Huelgas

There's something about Spain that makes me giggle. A mischievous little I-wish-I-could-be-in-cahoots-with-you giggle. And that something is Spain's general "¡Qué te den por culo!"* attitude. It's an attitude you can see in school children, in customer service, in the government... Everywhere! But Spaniards especially excel at expressing this when it comes to strikes. Spanish strikes are nothing like American strikes for two big reasons:

1) Spain gets off on their strikes. The glimmer in the eyes of those on strike is like the glimmer of a teenager who has just gotten away with blaming something on their little sibling. Sure, leading up to strike day those on strike seem incredibly passionate about the injustices behind it all, but come strike day, you realized the passion you saw in them wasn't so much about the injustice as it was passionate excitement for a day off. They can sleep in, meet friends for a beer and then head over to the rally at night I'd they feel like causing a little chaos. It's like a day (or more) of relaxation -- in the noble name of justice and solidarity and where do you wanna go for tapas later, since we have the day off?! Yay!

2) Strikes are frequent. I don't mean to say that the same group goes on strike often, but rather that bunches of groups go on strike at different times, often very close together on the calendar. For example: Two weeks ago there was an "education" strike. This meant teachers and students did not attend school. Not really sure the reason for the strike, but I am sure the students and teachers loved the random Thursday off. Then last week the train system decided to go on strike and significantly reduce train service for a few days. Again, no idea the reason for the strike, but the train conductors sure looked happier. And finally, this week. This week, the sanitation department decided, "eff it" and went on strike. Real world result? Every public trash can is more than overfilling and the streets and sidewalks are COVERED in trash. Like, it looks like the aftermath of a very festive parade that had floats slinging biomass into the crowds. It's impressive.

To those not on strike, it seems to royally piss off every single person EXCEPT for those who the strike was meant to stick it to. But not me. I find them amusing. No way you could get every garbage collector in a large US city to just say, "You can eff yourself!" and just not go to work for a few days. Those crazies would be fired and replaced immediately. But not in Spain. Worst that happens is you lose 1.5X your salary per strike day and get a cool t-shirt to prove your BAMF status at the nightly rally.

I can't help but wonder if these little displays really do succeed in changing workplace conditions and political practices. What I do know, though, is that these strikes definitely succeed in serving as perfect examples of the Spanish attitude in practice.



*"Oh go fuck yourself."

Meta

Little Writer pulled on my mint sweatpants' leg, warmed up my tea and broke out a half eaten bag of Oreos with a side of cream cheese. She turned on my favorite song and put me in my favorite writing chair in my apartment. And she told me to surrender to her, please. She had some things to say:


This is going to be something I haven't let myself do in a long while. This. This is going to be a free write. I will type nonstop and I will put it on my blog. This used to be how I wrote every single blog post, but then things got a little complicated inside my mind and I stopped. But today? Today I need to write like I used to. The way I wrote when it used to be just for myself. When I didn't care what other people thought. When I forgot other people even read it. The reason I used to write used to be simply a mode of meditation which I used daily to sort out my thoughts and experiences.

I miss that.

I've started to put great pressure on my writing. At first I thought this was unfair. Now I think this is an exciting challenge. I've always considered myself a writer, but I've never pushed it until these past two months. And by pushing it, I am gaining even more pride and confidence in myself and my words. I am starting to see myself for the first time as a true artist. And I adore it.

But for these few moments, there is no pressure. There is just pure truth. Just me. No fanciful words, no thesaurus, no editing, no revising, no thinking. Just the words as they spill out of my fingers. And the freedom in that is... I feel like I can breathe again! Freely. Unrestricted. Just breathe. Just write. Honestly. Authentically. Me.

The three people I spend the most time around and have chosen to surround myself with are all writers. This is amazing. This is intimidating. Suddenly there are finally others with my gift. Suddenly I'm not the unique one just because of this gift. I try not to compare myself. Ha. I was thinking in the shower about it today. What sets me apart? I know it's a sorely unfair question, but I stood under the hot water and asked it. And immediately the answer came flowing out of the shower head and whispered itself into my ear.

What sets me apart from the three amazing people I'm so grateful to be surrounded by in this little moment of my vast life... Is that I have no ego when it comes to my words. I don't use my writing to prove anything or gain recognition. Not my real writing. My real writing is always an intimate conversation between me and my soul. I can do the artistic writing too, but I see that more as an elegant party trick. What makes my writing my writing is that it is humble, curious and playful.

My writer friends plan. They revise. They edit. They take their craft very seriously. And this is what made me begin to feel a little like a fraud.

Okay, step back. I, like them, have the officially registered little name tag that says, "Hello, my name is WRITER." I know that. But while they're off being adults about their craft, I'm off playing in a big ball pit of letters and words, and having a splendid little time. Tra la la... While they're researching and marking up drafts, I'm dancing in front of the mirror to loud music and having a conversation with an inanimate object simply because it talked to me first.

Speaking of conversations with inanimate objects, I've successfully (and most accidentally) gotten David to start greeting them, as well. It started out as a joke (and I guess it still is), but I catch him doing it all the time now. The normal reaction to seeing me talking to a teapot is to tell me I'm nuts and ignore it. Not David. All my quirks that delight me but weird others out intrigue and amuse him.

The other day I did a full out rendition to a song from "Annie" - dancing, singing, prancing... the whole enchilada - just because I could. And in true David form, instead of looking at me like a crazy, he scrambled to get the music playing on YouTube and joined in. And after we were done, we continued what we'd been doing as if there had never been a dazzling three minute musical in our apartment. And tonight? Tonight he made tea and we tried to see how many languages we could read "Our Father" in with a semi-convincing accident and the tone of an old, fear-inspiring priest. (Answer? Seven.)

In addition to the silly weird random stuff we do together, David is always down for a philosophical conversation in Spanish or is all ears when I have something bothering me and don't know what to make of it. My favorite is when I tell him about people who do something to upset me and his response is always, "They only acted like that because they're envious of you." Hee hee.

Yep, I could not have gotten a better roommate from the Roommate Gods than him to make me feel like the shit about who I am. Perfect timing.

But I digress...

The exact reason Little Writer asked for a night in with me tonight was to remind me that out of all the people on the planet, there was a very specific reason she'd chosen ME to express herself through. What had stood out about me was that I didn't fit any traditional or societally-constructed molds. Not as an individual. Not as a writer. Partly, she observed, because I generally had no desire to, but other times because, even when I realllly wanted to, I simply had no goddammed clue HOW to.

The last time she made her presence known she wanted to (most unnecessarily) prove herself to me for once and for all. This time, it's the other way around. This time she's come to tell me that I don't need to prove myself to her, either. All the quirks about me as a writer aren't signs of being a fraud; they're exactly why she chose me to be her vessel.

I realize I harp on it a lot. That's why I stopped writing on my blog. It was becoming so redundant. I felt like a broken record. But this whole falling in love with being so different is some tricky business some days. With somethings, it's easy. I am a very unique teacher. I love that. I have very unique perspective on life's purpose. I love that. But I seem to need to work through each unique quality about myself and determine if being different is a weakness or strength before I can embrace it and be confident in it. My constant desire to probe deeper into who I am and to work hard to grow into the exact person I want to be isn't something shameful. In fact, it's kinda even brave.

It's easy (cowardly, even, if you want my truthful opinion) to look at yourself and your life and say, "It is what it is." It takes some serious balls instead to say, "It is what I make it." And that's precisely what all of this writing I do for myself is an intimate meditation on.

Before leaving, Little Writer puts it to me in an analogy I can truly understand: My self reflection writing is to what West Coast Swing is for me as my storytelling writing is to what Tango is for me. In WCS, I know all of the moves, all of the subtle leads, the community. Dancing it makes me feel suspended in another dimension, partly because I know so well how to express myself freely. Then there's Tango. I'm new to it, but I'm mesmerized by it and feel like I'm in another dimension, too, those times when I really connect with a partner and dance a song well. It's not as frequent, and I have to try more, but I'm a dancer and I catch on quickly. But by no means do I compare myself to others or feel myself to be a fraud. Quite the opposite. I feel like a badass for leaving my comfort zone and catching on so quickly!

I'll leave off there... Or, actually...

Just now a crazy thought hit me. Maybe someday I'll find people like me and I'll find out that there were teachers who were meant for "my kind" to help us to understand our uniquenesses and blossom into a different, "meta" breed. And when I find them they will marvel at all I have discovered and taught myself on my own, without their guidance. And they will be amazed by my tenacity and faith I carefully balanced on when I needed to stay afloat. And I won't feel like the weird one or the fraud or the insecure crazy or any of those things. I'll finally see my beauty in such a way that I'll never need to question it again. You know, very Harry Potter forgot-to-send-you-your-acceptance-letter-to-Hogwarts style. ;)

Wait... that gives me an idea for the story I've been trying to work on...