I am a working-class queer Chicana from Texas. I do interdisciplinary work in the fields of feminist studies, queer studies, critical media studies, and the digital humanities. I am acutely aware that I occupy multiple spaces that I was never meant to exist within. I work in an academic institution which was built to visit violences upon people like me -- barring my presence and practicing daily rituals of spirit murder. In some courses, I have had to deal with the microaggressions of my white classmates who say things like, “You just don’t understand what I’m saying!” when I make attempts to confront their racism. In other courses, I have had the opportunity to meet incredible women of color faculty who have helped hold me up and remind me why my presence is an important interruption in these spaces.
In many ways, I am proud to be here, to survive in spite of it all and, sometimes, in spite of myself and my struggle with depression. Here, I feel the comforting weight of my family – of my mother, of my grandmother – on my back, even as a stand upon their shoulders. I have done none of this alone. I am the living result of the communities that have sustained me.
Where am I from?
I am not from Los Angeles. I am reminded of this daily, of my strangeness here. South Texas is home. It feels different. When I speak, I drawl. It often feels as though I am too doe-eyed and open-hearted for this city. Los Angeles fascinates me, but the loneliness I feel here and the individualism that radiates from most people frightens me. I feel displaced, misplaced. I often think, “I will never belong here.” Sometimes, this crushes me. Other times, it is a point of pride. I have no desire to lose my softness, my ability to weep openly and with great love, or my desire to give to others. I know I can build community here, but part of me lacks the emotional strength to do it.
I am overwhelmed by homesickness, by a longing for warmth from other people that is freely given. I come from people who talk to each other in the line at the store. I miss the Spanish, the Spanglish, and the music it makes when it is spoken with a curious southern lilt. I miss living in a community of other working-class people, of people with calloused hands, sturdy calves, and aching backs.
Why am I here?
I laughed when I saw this question because its answer has become a daily affirmation of mine. I am here to work. I am here to do good work. I am here to learn. I am here to learn to be of service to the communities I write about and, eventually, to my communities at home. I am here to finish what I have started, for the sake of myself and for my family.
I spent my spring break utterly paralyzed in depression until an old professor spoke to me and chided me with, “Remember why you’re there.” For a moment, I lost sight of the most basic question, of the most basic reason for my existence. Teaching is, I think, a vocation. I am built for this, for school, and I am built to do this work. I am here, in Los Angeles, to develop and grow so that I can become the best possible teacher and so that I can make a difference in someone's life. If I impact the life of one student, I'll consider myself a success. I am here to see this process through.
Mapped from the place my heart currently is: