Author: longstoryjoi

Moving Past Pablo

I try to imagine how it would feel. If every vacationer I encountered in United States asked me about September 11, police brutality and heroine – I’m sure I’d lose it.

Unfortunately, the fairytale landscape, surplus of beautiful cafes, and rainforest relaxation vibe aren’t the first things people think of when they think of Medellin, Colombia and it’s truly a shame.

The list of present-day accomplishments for this vibrant city are endless. You’d have to list the inexpensive, high-quality produce, intriguing architecture and incredibly kind inhabitants. You’d mention the accessibility to the countryside, impeccable parks and an incredibly efficient and clean metro system. Tree-lined streets usher you to picturesque eateries, none of which lack a bounty of fresh juices made from the dozen of Colombian-exclusive fruits. Pablo Escobar’s name is not spoken, as appropriate for any drug lord that terrorized a state for more than a decade. He is not celebrated, he is not cool, and every war-themed tour or idealization of the greatest drug war in history is a blow to every Colombian and every world citizen that believes in validating the human experience.

Every friend and every family member has made comments about me traveling to Colombia, as if I’d be inducted into some secret world of police murder and cocaine trafficking. The stereotypes are strong but nothing screams love and peace like this group of arepa-loving, God-fearing sweethearts who love their families immensely and never get frustrated when I speak to them in Spanglish.

A poverty-raveged district have given themselves a new name by marketing their community as the city’s street art capital while another historically oppressed area has made a home from the remains of a enormous and contaminated landfill, their safest option during the height of the war. There is no way to tell all the stories of resilience and inventiveness, but certainly we all can at least behave like they exist. We can empathize with the pain of the Colombian people and not engage in the fantasization of a national tragedy, one thats effects still ring loudly.

Every murder of Colombian police officers is just as disgusting as the execution of the officers during the Dallas protests. Every guerrilla recruitment of young boys – elementary age – is just as heinous as the daily recruitment of children in the U.S. into the drug and sex trafficking trades. Use your own at-home experiences to better connect you with people around the world. That could be through great tribulation or an enormous success –whatever it is, do what you need to do to not be a complete dick. Compassion is the start.

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You’ve Got to Wander

Guarded by the Andes Mountains, Bogota, Colombia is a traffic-filled valley city with a whole lotta dimension. Our group landed on a Saturday night. I was eager to get right in the mix of things but was bombarded by silence as I arrived to my new neighborhood. We weren’t in Mexico City anymore. The next day it seemed like 90 percent of businesses in our area were closed in observance of the Sabbath and my curiosity grew. Where was the energy, where was the culture, where were the people?

Chico Norte appears to be residential but by 8 am each day the streets are flooded with people coming from God knows where to my sleepy streets to do…well, I still don’t know. Carts of arepas and candies line the nearby blocks, dogs seemingly walk themselves and Colombians everywhere begin their intense exercise regime, including push ups in the park and zumba. There was a life out there but where did it go after 5?

The first days here have proved hard to leave my comfortable digs and venture out into a city that seemed so far from me. Every day I’d stare out my bedroom window; it seemed like a cheesy backdrop with dramatic clouds, tall-ish, modern buildings and then BAM, mountains coming out of nowhere. And the first few nights I slept with my blinds open, staring off into the sky for hours, realizing I couldn’t remember the last time I saw stars, twinkling ones at that.

If there were emotional steps to longterm traveling I was in the hiding phase. The people who crowded my streets told me there was life nearby but the vast sky made it seem so far away. The next weekend I found myself in a uber touristy walking tour and I was swept to La Candelaria. An area 30 minutes away in traffic seemed to transport me to a totally different Bogota. People were everywhere: skateboarding, eating food and making out (which seems to be the norm in Latin America.) The streets became color-filled with murals and architectural differences and stories of histories of each block. The city was alive and I felt like I was a part of it for the first time.

Bogota could be Washington, D.C. or Dallas or Denver. There is so much to experience but you’ve got find it. You’ve got to get lost. You’ve got to wander. I’m hoping to keep this spirit  throughout my month in the city, take the time to walk aimlessly, and soak it all in. And in times where things are quiet and there isn’t much going on, I want to remember that I could be anywhere in the world but I’m right here and that is amazing and purposeful enough to be glad.

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Mexico, the great

Before the sun is high the beat begins to build. Dogs bark with aggression, the garbage man rings his bell. Over and over. The moan of a woman’s voice repeats on a loud speaker. She asks for old washing machines and computers. Another man, pushing a cart, temps me with tamales and other treats. The street sweepers sweep, the chamen make their daily calls. Mexico City. Ciudad de Mexico. CDMX. Distrito Federal. It was home.

In a few days my group will say goodbye to Mexico City and the life we built here. I’ve felt it such an honor to spend more time with the Mexican people, learn about the things that are important to them and the hopes they have for the future. They are a culture of hospitality, offering their resources to help you and most importantly, their time. They are a hard-working people. I genuinely believe that each person I see is working hard to provide for their families. Their intentions are pure. They are a resilient people. No matter what is said about them, they are kind to all and go above and beyond to help those visiting their country.

There is an obvious appreciation and patience for people who have come into their country and are attempting to speak their language. They repeat words, they slow down, they smile. I wish people in the U.S. were that patient as people make a huge life change, move to a new country and attempt to live, work and operate like everyone else. And just like every immigrant to ever come into the U.S., I, at any given time in Mexico, am trying. I’m trying to speak Spanish and my efforts are acknowledged daily.

Their historical and incredible love and focus on family makes Mexico a place that strives on community. The love for other humans is incredible and that love prompts an acceptance for the gay and trans communities. Marriage is a right that is open to everybody here.

During my time in CDMX, men have been gentlemen in every sense of the word and the city’s dogs are the most well-behaved animals I’ve ever seen. Healthy foods are affordable here and drive-thrus are non-existent. It’s a good place and I’ve learned more every day.

There is something sobering about being in Mexico during the inauguration of a bigot extremist. As many of my hopes and dreams turned to dust, I know some of theirs did too. The U.S. is such a beacon of possibility for so many and now what will it be? I think the Mexican people’s hearts break with ours. Many in the states have talked about them like dogs, criticized their values and ways of life, and mistreated them to no end and their hearts still break with ours. That’s God. That’s compassion and perhaps the biggest lesson I learned here. No matter what the political climate, compassion for all of humanity is essential and the Mexican people have figured that out in the face of so much adversity. Screw the wall. I want to live the Mexican way.

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She’s okay

I left the U.S. feeling all types of mush I didn’t expect. I had the most amazing life waiting for me on the other side of a TSA line but for the 72 hours before all I could think about was my crappy but existent health care coverage in the states, my mother’s hugs and my family dog. All are really great but not enough to stay. So why was I so sad?

I knew 1000% that when I came back I would not be the same. There was no possible way that the same Joi would reappear in the Dallas  airport, making her way through crowds and garland and country-themed Christmas tracks to greet her family. It was impossible. So for the days before leaving I had to morn myself: impulsive, distracted, pushover me. I had to sit with her insecurities and hurt and disappointments, thank them for their lessons and throw them away with my water bottle at security.

It felt big, it felt scary…it felt like a relief!

I was paralyzed the first leg of the trip, sleepy and weary from a night of last-minute packing. I walked off the first plane to find my friend, and travel companion, seated in the gate ahead and I realized I wasn’t the only one leaving everything. I wasn’t the only one risking it all. Some weird ‘anxiety loves company’ calm came over me. It would be okay and then some.

The first couple of weeks have been exhausting. As a self-proclaimed extrovert I didn’t think I’d have trouble meeting 80-something people and getting to know them but it’s been the biggest challenge. The barrage of activities and meet-ups hit me hard, along with southern Mexico’s high altitude unique cuisine. A box of Hooter’s wings while watching Modern Family reruns felt like a spa day. In this unsettling lifestyle I was going to have to find moments that felt like home. Home was now everywhere my body was and I had to embrace that.

I live in a spacious two bedroom with my bff. Outside of two sets of couples, we’re the only ones who knew each other before this trip and everyone seems to think that’s really cool. We have a stained glass window in our bathroom and a TV that lets us watch E! in Spanish. My room gets tons of light through these two giant windows that open up into a balcony. My neighborhood is filled with cafes and restaurants and particularly this churro shop that sells Nutella-filled churros for like the equivalent of two U.S. dollars. I was sold apple-scented toilet paper the other day and got asked to be photographed by a sweet man at the local taco shop who made me the best chorizo. Our co-working space is amazing, with a beautiful yellow-tiled terrance and a rooftop that swirls Mexico City right around you. My Remote Year cohorts are kind and generous and they think all the stuff I got made fun of at home are the most amazing things. There are well-behaved dogs everywhere. And I mean everywhere. My Spanish is improving and it hasn’t rained once. I am so blessed.

I’ve never felt more like myself. I’ve never felt more interesting and revolutionary and brave. So for all of you that I haven’t talked to, know I’m okay. I’m always gonna be okay.

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A dollar, a dream and some damn good friends

There was no real plan. I had six months to gain decent employment and come up with 3,000 and some odd dollars to cover supplies, vaccines and the first payment for my dream opportunity, the travel program Remote Year. This was it. I had been struggling for as long as I could remember with the idea of a normal life. A 9-5 job, living in the same city for more than a year, irresponsibly buying a BMW at 24, buying property at 26, falling in love: that’s what everyone else was doing but I knew I was too original for that.

I realized, shortly after I started graduate school, that not only was I a real artist but I operated like one. I begin to feel strongly that the mornings were made for eating and meditating and catching up on episodes of Law & Order. Afternoons were built for roaming and cleaning and answering emails, just a few, as to continue the facade of being a real adult. Evenings were meant for exciting documentaries and hilarious conversations with friends and working, working as in writing. I’ve rarely created any decent body of text before sunset and even as I type this the night has fallen and the reflections of headlights dance around my dark walls letting me know it’s safe to work now!

I needed to be in a space that would allow me to live just as I want and throw me into environments where I had nothing to answer to but the pressure of my own beating heart. I have been abroad for days and haven’t found the proper words for the gratitude I feel to have made it to that kind of freedom.

I never earned that money on my own. My people gave it to me, with no expectations and with no requirements. For the first time in my life I knew for sure how many people loved me, thought well of me, believed in me, saw talent in me, reached back to their memories of me from 20 years ago and thought “That Joi always shared her candy with me so I think I’ll help her live her dream.” I’ve never felt more supported in my life and I want to say thank you. Every dollar, every prayer, every positive thought, every freaked out phone call and weary text message has not been for nothing. I’m traveling the world, diving headfirst into cultures and ways of life different than my own, I’m writing, I’m doing crazy little jobs to make money (but what else is new,) I’m talking to God like it’s my job, I’m cleansing my body and making it better, I’m building new and healthier relationships, I’m moisturizing my hair, I’m appreciating the beauty in everything around me.

I’m gone. And it’s all because of you.

Eternal Thanks.

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