Born to Be Free
Dear Reader,
I am not sure about how to address you, to begin with. I understand your concern about greeting me as "Dear Writer," anyways, since something similar (I guess) is happening to me. I am not really used to writing to someone I haven't met before (and who is going to judge my letter) about something as personal as my autobiography, so this is probably going to be the memorable beginning of a new and exciting adventure.
I began to write, according to my mother, at a very young age, when I decided to "rewrite" my parents' Larousse Encyclopedia, and add "mama" and "papa" to the first seven pages of the seventh volume. I had not thought about that before, but I guess this is why I consider seven to be my lucky number. Well, my maternal grandmother had another version of the story:
She let me know that at a much younger age I enjoyed (judging by the look on my face) taking off my diapers, and (she called it writing) drooling perhaps? on the closest wall. I will not get into details as to what type of material I used to write with.
Some other family members would have probably had a nervous breakdown over either one of the above, but my parents? They instead arranged for me to have what I called my piece of Heaven, until I was seven years old (what a coincidence! Seven!): One wall in my bedroom where I was allowed to develop my creativity, and I wrote my poems, stories and plays with a piece of chalk.
This became a win-win situation for everyone: My parents' beloved library was safe, and my imagination could run wild -although, I have to confess, not as fast as I would have loved to ...
Too many times (I recall thinking) I could hear hushing sounds when someone spoke of freedom, of liberty, or even of flying birds, to the point that I became (in some of my former teachers' opinions) obsessed with this topic ("Well, you know children," my parents said, when they were asked about why I had this apparent fixation with such an irrelevant??? topic: "As soon as they are told not to do something, they feel like there's nothing else they would rather do.")
As a consequence, I became very observant, and wrote everywhere, since I knew that, someday, I would share my thoughts with other good crazy children like me (I suppose I've managed to keep my inner child alive and kicking inside, despite all the numerous attempts by well-intentioned -but too boring- people to make me a traditional adult). Yes, I wrote everywhere: in bed, at the dining table, on the bus, in the bathroom (I had a bookcase in my bathroom, both at home, and my grandparents'), and in church (I put paper in my bible, and kept writing while Don Blas, our priest, was sharing with us the weekly news and activities of our parish). To the eyes of my world, I had come to my common sense, and, to mine, the world had begun to make a little bit more of sense.
My words became (or were) my liberation, my encrypted message to the world. I was congratulated by my teachers, and even won some literary contests at school, but nobody really knew what my words really meant: Was I talking about a person, or about animals? Was my story fictional, or non-fiction? Were there any real characters, or were they a product of my imagination?
The truth is that, at this point, I did not really understand why it was so difficult for me to explain my thoughts, my feelings, and my ideas, in simple terms, until -one day- my maternal grandfather -Antonio- was brave enough to reveal to me the truth, a truth that changed the way I saw the people around me forever. My mother gave me the magic wand I was looking for, and they both released me into a new fearless world, where there was hope and dreams of a better future.
"We are living in the last years of our lack of freedom. It is called a dictatorship. Don't repeat what I said." People's lives might be at stake, but I could smell the sweet fragrance of freedom in the air. My mother proceeded to add: "It doesn't matter if they tell you that you shouldn't fly. Your wings were given to you for some reason, and it was not to be grounded. I can assure you that." That day, my life changed: I knew from a very good source that I had been born to be free.
Many years later, I became a high school teacher of English in the Canary Islands, after having lived in England for a while. I also tried to become a flight attendant, won a few amateur writing contests (one of which, supposedly, was a trip to Kenya which I was never given because the travel company that sponsored the contest went bankrupt).
Moreover, I won a beauty contest: I was proclaimed the ideal girl (of the Canary Islands) when Hollywood was promoting the movie "The Prince of Zamunda." I went to the contest in shorts, flip flops, and a summer blouse, simply because the radio station that announced the contest was giving away free movie tickets for a month (and watching movies is one of my all favorite hobbies!) When all the other girls (and they were absolutely beautiful!) were asked to leave the stage, I really thought: "Oh, my God! They're going to ask me to leave through the back door!")
Meanwhile, I almost quit my university studies, thinking that I had so many things to share, that sitting in class and listening to someone else's adventures was not my idea of becoming more knowledgeable, until, with my parents' help, I saw the light:
I did not have to choose between writing and living a decent life which allowed me to do all the things I've always loved, including the ones I don't know about yet: I've always believed in the known and the unknown friends. Basically, the world is a fabulous place to me, with a lot of brothers and sisters all over the place, including the ones that haven't found themselves yet.
Thus, the following year, I went back to the university, and participated in the first play in my faculty: "The House of Bernarda Alba," in which I played the role of a rebellious daughter who wanted to break free and live life her own way, despite the opposition of her contemporary society. I even recall that a few neighbors talked to my mother very concerned about if it was alright, since they could hear me yelling: "I want to break free!" about five to ten times a day. As you can imagine, I was only rehearsing, and I had to use our backyard to do so. Otherwise, my five brothers and sisters would have complained to her about my annoying rehearsal. Well, I gave them each a ticket: neighbors and siblings, which seemed to soothe everyone. My group and I did not make a single dime, and our literature teacher (I forgave her already) did not give us a single point for our effort, since the play was not part of the syllabus, but I had the time of my life: Had I found my dream come true? As you can imagine, I wanted to travel all over the world with my group. They did. I did not. This is another story, too.
Anywhere, somewhere in between, reality paid a toll, and I found myself getting married, finishing my life credential, going through a divorce, not having time to write, not knowing whether I wanted to be a teacher anymore, or finish my doctorate, which I was doing at the time ... Until my father, a high-school principal, told me about an agreement between the American and the Spanish Department of Education, according to which Spanish teachers were invited to come to California for a year, and share with our prospective American students our areas of expertise.
I came for a year, was renewed my contract, a year became another, and ... when I thought it was the time to return to my teaching position in the Canary Islands and then go to Australia, I met my husband, James, who was also considering leaving our current home, Bakersfield, to return to his hometown of Santa Rosa (although he was actually born in San Francisco), in Northern California.
We got married one year later, in the island of Gran Canaria, at my great-grandmother Ana's church, on a beautiful summer day, back in July 2000. Now, two children, two dogs, one rabbit, three birds and two fish later, I still do not feel comfortable including my vegetable garden as one of my accomplishments (or, perhaps, I should say prospective vegetable garden, but well, that will another story, too). I am still trying to find the courage to squeeze all the time and really write as much and as well as my writer's voice allows me to.
Until now, I have always had the excuse of, you know? I can do it better, but I did not really have more time. Now, though, I really, really want to find out if I am that good, or if I should simply continue to write as a hobby, or in my diaries, and this part was a very scary thing to share. I feel very vulnerable, but relieved, right now. I'm glad I did (if I do not delete this part before I share it, that is).
When I'm not writing, by the way, I can be found playing the piano, reading, watching movies, and traveling with my family. That, of course, when I am not teaching, both at my school and at church, or doing any of the other activities related to my family (both the human and the non-human members have their own preferences). I also love reading and writing both in English and in Spanish. I am especially interested in literature for girls and women, both fiction and non-fiction. My unfinished doctorate thesis was based on "The Secret of Joy," by Alice Walker.
I would love to become a published writer someday, and mainly to enjoy the journey, and do something in this fabulous world which makes my family, friends, my students and colleagues proud of me, and our world a better place. I believe in being the change that I want to see in the world, and I hope that my writing makes a difference in somebody else's life, someday, somewhere.
I am not sure about how to address you, to begin with. I understand your concern about greeting me as "Dear Writer," anyways, since something similar (I guess) is happening to me. I am not really used to writing to someone I haven't met before (and who is going to judge my letter) about something as personal as my autobiography, so this is probably going to be the memorable beginning of a new and exciting adventure.
I began to write, according to my mother, at a very young age, when I decided to "rewrite" my parents' Larousse Encyclopedia, and add "mama" and "papa" to the first seven pages of the seventh volume. I had not thought about that before, but I guess this is why I consider seven to be my lucky number. Well, my maternal grandmother had another version of the story:
She let me know that at a much younger age I enjoyed (judging by the look on my face) taking off my diapers, and (she called it writing) drooling perhaps? on the closest wall. I will not get into details as to what type of material I used to write with.
Some other family members would have probably had a nervous breakdown over either one of the above, but my parents? They instead arranged for me to have what I called my piece of Heaven, until I was seven years old (what a coincidence! Seven!): One wall in my bedroom where I was allowed to develop my creativity, and I wrote my poems, stories and plays with a piece of chalk.
This became a win-win situation for everyone: My parents' beloved library was safe, and my imagination could run wild -although, I have to confess, not as fast as I would have loved to ...
Too many times (I recall thinking) I could hear hushing sounds when someone spoke of freedom, of liberty, or even of flying birds, to the point that I became (in some of my former teachers' opinions) obsessed with this topic ("Well, you know children," my parents said, when they were asked about why I had this apparent fixation with such an irrelevant??? topic: "As soon as they are told not to do something, they feel like there's nothing else they would rather do.")
As a consequence, I became very observant, and wrote everywhere, since I knew that, someday, I would share my thoughts with other good crazy children like me (I suppose I've managed to keep my inner child alive and kicking inside, despite all the numerous attempts by well-intentioned -but too boring- people to make me a traditional adult). Yes, I wrote everywhere: in bed, at the dining table, on the bus, in the bathroom (I had a bookcase in my bathroom, both at home, and my grandparents'), and in church (I put paper in my bible, and kept writing while Don Blas, our priest, was sharing with us the weekly news and activities of our parish). To the eyes of my world, I had come to my common sense, and, to mine, the world had begun to make a little bit more of sense.
My words became (or were) my liberation, my encrypted message to the world. I was congratulated by my teachers, and even won some literary contests at school, but nobody really knew what my words really meant: Was I talking about a person, or about animals? Was my story fictional, or non-fiction? Were there any real characters, or were they a product of my imagination?
The truth is that, at this point, I did not really understand why it was so difficult for me to explain my thoughts, my feelings, and my ideas, in simple terms, until -one day- my maternal grandfather -Antonio- was brave enough to reveal to me the truth, a truth that changed the way I saw the people around me forever. My mother gave me the magic wand I was looking for, and they both released me into a new fearless world, where there was hope and dreams of a better future.
"We are living in the last years of our lack of freedom. It is called a dictatorship. Don't repeat what I said." People's lives might be at stake, but I could smell the sweet fragrance of freedom in the air. My mother proceeded to add: "It doesn't matter if they tell you that you shouldn't fly. Your wings were given to you for some reason, and it was not to be grounded. I can assure you that." That day, my life changed: I knew from a very good source that I had been born to be free.
Many years later, I became a high school teacher of English in the Canary Islands, after having lived in England for a while. I also tried to become a flight attendant, won a few amateur writing contests (one of which, supposedly, was a trip to Kenya which I was never given because the travel company that sponsored the contest went bankrupt).
Moreover, I won a beauty contest: I was proclaimed the ideal girl (of the Canary Islands) when Hollywood was promoting the movie "The Prince of Zamunda." I went to the contest in shorts, flip flops, and a summer blouse, simply because the radio station that announced the contest was giving away free movie tickets for a month (and watching movies is one of my all favorite hobbies!) When all the other girls (and they were absolutely beautiful!) were asked to leave the stage, I really thought: "Oh, my God! They're going to ask me to leave through the back door!")
Meanwhile, I almost quit my university studies, thinking that I had so many things to share, that sitting in class and listening to someone else's adventures was not my idea of becoming more knowledgeable, until, with my parents' help, I saw the light:
I did not have to choose between writing and living a decent life which allowed me to do all the things I've always loved, including the ones I don't know about yet: I've always believed in the known and the unknown friends. Basically, the world is a fabulous place to me, with a lot of brothers and sisters all over the place, including the ones that haven't found themselves yet.
Thus, the following year, I went back to the university, and participated in the first play in my faculty: "The House of Bernarda Alba," in which I played the role of a rebellious daughter who wanted to break free and live life her own way, despite the opposition of her contemporary society. I even recall that a few neighbors talked to my mother very concerned about if it was alright, since they could hear me yelling: "I want to break free!" about five to ten times a day. As you can imagine, I was only rehearsing, and I had to use our backyard to do so. Otherwise, my five brothers and sisters would have complained to her about my annoying rehearsal. Well, I gave them each a ticket: neighbors and siblings, which seemed to soothe everyone. My group and I did not make a single dime, and our literature teacher (I forgave her already) did not give us a single point for our effort, since the play was not part of the syllabus, but I had the time of my life: Had I found my dream come true? As you can imagine, I wanted to travel all over the world with my group. They did. I did not. This is another story, too.
Anywhere, somewhere in between, reality paid a toll, and I found myself getting married, finishing my life credential, going through a divorce, not having time to write, not knowing whether I wanted to be a teacher anymore, or finish my doctorate, which I was doing at the time ... Until my father, a high-school principal, told me about an agreement between the American and the Spanish Department of Education, according to which Spanish teachers were invited to come to California for a year, and share with our prospective American students our areas of expertise.
I came for a year, was renewed my contract, a year became another, and ... when I thought it was the time to return to my teaching position in the Canary Islands and then go to Australia, I met my husband, James, who was also considering leaving our current home, Bakersfield, to return to his hometown of Santa Rosa (although he was actually born in San Francisco), in Northern California.
We got married one year later, in the island of Gran Canaria, at my great-grandmother Ana's church, on a beautiful summer day, back in July 2000. Now, two children, two dogs, one rabbit, three birds and two fish later, I still do not feel comfortable including my vegetable garden as one of my accomplishments (or, perhaps, I should say prospective vegetable garden, but well, that will another story, too). I am still trying to find the courage to squeeze all the time and really write as much and as well as my writer's voice allows me to.
Until now, I have always had the excuse of, you know? I can do it better, but I did not really have more time. Now, though, I really, really want to find out if I am that good, or if I should simply continue to write as a hobby, or in my diaries, and this part was a very scary thing to share. I feel very vulnerable, but relieved, right now. I'm glad I did (if I do not delete this part before I share it, that is).
When I'm not writing, by the way, I can be found playing the piano, reading, watching movies, and traveling with my family. That, of course, when I am not teaching, both at my school and at church, or doing any of the other activities related to my family (both the human and the non-human members have their own preferences). I also love reading and writing both in English and in Spanish. I am especially interested in literature for girls and women, both fiction and non-fiction. My unfinished doctorate thesis was based on "The Secret of Joy," by Alice Walker.
I would love to become a published writer someday, and mainly to enjoy the journey, and do something in this fabulous world which makes my family, friends, my students and colleagues proud of me, and our world a better place. I believe in being the change that I want to see in the world, and I hope that my writing makes a difference in somebody else's life, someday, somewhere.
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