friday in seattle

I used to pride myself on being able to blend in well. I'm pretty intuitive and can navigate new with an innate sense of cautious yet curious direction. I've been mistaken as French/Dutch/Italian/Turkish in the corresponding country that I entered seamlessly with my American passport. What I haven't regularly recognized, is that this natural skill is actually a privilege I happened to be born with. Perhaps I learned to understand its utility while socializing with "white" kids on the playground or taking summer leadership courses with those who hadn't gotten full scholarships to do so, but I played no part in acquiring my light-to-medium skin or soft brown hair or relatively slender figure; I did not choose to be born into a religion that doesn't inform my daily wear; I had no control over the fact that my parents' cells combined, aligned, and duplicated "normally" nor that I ended up having crushes on boys, not girls. Besides the fact that I'm clearly a woman, I'm conveniently able to hide most markers of identity (difference) that some might consider less than.

The morning after the 2016 election, I flew up to Seattle for work. Two days following, Leslie joined. We walked through Olympic Sculpture Park to the Elliot Bay Trail. We—the daughter of a Mexican immigrant, the grandchild of Jewish refugees—were perfectly safe and thoroughly devastated. Nearly every signature coming out of the White House this past week has validated our response then.

Yesterday, the ACLU won a case to issue "an emergency stay", halting deportations under the President's executive order to ban entry to the U.S. from seven predominately-Muslim countries. The simplified rationale: sending these immigrants back could cause them "irreparable harm". Although hope is not lost, there are still so many reasons to be horrified. Screw blending in.

• Exercise your right to protest.
• Confirm your solidarity with refugees.
• Pledge once, twice, monthly to the ACLU.
• Learn more about Islam, and declare yourself a Muslim ally.
• Volunteer your multilingual skills to those defending immigrant rights at airports now.
• Also...become a better news-reader.
• Write a letter to the Army Corps by February 20th as they prepare an Environmental Impact Statement against #DAPL.
• Call your local Congress(wo)man at 202-224-3121 to urge a NO vote on HR7, support for the Global HER Act, and opposition against President Trump's most controversial cabinet nominees.
• Support the International Consortium of Investigative Journalists.
• Remain informed and continue to take action.

beautiful british columbia

I'd heard Vancouver is beautiful. I was also told it's expensive, with one of the best qualities of living; that many of its residents are active; that it's home to an outstanding number of cultures, ethnicities, and languages, as well as a visible socioeconomic divide. But, having only ever been to Montreal and Toronto, I still wasn't quite sure what to expect from Canada's westernmost seaport city.

So let me tell you, it is beautiful—and not just because the clouds hang artfully across the not-so-distant mountains and the air is deliciously fresh and the trees are just beginning to change and the water shines clear and bright in the sun; though I did get exceptionally lucky with the weather. My personal experience in Vancouver was made beautiful by the warmth and generosity of the community I'd flown there to work with; a religious organization that raised ~250k to provide care and opportunity for thousands of people they'll likely never meet who've been placed under inconceivable circumstances. A definitive hell yes for humanity.

And if the festival weren't awe-inspiring enough, I also received a great deal of kindness; like the woman who treated me to gelato after she overheard the cashier apologizing that they didn't accept US debit; or the elderly couple with whom I exchanged stories, who remarked at my "beautiful Spanish last name"; or the bartender who made me feel at ease in her Saturday local bar scene; or the airbnb host who gave me ferry tickets to explore the city by waterway; or the places and friends the darling Gillian directed me to.

I enjoyed my time in Vancouver immensely. There's an incomparable sincerity and calmness to the beauty I came to know there; one that isn't acknowledged enough in the daily grind of our stresses and responsibilities. It feels silly—naive even—to say that I crave this kind of evidence, proof that there's goodness in people and strength in our connection to one another and considerable potential in the impact we can have on the world; and yet, to be perfectly honest, I still do. Forever grateful for this past weekend.

a love letter to boston

Is it possible to have grown up in a city without ever having lived there?

I dreamt of Boston as a kid; I'd own a narrow brick home, Federalist style, filled with books and hope and a butler. And just when the loss of childhood logic revealed that "not all residents live as the mother from the 1961 Parent Trap did", my family vacationed there. It was a good one. We went on a duck tour, and my brother got to drive the boat, and the captain didn't even mind he was too young to do so. Later, my 8th grade class visited for American history's sake—our alternative to the traditional D.C. trip, since 9/11 had just happened. And soon enough, I'd decided I would go to college in Boston. I toured its universities more than once—the first time with my sister, my mom, her best friend and son. I told Chrissie of a memory I have from then: of my mom sitting next to my Aunt Donna on the T, singing some song from the '80s louder than any one ever should on public transportation; my sister and I laughing; Ryan inching away. And another time, with the college prep summer program I'd begged by parents to send me to. I marveled at a Mississippi boy marvel at hiking gear in Harvard Square, between campus tours. I considered what my future might look like. And though I was not then offered a spot in Boston College's Class of 2010, I spent a secret wonderful weekend nearby with a boy I'd soon fall in love as an undergrad at Syracuse University. Once graduated, heart broken, I would escape from the painful what-should-be that hung in the New York air. I'd be reminded of all that I was and had been. I had friends who lived in Boston then. I still do in fact.

I'd nearly forgotten these stories of such significance, until this past weekend, visting Chrissie. She just moved to Boston for grad school. We walked through nearly every neighborhood and drank too much wine and had all the teary heart-to-hearts. It was perfect.

je préfére

I wonder, sometimes, if and how we're predisposed to preferences.

I love the hustle and bustle of New York, but that's probably because it's the city I first knew, and I knew it as the city; not to mention that the commotion reminds me of my childhood home, what with the nature of my parents' careers and social lives. I love the melodic elegance of the French language, but so does my Colombian grandmother, as she's repeatedly told me; and much of the whole wide world has a reverence for Paris, however imagined or misguided. But I didn't expect to love the cultural landscape of Los Angeles.

En fait, I'd hardly known one existed... and I'd be grateful if you could please excuse such a truth. This is a place to become. There's freedom in the space, in the undefinedness, in the beautiful excess of palms and bougainvillea across miles of unruly concrete.

Then again, this is also a place to drown--overlooked, forgotten--in the oppressive sunshine that blurs months into empty "nice days".

Do I love L.A.? Not quite, though I do really like it. I'd like to stay, too, for the right reasons. And leave when a move is due.

Recently, as I was commuting with TED Radio Hour on Identities, it occurred to me that after "what do you do?" and "what are you?" (a careless and annoying way to inquire about race/ethnicity), the most common question exchanged when meeting new people is "where are you from?" Too often I refer to myself as a "New Yorker in L.A. by way of Paris". A true response that reveals so little.

To be fair, declarations of identity tend to be oversimplified that way. And I'm only just beginning to understand the nitty gritty of myself. Thus these thoughts with these photos.

cycling along the canals

I had one full day in Amsterdam, and very little planned. Marie (being Marie) had more musts in mind; first and foremost: rent bicycles.

Bonne idée ! And yet, first and foremost we breakfast-ed. We set out for coffee bru--which happened to be closed for construction, but (lucky for us) had set a little mobile stand outside serving caffeine and sugar coffee, tea, and cakes. Then we rented bikes.

We (read: I) haphazardly rode east until coming across a neighborhood market that constituted a quick stop. You should've seen how I struggled with my bike lock. Many onlookers did. But, it was worth it for the chance to mingle with locals and drop into cute shops like this one. From then on, I got "it." What a lovely Dutch way to soak up the scenic city streets and canals! It was also a convenient way to get to the Van Gogh Museum, where we had planned to meet Jorgie and Lorelei.

Marie and Charlotte chose to spend their afternoon in the museums. Jorgie, Lorelei, and I decided otherwise; it was just too gosh darn beautiful out. We enjoyed a food cart-lunch before Vondelpark, where my brother's soon-to-be classmates would picnic. After hellos, Lorelei and I continued on to an outdoor exhibition. It was perfect--the sun, the art, and quality time with my dear friend.

As the sun fell, Lorelei and I shared a quick glass of rosé with my brother and the other fresh new master's students. We felt a happy-nostalgia in their company. We also came up with a plan for the night: rent another bike, freshen up at my airbnb, and finally, meet Jorgie at Campo de' Fiori for a nice, care-free "ciao for now" dinner. After all that walking and cycling, we were ready to feast.

And feast we did! We laughed, and drank too much wine, and filled ourselves to the brim with bruschetta, and pasta, and tiramisu. Special because it'd been shared with Jorgie and Lorelei, the meal made for the most wonderful 3-hour parting with Amsterdam.

My brave brother and I exchanged a short but sweet goodbye. Lorelei and I went for one last Dutch beer at a nondescript pub. Before long, she left to catch a train to The Hague while I waited for Charlotte and Marie to meet me. The three of us rode back in the rain, eventually. I hadn't had any hopes or expectations for that one full day, but holy crap, how my cup runneth over.