Lucia Benavides

1/21/17. Barcelona, Spain.

There’s a contradiction in listening to flamenco music inside a 14th century Catholic church.

A stone building so grey and dark, imposing with its impossibly high ceilings, the smell of humidity built up over the centuries. The ten-foot statue of Jesus hangs on a cross, his body frail and drooping with humanity’s sins. His gaunt, lifeless face, full of suffering, looking down on you.

And at the same time, the spirited sound of the Spanish guitar, like a thousand fluttering butterflies swirling around the room. The seductive bass line throbbing like a beating heart. Its melodies evoke images of heartbreak and passion, of love and fervor. The joys of life Catholicism told us to feel guilty about.

Each song takes my spirit dancing around the chapel. It leaps out of me and whirls above me, turning in circles, over and over and over, each time getting higher and closer to the moon on the other side of the ceiling. 

1/19/17. Barcelona, Spain.

Most of my friends will proudly tell you that Barack Obama was the first president they ever voted for. We had all turned 18 the year before his election, and it couldn't have happened at a better time. I, however, was still a Permanent Resident - it wasn't until 2016 that I became a citizen, 18 years after moving with my family from Argentina. But while I wasn't yet eligible to vote, Obama's campaign was the first time I became political - an interest that grew into my current career as a journalist.

I vividly remember the night he won the first time around, in 2008. I had an important college exam the following morning, and knew I couldn't watch the results come in with my friends. As I studied, I had my laptop open next to me, clicking "refresh" every two minutes, my eyes constantly glancing over. I was barely paying attention to the notes in front of me. Downstairs, my mother had the television on CNN; I could hear the commentators making predictions. It was still too close to call, and we didn't want to get our hopes up, but the more time passed by, the more it seemed our dreams were going to come true.

Then came that magical moment - it still feels surreal as I call up my memory. I clicked "refresh" one more time, and saw it: a bright blue check next to Obama's young face. 270 electoral votes. I started screaming and ran downstairs, yelling to my mom that he had won, he had won! We jumped, and hugged each other, and cried, and watched as the name of our first African-American president was being announced on television. We ran outside our suburban home and started chanting his name.

9/15/16. Austin, TX.

The second “Norwegian Wood” came on my iPod, I shut it off with disgust. The nerve John Lennon had to write a song, publicly, about cheating on his wife. The privilege he must have felt to not be ashamed by such blatantness. Then my eyes darted quickly to my wrist: John’s face. 

I have the face of an ego-centric, cheating asshole permanently tattooed on my body. Instead of a symbol of power, of femininity, of an activist. But, ah, when I made the choice of forever binding myself to John, I didn’t see him as the human being that he was. I saw him for what he symbolized: a challenge to authority, a pacifist, an idealist, a fighter, a voice against violence.

Clichés. It’s easy to believe in things, to speak of them, to inspire others to join the fight. But it’s a whole other story to embody the image you’ve created for yourself. Now, when I look down, I see the man: full of flaws, more than I can even imagine or ever hope to know about. But masks aside, I can’t hate him. He was complicated, was capable of excessive love followed by excessive hate. He was cruel, he was ruthless, he was hurt, he was generous.

He was exactly like all of us. Imperfect and intense. Big, but felt small. Capable of the worse and the best. 

7/23/16. Austin, TX.

I am running at twenty-seven,

but I’m also seven.

My worn-out sneakers untied,

laces flailing like drowning arms.

My jean shorts long,

stiff and awkward around my skinny legs,

a hand-me-down t-shirt with a place I’ve never heard of.

My breath in and out,

in and out,

as my eyes turn sweetly to my crush:

Maybe he likes my hair.

I am running at twenty-seven,

but I’m also seventeen.

My cumbersome flip flops

with a logo of a brand,

a stamp of status in a clan.

My skin-tight pants falling low below my hips,

a push-up bra to create illusions,

bouncing mountains as I go.

My breath in and out,

in and out,

as my eyes turn darkly to my boyfriend:

Maybe he likes my thong.

I am running at twenty-seven,

I’m only twenty-seven.

My bare feet with aching, broken bones

leading to an aching, broken heart;

one that required less surgeries 

but more healing.

And I’ve stripped myself of clothes,

of images,

of illusions.

My breath in and out,

in and out,

as my eyes turn sadly to the world:

If I were to write a memoir, I think I’d entitle it “I feel lost about my life.” I always feel so directionless. Like I’m interested in a million things but nothing sucks me in hard enough to hold onto me for good. I get jobs and get tired of them. I pursue careers and find their flaws. I’m jealous of people who can stick to one thing and commit, commit, commit. As if they’d never want to do anything else. As if there weren’t dozens of other opportunities tugging at their sides, begging for some kind of attention.

I may sound dramatic, and like I’m speaking from a not-so-distraught perspective, but my life has never felt completely stable. I’ve had the most wonderful, supportive, inspiring, loving parents in the world. But maybe sometimes that isn’t enough. I feel like I’ve spent my life moving, saying goodbye to people, trying to identify with different cultures, feeling like I’ve never really fit in anywhere. I’ve said goodbye to so many people throughout my life, and sometimes never returned to them. I’ve done the whole “it’s only six months this time,” “it’s only one year this time,” but little by little, the years have caught up to us - time increments that seemed small when looked at up close, but add up to a lifetime.

I watched my little cousins grow up from afar. I watched my older cousins build families from afar. I watched family members pass away from afar. All while living my own life in a country that’s never quite felt like home, but has been the closest thing to one so far.