and I have to simply live with it and move on but I want to be very clear with you: you're fucking me over."

During this convo I was texting on What's App with a friend and simply told her to come meet me there, that way we could both go to the supermarket together (obviously prior to getting hit with this news). When she arrived (and had no clue what our convo was about) she reminded him of the dinner and this guy had the gall to show up. Picture it, you kick someone out and then go to the dinner that they've prepared. I don't blame my friend for her ignorance, she had no clue, but he lacks decency, in my opinion. 

We had a great time at the dinner, I made pollo guisado and platano maduro (comfort food for me, my friend wanted Cuban food and I said, "I can make that at home and it'll be cheaper that way"). I decided that since it was the plan we'd made I wasn't going to let the bad news spoil what could be a great night and so it was. 

He'd given me a month to look for a new flat, and that was the 22nd of January when he told me, but I knew that I wasn't going to use up that month, the goal was to get the hell out as soon as possible. I began looking that Sunday, posting a status on FB letting my friends know that I'm looking for a room and reaching out to them individually but it took its toll. It all came as a shock, especially after I spoke to my other roommates about the matter, they had no clue that he was so unhappy in the situation. They also were upset because in our previous (and sole) roommate meeting he made it clear that even though he was the leaseholder he didn't want to consider himself above us. Making such a unilateral move made it all too clear that they weren't peers anymore and changed the dynamic. 

You're free to make what you want of the situation. Personally, I take this as an affront on two levels. Firstly, on a professional level: we had a verbal agreement that I would stay until the end of June. He broke this agreement and that's unlawful, plain and simple, I can give a shit about his flimsy reasons. Secondly, on a friendship level: you don't do that to your friends. You don't. At least, by making this decision, you make it clear that you're no longer friends. I knew this was the case and I wanted to give him a piece of my mind but I also knew that, just in case he chooses to be vindictive, I need to hold my tongue until I get my security deposit back. 

I searched and searched but to no avail. I sent many messages, I called some of them and went to see some but nothing clicked. Monday the 30th I woke up with a knot in my stomach, I had 48 hours to find a place and none of my friends were able to let me stay with them, well, one did offer his couch and for that I'm grateful. That Monday morning I debated looking for an Airbnb or placing all my efforts on finding a place. The first place that I saw I called and within a half hour I was in her flat checking out the place. It wouldn't normally be my first choice, if I'm going to be honest, but with time running out I had no choice. I decided to lock it up, be done with it and in one fell stroke had gotten a room. 

Once I'd locked up the room, handed in my deposit and gotten the keys I knew it was just a matter of packing and organizing the move. That and getting my deposit back as well as being brutally honest with him regarding what transpired. 

I had been rehearsing for days what I was going to tell him, each time I told a friend my story I would end with what I was dying to tell him and that moment came Thursday afternoon. 

That afternoon he began by asking me if I'd cleaned the bathroom per house rules of cleaning, to which I replied "no". He proceeded to lecture me on why that was one of the reasons why he was kicking me out, that that affects living together and I bit my tongue (because I can give a shit about cleaning this week, I had this tiny thing called moving out of the place I called home for the past 7 months coming up). 

Once that money was in my pocket I let him have it. 

"Listen, Asier, I need to get this off my chest before I leave and I want you to know before I begin that this isn't going to be a conversation or debate, this is a speech and I just want you to listen." 

I reiterated the two points I made above and told him very clearly that "we're not parting ways as friends and that what he did was wrong". Within a couple of minutes I'd made my points and was ready to leave but he also wanted to get something off his chest and, out of courtesy, I listened patiently. He spoke for damn near 10 min, and even threw me a curveball, mentioning that he was going through something and that he thought I'd been passive-agressive (which makes me laugh, I think I'm the last person you could accuse of that, it smelled of the pot calling the kettle black if you ask me) but aside from that it was regurgitated points. After ten min listening to him I cut him off since I still hadn't eaten breakfast and had to head to work. 

As I was eating my croissant and sipping my coffee I was mulling over what happened when I received a What's App message from him. In it he said that perhaps my sense of smell is off and that my room smelled and made a couple other points. Whether that was truly the case or not I thought it a low blow and cowardly, he didn't have the nerve to say it to my face when he had the chance. I was two seconds away from responding but I thought it imprudent, I won't get pulled into a tit for tat. Good riddance. 

As I reflect on my experience there are a few lessons. Living with friends is a dangerous circumstance, it can turn out well or it can end disastrously. I would think long and hard before making such a decision. I do need to be more considerate with my roommates, though it's worth noting that my other two roommates were sad at my leaving and angry with him. I've said it before and I'll say it again, I'm aware of my shortcomings and am always ready to listen to any criticism, no matter how harsh, but I do think where I'm lacking I make up for it in other ways. I should've signed a contract, something, a verbal contract ain't worth shit and now I'm left to pay the price for it. 

Ultimately, I think in the future I'll either live on my own or with my girl, this roommate shit is for the birds.