It was a hot May day in central Orlando; I had left the house without putting on deodorant earlier that morning; I was nine years old washing my armpits in the public bathroom and wading through an emotional pool of pure, exquisite shame. My mother stood to my right in the mirror’s reflection, vigorously scrubbing with the cheap neon hand soap. I stared with squinted eyes and scowled with dutiful detestation at her figure. 

Noted. Never leave the house without deodorant. And never, EVER speak to Mami again.

I thrived in 9-year-old naivete for a whole five minutes of silence before promptly realizing I would, in fact, have to speak to my mother again if I wanted her to buy me Dippin’ Dots. 

Ever since the Disney Incident, my relationship with my mom has gone relatively uphill. My mom is my go-to for advice, my confidante and chisme blabber, my favorite cook and raging Ross shopper, my best friend and walking embodiment of home. She has been the mold for how I understand my womanhood. My mother is the woman I aspire to be in all walks of life. 

She’s Dianelys to all besides me and my brother, who adhere faithfully to the trinity of “Ma,” “Mami” or “Moomy.” To me, my mom is caramel frappes from McDonald’s and turquoise blouses. She is her numerous editions of “Les Misérables,” sitting on the garage bookshelf as living artifacts she acquired during her teenage years, her favorite novel and famed piece of literature that she’s begged me to read for years — and thanks to HUMS 366, I finally did! 

My mom is sewing needles and vintage machines, she’s homemade clothes and the cheery yellow sundress she fashioned for me when I was six, she’s the thick glasses that help her thread needles with transition lenses that sometimes help but often overly obscure her rich brown eyes. When I think of my mom, I think of waking up on Saturdays to clean and I think of washing the dishes as I’m cooking and our odysseys to TJ Maxx and unscripted “woops!” and yelps and seemingly endless Facebook scrolling and overused TikTok sounds. 

But I also think of her spurting wisdom, an oracle in her own right—my mom never fails to anticipate my issues, even months before they occur, always with sound advice to follow. I often wonder just how many of my experiences are truly my own, since she seems to have every situation logged in her memory book — that friend, C*******? Yeah, she likes your crush. Your boyfriend, ******? You don’t even like him that much, but it’s okay, we all go through it. 

I don’t know when I stopped asking her about all things practical and shifted toward the more … spicy. Abstract, even. Sure, I remember the trials of my late girlhood, begging her to let me wax my eyebrows and shave my legs at thirteen. These would’ve been blessings for the hairy, Hispanic pubescent girl that I was. I remember asking her if we could drive to Hot Topic or go to the movie theater or how to not wobble in my heels or how to apply lipstick without smudging it all over the place and — oh, how do I use a tampon?

And sure, I still often ask her silly strings of questions and watch her sigh in dumbfoundedness, but now there’s a hazy sense of comfort, of equal understanding in our speech. Our words bob in between the blaring rhythms emanating from the Facebook reels she watches, spanning from neighborhood chatter to questions about love and life and the things I couldn’t understand as a child that I suppose I now have the maturity and experience to know. 

I came to my mom for all the firsts of my girlhood. Besides the natural issues — see tampon above — associated with coming of age, it was in her arms I cried when I broke up with my first boyfriend, when I felt the twinge of betrayal from childhood friends, when I thought my life’s worth depended on my final exams. 

It was also to her I cried when we entered the supermarket and drifted toward the grocery section, and I didn’t know how to explain to anyone else that the Walmart pineapples reminded me of my grandpa’s farm in Cuba, and how I still felt guilty because when we went to visit Cuba in 2016 my grandpa offered me pineapples he grew — widely known to be the sweetest and juiciest pineapples people would ever taste, it was his pride and joy to offer them to his grandchildren — and I refused to try them because I didn’t like pineapples. He looked sad, but he brushed it off. But then I started to feel bad for refusing his offer, but it was too late and we were already eating lunch and I took his kindness for granted and then he lost his farm and now he’s too old and he lives with us and now I’ll never have the chance to try his pineapples again. I recognize that that’s a bit of a stretch, but even through my delirious sobs, my mother sighed gently and held my hand as I finished letting go of my grief. She’s the only person who would understand. 

I admire my mom for her resilience. As I’ve matured, my hazy memories of our first years in the United States have been sharpened by my mother’s recountings. 

It was only recently that I realized she didn’t just work hard during our first few years, she worked 70-hour work weeks receiving scrappy, minimum-wage McDonald’s pay and biking miles each day to get to work and back. Yet, she still managed to bring me and my brother M&M sundaes after every other work shift. 

My mom didn’t just struggle to learn English, she spent hours of her week attending night classes and suffered ridicule from coworkers for her grammatical mistakes. She nearly lost her job for not understanding the dress code; the instructions were in English. 

I also didn’t realize that my mother felt the loneliness I too felt when moving over — this realization was only solidified when — digging through the garage shelves in search of art supplies — I found the hefty bag of years’ worth of letters sent back and forth to Cuba. There were mounds of handwritten letters sent to my grandma, chronicling the plight of our first years in the U.S. and searching for the strength to continue. Only now can I begin to fathom the humility it must’ve taken to admit these hardships and look for support, knowing that ultimately, my mom had no choice but to continue away from her family, with two small children, and push. 

When I got into Yale, my mom was the first person I called. She whooped and cheered and I could hear the echoes of “My daughter’s going to Yale!” resonating through the phone line, no subtlety in her revelry. I could picture her dancing around her work office, singing familiar melodies I’d heard in celebrations past, that relentless, unforgiving joy that only she could conjure.

I admire my mom because she knew how to be harsh when she needed to be, like when her 9-year-old daughter began to reek of rancid onions and endanger public health. But she never failed to sit with me when I felt sad for no reason, and she always knew the difference between scripted smiles and genuine grins. She made sure I learned the life skills necessary to ensure that I can thrive on my own — like deodorant — even at the expense of my being angry at her, though that usually lasted little more than a few minutes.

When I was little, I promised my mom I’d buy her a boat when I was older and rich and full of money, that I would buy her a boat and a house next to mine and we could continue to be best friends and we could gossip together and cook together and be happy together, the way we always did. Although I am persistently changing and weaving new plans for my future, that one goal has remained sound in my mind. I’ll never be able to thank my mom enough for always being there for me, for giving her physical, mental, emotional and spiritual energy to her children, and devoting her life to making sure we could enjoy ours to the fullest.

My mom was the catalyst for my sound maturation, and what I like to think is my somewhat stable adult state. My mom and surrogate mothers — namely, my abuelas, my Tia Belkis, my aunt Iris, my best friends’ mother Iraisy, my mom-away-from-home and advisor Mme Koizim — along with the other women I’ve been lucky to have in my life have inspired me to grow into the woman I am today. I am continually fascinated and inspired by the strength, compassion, and love these figures have shown me, and I can only hope to embody them someday.

The post An Ode Para Mi Mamá appeared first on Yale Daily News.

…Is what I thought the first time I saw snow as a weeny, impressionable first-year hailing from the balls-hot south. I remember leaving church that November morning — my first Catholic mass — to find flurries of snow wisping through the air. I guess you could call it divine intervention.

Now, though, I tend to feel more like a naked mole rat in the cold than a witness to God’s miracles on earth. During the first feeble months of spring semester, I feel my mind, body, and soul deteriorating under the pressure of rapidly approaching midterms, merciless wind chills, and 4:00 p.m. sunsets. But when Friday eve draws close to the midnight hour—the chilliest, rattiest baddie-est hour of all — I find myself in a predicament. To quote Hamlet, to roll Sig Chi or to not roll Sig Chi? 

On the one hand, “la que no es puta no disfruta” — my mom’s sound advice that “if you’re not being a hoe, you’re not having fun” — and I only have to convince myself that I’m not actually cold for 10 minutes until the alcohol warms my body to bearable temperatures. Plus, I’ll continue raising my body heat by getting down to Pitbull — that’s a given.

Buuuttttttt… hypothetically, I could also just stay home. I know I haven’t gone out in three weeks, but the puzzle on the common room table is starting to look pretty enticing again, and hypothetically, it would only take me another hour and a half to finish. Somehow, the familiar sewage smell in the hallway wisely wafts away, and the atmosphere of the common room becomes warmer and cozier than ever. I could change into my blanket hoodie and have a night in, hypothetically of course.

When the wind gets too chilly and walking to Fence is starting to sound like the first of the labors of Hercules, I’ve got Pinterest boards filled with vibes and ingredients for the perfect night in. And hypothetically, you could follow along.

I like to think I’m a simple woman: give me a blanket, some snacks, and a silly movie or a couple of cat compilations on YouTube, and I’m all yours. It’s all the fun of going out to a party, except without the drinking or intense socializing or somehow ending up on top of the Leo steps and wondering how I got there in the first place. I can microwave a hot chocolate concoction of goodness and warmth, and I can invite friends over for wholesome debriefs on our adored bean bag, “Mickey Mouse,” or I can invite my boyfriend for a different kind of snuggles. 

I can turn on “Titanic” or restart the “Twilight” saga again — or just repeat the baseball scene from the first movie—or if I’m feeling weird and anguished, Bojack Horseman will always be waiting. If you want to get into some special fun with your significant other, though, I highly recommend watching “Moana.” Sure, sure, it may not be anything close to sexy — except maybe for Dwayne “the Rock” Johnson’s voice — but for some reason that I still have yet to comprehend, boyfriends have a special affinity toward this movie. Last weekend, my suitemate’s partner recited the entirety of the movie’s soundtrack alongside its dialogue. Yes, even “Shiny.” Especially “Shiny.”

On other occasions where I’ve felt more unhinged, I’ve also invited (coerced) my suitemates to play “Just Dance” with me! It just takes three syllables to get your limbs moving: “Ras-pu-tin.” For the low price of free-ninety-nine, you get stellar cardio, swanky bops, and a riveting Slavic dance. Ignore the fact that you may not be able to walk for the next few days if you manage to hit all the moves.

And if you’re really feeling productive — ahem, ahem, deranged — you could update your LinkedIn! I can’t say I’ve done this one, but I’ll leave that to you. Conversely, you can stalk people from your high school on LinkedIn, but make sure you turn off your public visibility first before your ex-best friend sees you were stalking his MechE program. Moving on.

I can draw and doodle and call my mom and rant to her about insignificant details in my day-to-day life, or I can get started on a painting that I’m never actually going to finish. And I can eat leftovers from the fridge and let my eyes droop into sleep, so long as I make sure I submit my Daily Theme first.

As much as I loathe the complete numbness of the cold, the calf cramps I get from trying to not fall on the ice, the appalling amount of Vaseline I have to apply before leaving the house, and not being able to smile during the winter because my teeth get too cold, I welcome chilling inside sometimes. Pun intended. 

The post Snow much fun: go-to plans for a weekend night in appeared first on Yale Daily News.

“Hey guys,” a voice cut in: Parker Starket, fellow first year and resident IM Secretary. “Do either of you want to play IM soccer today? We really need two more people, otherwise we’ll forfeit.”

To be clear, I had no business playing IM soccer. The last time I remembered playing was in middle school gym, spun head-to-toe in My Chemical Romance merch and totally, totally lame. But in a bout of innocent first-year spontaneity, Mila and I exchanged glances and before I was even conscious of them, the words slipped out of my mouth.

“We’ll do it.”

*

My limp limbs struggled to kick the ball even near the vicinity of my own team. My calves ached from running, and my skin stunk with sticky sweat from the blistering sun. That was when he walked in.

Well, he didn’t really walk — he leapt into the game, outfitted in a bulldog athletics shirt, aquamarine shorts and neon cleats. I watched him maneuver the ball fiercely and wrap himself through the opposing team’s defense like a weaver’s needle pierces fabric with its thread. No part of me wanted to come in contact with that soccer ball, but I craved a closer look at the handsome figure scheming its movements. When the ref called time, I turned toward Mila with a gaping mouth and blazing cheeks, but I couldn’t blame my flush on the heat. 

Two weeks later, when Alex pleaded for IM soccer players again, I did not hesitate. This time, though, I was alone, suffocating under the predominantly male atmosphere of the field. I looked around, not desperately (because desperate isn’t cool), but curiously, wondering if perhaps I might see the mystery man who nearly saved us last time. I tried to stay focused on my movements, ensuring that I would look cool in case, oh … I don’t know, in case a certain persona happened to hop on the field and strut my way and sway me in his strong, sweaty arms after our victory. Gross.

I was lost enough in my imagination to miss my shot to kick the ball (sorry, guys), but I wasn’t lost enough to not notice when the Trojan man bolted onto the field again, assuming the full confidence of an elite player. I watched him aggressively yet gracefully lead the offense and tangle his feet in a complex choreography toward the goal, claiming a win on the field and a throne in my heart. Well, maybe not a throne, but at least a spot on my radar of Saybrook Eye Candy & Dining Hall Delights. 

I found shelter in the boisterous emotion following our first IM soccer victory, relishing in the thrill of the win to distract myself from the skipped beats within my chest every time I glanced to my left, where he stood.

I remember, now, laying beside the small sidewalk in anticipation of the bus, the sinking sun in the distance a beautiful sight against the treacherous blasphemy reaching through my nostrils, the smells of sweaty armpits and worn cleats and dirt, gym shirts that hadn’t seen the laundry machine in days, at best. Maybe weeks. In a fit of courage, I turned to him.

“Hey, you were really good out there,” I squeaked. He smiled a boyish smile, straight out of those Disney Channel rom-coms with the fringy hair and pearly whites, a sweet gesture. 

“Thanks! I’m glad you came out—what’s your name?” 

We chatted politely onto the bus, plotting ourselves down beside one another, only a corridor’s length between our bodies. I laughed, I giggled, I couldn’t help but stare at the caramel core of his eyes, his rich golden-brown hair and the way he so effortlessly exhibited charm. I wanted to ask him everything, to know his entire life story and laugh at silly baby photos with his mom and make him his favorite foods and love him forever and ever and ever again. 

I was down bad.

“Hey, what year are you, by the way?” I asked. I haven’t seen him around, but maybe he’s a sophomore?

“Oh, I’m a junior. I’m double majoring in Poli Sci and Religious Studies,” he responded. 

Yikes…a junior. He’d never go for a first year. 

“Wait, that’s so cool. Why are you majoring in Religious Studies though?”

“I want to be a priest.” 

I had to admit, of the list of what I’d anticipated my college love life to be like, a Fleabag moment wasn’t really all that high on my list. Scratch that — a Catholic priest wasn’t in the memo at all. I was thankful for the bus driver’s abrupt stop and the scramble of students rushing toward the dining halls. Maybe I could save Saybrook for another night.

*

The Saybrook library (lovingly, our Saybrary) was more of my home than Vanderbilt Hall during my first semester. Cramming Directed Studies essays, laughing with friends into the midnight hours, snoozing on the couches, running my fingers along the edges of books charred with knowledge, etched with the care of generations long passed. I walked in unassumingly toward my favorite couch nook in the Japanese corner when sitting at the edge of the table to my left, I saw him. 

He wore what I took to be PJs staring intensely at his laptop, the ridges of his brow forming gentle creases down his rounded nose. Walking over, I watched his chin tilt upwards and the corners of his cheeks bud into a warm smile. 

“Hey, how’s it going?”

“Pretty good! I’m a little stressed because I have a p-set due tonight, but otherwise okay,” I laughed to lighten the mood. “Is it cool if I sit with you?”

“Of course!” Bye, bye Japanese couch. 

Shifting between my work and the far more interesting attraction beside me, I bid my time quoting Thucydides and stealing not-so-casual casual glances in his direction, drifting my corneas toward the nearest intellectual-looking item at the sign of any shift in his demeanor. I wasn’t so much fascinated by his beauty or anything of the sort at first, but I wondered to myself: huh, what was I going on about earlier? He’s not even that hot — I need to touch some grass.

A pause. Wait. He’s actually lowkey kind of ugly. 

Ehhhhh….

No, he’s cute. 

Nearing eleven, he began to pack up his items — a sole laptop and his water bottle — into his bag. The library was relatively empty except for the two of us, soon to be one. 

“I love the Saybrary,” I chirped, desperate for slight conversation besides our simple greetings. “It’s always so quiet, and I love getting to see everyone I know.”

“Yeah, I come here like every night,” he responded, casual in his demeanor. “I honestly don’t really leave Saybrook.” Good. To. Know.

The next day, I was back for round two (#grindneverstops), locked and loaded and with maybe a little more mascara than the previous day. I stood a little taller, stepping into the silent room with a cool, calculated air, pretending to be surprised when I spoke, “No way you’re here again.” 

“Always.”

I gave into a cycle, repeating these gestures on a day-to-day basis for weeks, opting for quiet remarks and dainty, dimpled smiles. I hadn’t exactly forgotten he wanted to be a priest, but I figured there was no shame in at least making a new friend — especially one as kind and funny and intelligent and gorgeous as him. Afternoons turned to evenings turned to Saturday nights at the Saybrary, sitting side by side and doodling away the time. I doodled notes, words of encouragement I ripped from my notebooks and passed to him during particularly long intervals of staring at the screen. I built these puns and doodles from little facts I gathered about his life: “you don’t succ!” with a small cactus in a pot because he told me he grew succulents back home; a birthday card with flowering flora and fauna for his gardening aspirations; Handsome Dan meeting the Pope because… I think you can guess by now. 

I became impatient. On an early Tuesday evening, again on a whim as he exited the Saybrary, I called out, “Wait! I have a question—can I get your number?” He turned around, and I continued, “I’m uhhh… actually really considering the Religious Studies major, and since you’re, uh, the first Religious Studies major I’ve met, I would love to ask you some questions.”

A blank stare covered his face, taking a moment’s notice to process what I’d just asked. In simple compliance, he replied, “Sure thing.” No endearing smile, no brightness in his eyes, there was no picture-perfect movie moment awaiting my courageous pursuit of his number. I was only greeted by the same casual countenance that graced the dining halls and basement pathways of the college. The disinterest radiated from his very bones, from his straightforward texts and simple replies. Delusional as I was, that didn’t stop me from trying. 

If his texts were dry, though, his laughter was fertile throughout our conversations, feeding the seeds for my delusion. He laughed often and openly in harmony with my own bouts of giggles that filled the room on empty Saturdays and filled themselves in the crevices of the pauses of our speech. A stupid joke from him matched by my own subpar pun-making. At the fall formal, I found my rival partner in his ridiculous jigs that matched my godforsaken dancing. 

When I saw avocados in the dining hall during a Latinx Heritage Month celebration, I gasped. I didn’t even like avocados, but I knew he loved them. I watched the guacamole station fiercely, wondering whether he’d seen the spectacle during his own dinner plans. Mila sat beside me, chewing.

“Mila,” I began, “what if I just … take those avocados?” 

Her twinkling eyes betrayed her serious stare. “I mean, I don’t think they’ll care. Why?”

When I returned to the Saybrary that night, I held two large, wrinkled trophies. I held them behind my back steadily; the grin on my face revealed my excitement. His own eyes lit up as I had never seen them, and bringing the avocados towards his hands, he began to hold mine. 

Just for a microcosm of a second, I felt this touch in all its weight and power — not in an electric shock, but in a distinct, nearly uncanny spectacle of feeling just… right. I felt the comfort I had only felt lying in bed, under sheets that caressed me and peluchitos that puckered kisses of love.

But wait, Maria! What about the whole — you know — “wanting to be a priest” thing? Isn’t that kind of important?

Yes, it was. Though I continued crushing on him, I had dug myself a purgatory between puppy love and blasphemy. Poli Sci and Religious Studies. Religious Studies, right — priest. Priest.

I didn’t presume I held the “rizz” necessary to convert him away from the Way of The Lord, nor did I wish to: I had met him as priest-wannabe, and I recognized that in no world was it my place to come between him and his religion. The sweet, silly Catholic boy who attended mass twice a week and prayed during every possible pause should be left on his own to assume the priesthood, if he so wished, to deepen his relationship with his God and spread His Gospel. 

On the other hand: I felt undertones of flirtiness. And after a few weeks, I could no longer blame it on my delusion. My friends relished in my giddiness, interrupting my doubts with well-crafted evidence and instances, behaviors that proved he was, had to be, totally and completely in love with me. 

The first time he studied in Sterling was by my side. Through our conversations, I found out that he had never studied in many places besides the Saybrary; in my one semester in college, I had delved into more libraries and study corners than he even knew existed. So, of course, I just had to show him the stacks. 

We had agreed to meet at 8 p.m. in front of Sterling. At 8:02, I stood expectantly on the steps, overlooking the mystic gothic landscape before me in search of him. 8:07, and he still hadn’t come. My gut sunk in disappointment, preparing to digest my feelings. 

Why does this always happen? Is every guy truly the same? I swear you can never trust a nice man, I mean what even is a nice man anyway—

The buzzing of my phone interrupted my grievances. Ah! “M— IM Soccer,” or so his contact name listed him, was calling.

“Hey, where are you?” he spoke in a whisper.

“I’m in front of Sterling. I’ve been waiting for you.” 

“I don’t see you — I’m in front of Sterling, near the couches.”

“Wait, are you inside?”

My heart breathed a sigh of relief and somersaulted into feeling guilty for the way I’d assumed he hadn’t shown up. When I entered through the carved wooden doors and passed the security, I found him waiting patiently on an armchair to the right of the Alma Mater. His hair was slightly wet and combed, face freshly shaved and bright. When he caught my eye, he jogged over apologetically for the crime he didn’t even commit. 

Nearing 11, we left our study post in pursuit of the stacks. Floor 6M. We rummaged through the books, impressively pointing and searching the titles before us, relishing in the simple distractions from the tension that consumed us both until we stood face-to-face, bodies aligned at the end of a corridor letting out to a window. I placed my hands carefully behind me, but I longed to connect with him again. Outside, students were lining up for Hallowoads.

From the way he’s staring at me right now, he either likes me or wants to kill me. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be looking into my eyes like that; I don’t think anyone has ever looked at me that way.

“Hey,” I emboldened. “Would you maybe want to come to a Halloween party with me?”

“I’ve never been to one. I don’t think I have a costume,” he sheepishly replied.

“Easy. What if we do a group costume: you be Shaggy and I’ll be Velma? It’ll be fun, and all you have to do is wear a simple outfit, and maybe just roughen up your hair a little more.” I rustled my fingers through his hair lightly, rushing a blush toward my cheeks that I was glad he couldn’t see in the darkness. He shifted toward me. 

“That would be nice.”

*

I should be clear — a group costume is not a group costume with just two people. That is a couple’s costume. And I knew I had a perfectly fine Velma outfit sitting patiently in the back of my dresser. That night, when I met him outside his entryway, he looked like a vision in his worn green shirt and slightly too big khaki pants. 

Inside the party, we danced with each other in a small corner, away from the fevered crowd and in our own little vision of heaven where all we had was each other and the music coursing through our hearts, numbing the nervousness that nearly sickened us. I could hardly pay attention to his dancing for fear of getting the ick, but I gazed deeply into his eyes, dark under the red LEDs but sweetly crinkling at their edges, gentle betrayers of his secret smile. 

“Hey, I have something for you. Do you think you’d want to maybe leave for a little bit with me?” he poised. The thump, thump of my pulse hid itself within the blaring music, and my nod signaled my agreement to his proposal.

He entered his room for less than two minutes when I heard him running down the stairs, exasperated but totally excited. He pulled out his arms from behind him, revealing a small potted plant. “I got you a succulent!”

I couldn’t hold back my excitement — I ran toward him and embraced him in a long, passionate kiss smack dab in the center of the Saybrook courtyard. A crowd gathered around us, he tilted my frame downwards, holding me like a telenovela lover, and the fireworks lit up onto the screen of my eyelids. Everything around me was light, even though my eyes were closed. A clanging interrupted our world, and an ominous voice dropped down from the heavens. You, traitors! You have violated the most Holy Priesthood! You are forever banned from entering a church EVER AGAIN!!!!!

Okay, that didn’t actually happen. Our first kiss was actually quite quiet — the sweet, innocent gestures of a first kiss, our hands cupped around each other’s faces in the intimacy of my dorm room. We did break up after a day of “dating” because he had a religious crisis, but we have been together since.

I won’t say it’s been easy, despite his good-natured spirit and kind heart. I’m not openly religious in the way that he is, I never attended church before I went with him for the first time (boy, was it a culture shock). Still now, I struggle to understand his religious philosophy at times, and we bicker on subjects neither of us intends to change our opinions on — we’ve come to terms with compromise, with embracing the hot takes engraved onto our bones and hardened still within our hearts. 

I still recall the nights I spent on Old Campus, pacing through the geometric sidewalks and debating with Mila on whether he liked me or not — “he was definitely flirting with you.” “No, he wants to be a priest.” “Are you sure they can’t marry?” “They definitely can’t.” “I still think he was being sus.” I still harbor the doubt that one day he’ll wake up, realize he actually does want to pursue priesthood, and I’ll remain right where he left me. 

But I’ve also learned to let myself fall face-first into love. I’ve learned to be honest, even when I’m afraid and vulnerable. I’ve learned to relish in the warmth of his embrace without letting it suffocate me; I’ve learned to listen to myself, my gut and my heart, and I’ve learned to speak the truth they tell me. Had I let myself remain silent, I never would have been able to know the love I feel today. And though I’m not well versed in religion, that is a blessing to me.

The post Holy Guacamole: How I Rizzed Up a Priest appeared first on Yale Daily News.

After spending 13 —!!!— hours in the car that day and a slightly more manageable ten hours the day before, I struggled to laugh even at the bizarre Italian film that played before us. Traversing from Tampa, Florida to New Haven, Connecticut via car was not exactly my preferred mode of transportation, especially given the direct flight from Tampa INTL to Tweed with a duration of a mere three hours. Driving back to Yale that Nov. 19, I was tired. I was anxious. I was craving a dining hall dinner. But most of all, I was bitter.

My father has a deathly fear of flying. From a young age, especially after moving to the United States, I’ve watched him try to protect my brother and me like his life was on the line — which, in a sense, I guess it was. No touching frogs because warts, no stepping near the lakes because gators, no walking the dog because kidnapping (and dognapping?), no sleepovers, no driving with anyone (except him) and absolutely no planes porque te vas a morir. 

I think, really, what my dad struggled with was control. When he isn’t the one on the one on the wheel, he doesn’t feel like we’re safe. Given the options, he once chose a 24-hour train ride over flying from JFK to Tampa, despite already having purchased a return ticket on the plane. When I chose to leave the sunshine state for the northeast, my dad declared that he would be driving me to and from campus for all eternity.

What could have been six hours of travel turned into a 40-hour round trip, stripping days off my time with family at home, costing my dad days off work and hotel fees. Thanksgiving recess wasn’t eight days — it was four. And those four days were shadowed by bickerings, disagreements about my traveling restrictions and jaded by the unfair, often strained position as the eldest daughter in a Latinx family. 

Even my former-priest- (another story for another day) extremely-kind-like-literally-

saint-like boyfriend had to admit that it was all a bit much.

So when it came time for winter break, I refused to make the drive down to Tampa again. Two airports, a couple white lies about when my final exams ended, an Avelo flight and one very, very flabbergasted father later, I was back home, safe and sound. To my surprise, my dad didn’t scream. He didn’t yell. I mean, he didn’t talk to me for a couple of days, but to save my mother’s sanity and his own, he pulled a “classic dad” moment: he wasn’t upset, he was just disappointed.

I had big plans for winter break. For as long as we’d been together, I wanted to visit my boyfriend’s home in San Diego, and I hoped to do so this break. On New Year’s Day, I decided to break the news to my father, only to be met with an angry uproar — my father isn’t himself when he thinks his children are at risk, and to him, my flight to California was a plea for the death sentence.

To say the least, I did not end up going to California. In fact, I spent the majority of my break at home, visiting nearby family and spending time with my baby cousin (my favorite being and mini-me), all pretty much within a five-mile radius. But when it came time to come back to Yale, I swallowed my pride as I stepped forward and tried to compromise with my dad. 

“I need to fly.”

“No.”

“There’ll be snow. You’re not used to driving in the snow.”

“You can take the train.”

Eventually, my father agreed to let me fly to New Haven with my boyfriend and a friend — but only after a couple hours of lecturing on the safety of planes, begging us to let him drive us and strict instructions on how to proceed through the airport. 

But as I watched from my window seat 30,000 feet above the earth’s surface into the mounds of opaque white jellies to my exterior, I didn’t feel proud. I didn’t feel angry. I felt sad. Sad at his inability to let me go; I was grateful for the immense love that he holds for me — enough to nearly drive the both of us to the brink of insanity. I felt a twinge of guilt for my desire to travel and freely venture the world, for I don’t know if he will ever find peace with my actions. I realized I would have to follow my ambitions without his support.

I once heard it said that growing up is realizing that your parents are messy, hurt people too. And sometimes, that means forgiving them for the things they can’t change. 

I just hope that one day, he will forgive me too.

The post Learning to let go appeared first on Yale Daily News.