Postcards from Cape Town

Quick Note: In my time at Cape Town, I have seen so much. I really have no idea how to put it all into words. But here is my attempt at doing so. I’d love to hear any thoughts or reactions.

Main Rd, Green Point, Cape Town

Yesterday,

I was wandering down Main Rd, captivated by the horizon tracing a golden finger across the sky to my left. The Atlantic Ocean meets Cape Town here, and the affair is everybody’s business. Tourists took pictures with IPhones and memories that last forever.  The ocean breeze was a warm whisper to your ear on a lonely night. When it was windy, the sand on the small beach prickled your skin. The sun was visible on all the windows of the Radisson Blu Le Vendome Hotel and the innumerable towering hotels down this road. The cars endlessly whizzing past were the vibrations on your phone disturbing you at night just before you fell into a dream. A taxi van insistently honked for my attention. I turned away from the driver, eyes widening at the lights of the restaurants. There was an ocean of people whose voices were waves, constantly crashing and splashing into my ears. This ocean of people flooded the seats, tables, and bar stools of ostentatious restaurants. There were performances of love, mostly those of men loving men and women loving men. The people were wearing clothes too fancy for the occasion. And the occasion was life. I could hear the rattling and slicing of the knives in the kitchen and the clanging of glasses mixed with wine, tequila, rum, and other tonics.

The smell of alcohol forced itself into my nose, and the stares of women made me wonder. I couldn’t help but smile at the vivacity; it was highly contagious. But when I tripped on an uneven layer of concrete on the sidewalk, my smile crumbled into disbelief. Because this road, like the streets of this city, held a darkness that could shallow all the opulence of this desired tourist destination.

Wandering down Main Rd, captivated by the horizon tracing a golden finger across the sky to my left, the Atlantic Ocean was wrestling with Cape Town once more, out of spite for the man that lay on the bench with tattered clothes and newspaper blankets. Meanwhile, everyone was minding their own business. Tourists took pictures of skylines, sunsets, the ocean, and the parabolic curves of their wine glasses. Meanwhile, a human shuffled past The Jewel Of India restaurant uttering indecipherable messages in an African language, eyes fixed on some future balancing at the edge of a cliff. The ocean breeze was the whistle the devil made as it seeped through the holes in the plastic bags used by homeless humans lying along Main Rd. The sun was a timer, counting down the people left in the streets that could spare some change for these hungry humans. The cars whizzing past were the oppressors in khakis and tight dresses, a reminder of immobility for those humans huddled in the street’s corners. The people in the fancy buildings drinking those perfumed drinks might as well be cardboard, myself included. Billboards. Advertisements. Lies. Here in Main Rd, there were two worlds. One was real; the other was an old, stubborn ghost, that always seemed unrecognizable. It kills slowly.

University of Cape Town—Woolsack Residence P2. 211.

It is quiet in my room at midnight.

I can hear myself breathe.

I can’t feel my body.

Sound
ebbs
flows
from
my voice
as I read a poem
or listen to music.
The space in the room is water.

In my last breath,
skin dissolves,
organs gone,
(did they never exist?)
my soul diffusing
to the corners of this box.

On the walkway outside my window,
laughs from students recounting night’s stories.
In the communal kitchen,
a clanging of pots and the release of the tap.
But these sounds only knock on my door,
or tap on my window,
for within these walls
I am contained

formless

like water.

Entrapped in my inner world—
free to roam.

Confronted with my demons—
they only speak underwater.

On my desk—a pile of books. The thin desk wobbles every day. The pile grows. I am water.
The curtains—my eyelids. Closed when I am sleeping. Open when I am blind.
The door—possibly the wound. I am trying to figure out who left it there.
The walls—the body. I want to make love to it.
The stranger in my bed—the source of original pain.

The First is Always the Hardest; A Reflection on Impostor Syndrome and Why I Haven’t Been Writing

I am on synthetic grass, and there is a scattering of black rubber grains from the turf sticking to my forearms.

I am breathing heavily after finishing a sprint. Sweat glimmering on my arms.  My hands rest on my hips, momentarily, and I bend over forward slightly. I lock my eyes on the ball. This is a difficult task consider the large crowd. The coach’s yells. The chants. My teammate’s shouts. My own heart beat racing. I lunge forward to start running. I am still out of breath. But everyone is watching so I force my body to run. My focus on the ball quivers, replaced by slight blurs. I feel my control slipping. It is happening again. I continue to breathe heavy, and my heart beats accelerate. I am no longer seeing, but watching. My body goes on automatic as my inner consciousness braces itself for the flurry of emotion. I breathe through gasps for air, and feel as if I will reach a point where I will no longer be able to breathe. But that never comes. What does come is the sea of worried and puzzled faces on my teammates and coaches. Like a burst pipe, shame floods my body. The pressure of every body’s eyes weighs on me. I motion for a substitute. I walk off, head bowed. Looking down at my shaky hands, which held the excitement I had to be playing in such a big game, now beaten and weary.

In my junior year of high school, my first year on the varsity team, I could not play to the best of my ability because I was plagued by series of panic attacks that stemmed from internal pressures and unresolved emotions. Those pressures and emotions have continued to resurface at various points in my life, and I doubt they will ever see an end.

For many months now, I have been experiencing a kind of paralysis.

For starters, I have been in creative paralysis. I have scantly been able to write, and share my work. I have not performed any of my poetry. This comes after having published two poems in a well-recognized online magazine called Circulo Poesía, having established a relationship with a great poetry professor and mentor, performed numerous times at different events at my school, and gaining support from my peers and family. No, it is not writers block. Writers Block means not having any ideas, or it means that I crash into brick walls every time I try writing. That is not what I have been feeling. Because in the moments I have managed to write, like finally listening to a good song, I dance. The pen moves graciously on the page, the words make my heart go “mhmmm”, my body awakens with sensation reaching all my edges, and I smile at the page for minutes (or cry sometimes). What I have been feeling is tantamount to being on a stage, the curtains having just opened, the blinding stage lights hitting my eyes, expectant gazes paying full attention to me. I have been stuck in that inaudible “oh shit” moment. When a second splits into an eternity, and rather than coming out with the flair and ease you imagined and others expected, you are rendered immobile. I have been living in that split second, and yes it is lasting an eternity. If any notion of time has passed it is because I have, in my mind, traveled to the thoughts of everyone in the room, exploring each and giving it due weight. So Stage Fright? You may be asking. I will say yes, but there’s more.

In that split second, I have re-winded through many years in my life, skipping some, pausing on others trying to make sense of this moment I am living. There must be something in my life I missed, I thought. Something that must explain why I am here now and what I am supposed to do. I paused at, ironically, another moment where I found myself in a kind of paralysis. Sprinting and panting. Sweat slipping off my forearms. Eyes focused. I was back in the blue and white uniforms of the San Dieguito Mustangs in high school. It was my senior year. Everyone had high expectations of me. At least that’s what I thought. This was my fourth year in the soccer program; my second on the varsity team. I was part of the starting eleven squad, and now well known in my high school and team. I had ascended the ranks of soccer since I started playing the recreational leagues, and was looking at the possibility of playing college soccer. I had things going for me. The pressure was on. Even if there had been no audience in any game, I would have still felt the pressure. Because what happened was I had imagined myself being on a stage, but stopped at the split second of the “oh shit” moment.

It is like dreaming so much about something that it becomes your moon. The light guiding you on a journey. The dream demands you to live on the edge, and follow the ambitions in your heart. But when you wake up one day and find yourself on the moon, living your dream, if you hadn’t ever believed you were actually going to make it, like me, you find yourself in the “oh shit” moment. You see, what is never said about “faking it till you make it” is that some of us have faked it for so long, that we got comfortable in the fictions we imagined, and the sensational dreams we conjured as motivation. So when reality stands in front of you like a giant audience of people whose eyes are all on you, you say “oh shit, this is actually happening”. And although you know in your heart what to do on this stage, for that split second, all you can do is search desperately within you for the signs that you missed—the signs foretelling that you were destined to do great things—the signs that would explain why you are now in this position where you can be great and live your dreams.

I am talking about impostor syndrome.

Impostor syndrome is constantly being unable to accept your successes, and give yourself credit, because deep down you believe you are a fraud. It is starting a successful business, landing a job at a top company, getting your PhD, attending an elite college, winning a writing contest, finally beginning to practice self-love, a whole myriad of things, and still believing like you don’t deserve any of it, or that at some point people will find out you do not really belong in those spaces. Deep down you have internalized a fear that you are truly incapable of accomplishing your goals and being the role model that you have always sought or aspired to be. For me, impostor syndrome means gaining support as a writer, being accepted into a prestigious fellowship, and traveling to South Africa, almost all paid for by my school and fellowship, just to name a few, and feeling undeserving of it all to the point that I almost wish I could sabotage everything so that there would be no more expectations. Also, when I say great I don’t refer to the standard, masculinized, monolithic form of greatness. I mean great as in your best self. The You that brings a rush of excitement through you, and feels strong in your sense of self. The You that you couldn’t imagine you were, but that (although you will never admit this) you know yourself to be deep inside. That kind of greatness.

Impostor syndrome, regardless of how wide-spread its fame, is not given enough attention. And few people realize impostor syndrome when it hits. They dismiss it as laziness, an inability to stick with something for too long, a lack of focus, not having motivation, not deserving it, a myriad of things. This past couple of weeks I have been dismissing it as “it’s just not the time yet” or “I just don’t know what to say.” And while those are perfectly valid things to say in certain moments, for me, in my particular time and place of mind, I now understand them as dismissing a real-issue. Because what I hadn’t realized I meant when I thought “I just don’t know what to say,” is “I don’t know that I have anything to offer.” I was in an academic program in Cape Town, South Africa the past week and a half, and there were many things I wish I could have said. But deep inside, I had been paralyzed by that split second realization that I was living my dreams, and it could not be real. It could not be me in that skin. It could not be me sitting next to these bright individuals. It couldn’t.

Impostor syndrome is paralyzing. It is living in that second of unending uncertainty and fright. It is being on your stage and struggling to accept that you no longer have to fake it till you make it, because you have just now realized that you are it. And you have always been it.

This piece goes go out to those friends who have said something, done something, or acted in such a way that has made me feel like I am that which I have dreamt. When one is going through a difficult bout of impostor syndrome, if there is no friend or support group to unsettle and clarify that view, one can crack. Each crack comes from a different emotional pain sustained, a shout restrained, ending in fissures of one’s soul. I have been enjoyed the privilege (and I mean this in the full sense of the word) of meeting people that believe in me. I ask myself why they do every day. I am definitely cracking in many places. But anything can be undone or it can be built on if someone can help you pick up the pieces. Or maybe the cracking is a way of breaking through a shell. I am still figuring this out.

Thank you to all those friends who constantly help me pick up the pieces. I hope to give to you as much as you have given me.

Hombres de Acero

Aquí dejo este poema en que he estado trabajando por un tiempo. Me ha tomado varias revisiones para entender que quería comunicar este poema, y como, pero por ahora, así quedó. Claro que un poema nunca se termina, pero por ahora lo dejaré así.

Hombres de Acero

Soy un hombre de acero.

Mis puños sangran,
Mientras me clavo tornillos en la espalda
De acuerdo con la forma de mi herida.
Mientras la marca es inmortal, el dolor es una llama
Que no quema si los tienes suficientemente grandes.

Hombre, yo
Soy la madera de esta casa
Y la tierra firme bajo ella.
Que tiemble el planeta
Para que vea la pura fuerza del

Hombre, mi padre
Fue el cabrón que me enseñó a usar
El amor como un soplete
Y la caballerosidad como unas pinzas
Para moldear su corazón a mi deseo.

Toma, mi vida, decía mi madre,
Entregando el yunque, manos temblando, que usaría
En la edad de mi padre para continuar
El trabajo de los varones
Y que solo los varones podrían hacer

Bueno, no las putas
Que no aguantan las lágrimas
Cuando la vida te agarra por las partes
Débiles.

Yo soy un macho, te digo
Mis manos salen del horno de enfado, incandescentes,
Para chisporrotear en la cara de esa vieja.

Estoy corroído, pero eso que,
a veces me paso una o dos cervezas.
Todo hombre comete error.

Yo soy un hombre de acero, ¡te digo!

Cuando escuché de la muerte de mi padre
Solo di tres gritos en el bar,
y forniqué a otra mujer.
Yo penetro a quien quiera
No sabes, uno se convierte en hombre
cuando encuentra su orgullo
En los gritos de una mujer,
Pero nunca el amor.

Pon tu oreja en mi pecho,
El calor que sientes
Es del motor construido
Con manos callosas y sucias,
Manos de mi padre.

Ese cabrón fue un herrero.
Sus palabras, martillos,
Y su amor, puro fuego.

Por eso soy su producto,

                                         Otro corroído hombre de acero.

 

Of Color 1

Of  Color 1

In every class I’ve had in the United States,

Someone has figured out that I’m Mexican.

Not that I was always hiding, but

The question–invasive,

reminded me of

La Migra and how they curate Mexican people

By how friendly the sun is to their skin.

Those moments brought flashbacks–

Border PTSD.

It takes three times to explain the melody of my name.

In their tongues it sounds foreign.

In my tongue, there is protest from trying to eat too much spicy Mexican food.

I can’t roll my r’s, and it used to hurt.

Español tumbles from my Anglo-fied lips.

I am a Mexi-CAN’T be-Mexican-enough.

Meshika, meshika, meshika, the indigenous person in front of me

whispers as the tip of my sword frees a drop of blood from his neck.

MEH–HE–CO,  I turn to tell my fellow Chicano in class.

If I were in México, this poem would have been written in Spanish,

And it would not have the word hiding

Because the mafia would’ve already gotten to me.

In high school, people expected us to be gangsters.

But I couldn’t be further from it.

I learned about love from novelas, which I watched as a kid.

Gangsters have only now started watching novelas.

Pass it on.

I remember in high school, all the paisanos knew each other.

We were tied with bonds we did not realize existed.

I’m not sure we liked it.

But it was easier to be noticed.

There was a grating satisfaction in that.

Bienvenidos| Welcome

Hello!
My name is Rubén Díaz Vásquez, or Rubén JDV for artistic purposes. I was born in Oaxaca City, Oaxaca, México, a beautiful city known for it’s vibrant culture. It is also known for producing these interesting little creatures named alebrijes [ a, as said in apple, le, as said in leg, bri, as said in breeze, and jes, as said in heterosexual ]. Alebrijes are these imaginary creatures, stemming from the ill-stricken nightmares of Pedro Linares. Over time, these creatures have been crafted as wooden figures and sold widely across México and especially with tourists. Happening by chance, bearing indigenous influence but not roots, sold for the benefit of relentless capitalists, I think souls are a lot like alebrijes.

Thank you for taking some time to look around this cyber-room of mine. It is filled with poems that dare to do things I could not. Inside this space, I explore my own identity and world until I am so nebulous, I vanish. I belong to something else.
I hope some of these poems speak to you, and I’d love to hear your thoughts as we share this space! Feel free to either message me or email me.

*******

Hola! 
Mi nombre es Rubén Díaz Vásquez, o Rubén JDV para propósitos artisticos. Yo nací en Oaxaca, Oaxaca, México, una bella ciudad conocida por su cultura vibrante. También, es conocida por sus artesanías, como por ejemplo los alebrijes. Los alebrijes son criaturas de fantasía hechas de madera, y vendidas en varias partes de México, especialmente alrededor de zonas turísticas. Los alebrijes son el resultado de unas pesadillas que tuvo Pedro Linares, un artista, mientras combatía una dura enfermedad. Ocurriendo por casualidad, conteniendo influencias indigenas pero no raíces, vendidas para el beneficio de capitalistas, yo creo que las almas se parecen mucho a los alebrijes.

Muchas gracias por tomar un poco de tiempo para explorar esté cuarto virtual mío. Aquí esta lleno de poemas que se atreven a hacer cosas que yo nunca pudiera. Dentro de este espacio, yo exploro mi propia identidad y mundo hasta que se torne tan nebuloso que desaparece. Entonces significa que pertenesco a algo más.

Espero que algunos de estos poemas resuenen con ustedes, y me encantaría escuchar sus comentarios mientras compartimos este espacio! Me pueden mandar un mensaje por este sitio o por mi correo electrónico.