Education

Sunnyside, Houston, TX

When I was four, I started school and had to go to the afternoon session of Pre Kindergarten. Rather than spending my mornings watching PBS kids, I’d walk around my neighborhood with my grandma and our two-seat stroller looking into people’s trash bags, searching for aluminum cans. We’d carry big black trash bags in the stroller making it easier for us to walk around and keep piling on the cans inside the trash bags. If we had a good day, we’d fill two trash bags and come home to a rinse with the water hose and climb back into bed as we both watched the telenovela and had pan dulce with cola-cola for breakfast.

I started to explore my community and get to know the people around us by picking at people’s trash. I didn’t think there was anything bad with it. No one would point or stare. If anything, our friends around the neighborhood would already have separated the aluminum cans from the rest of the trash and saved us the time and effort. My grandmother wasn’t an American Citizen or Resident at the time, but she had to make money some way or another because my grandfather and her couldn’t support a house full of seven men and three daughters, plus a new granddaughter. 

I wished with all my heart that I could pee in the woods. Honestly, that was the only thing that ever made me feel jealous of boys when I was growing up, that they could pee in the woods easily while I could not, at least not as comfortably. I was proud of my girlhood from a young age, preferring feminine clothing (as in that made for female-bodied people), joining Girl Scouts, riding a bike without the bar from seat to handles, etc, but out in nature, camping and on long hikes and places generally free from the normal facilities and peeing in the woods was sometimes the only option, I wished I could be a boy, even if only for five minutes.

When's it my turn?
Wouldn't I love, love to explore that world up above?
Out of the sea,
Wish I could be,
Part of that world

--The Little Mermaid

 I’d sing along, my young self draped over the coffee table in front of the TV with a huge smile on my face, I was a mermaid. I even asked the shopping mall Santa to make me into a mermaid that year, my heart filled with mild disappointment when I awoke to a Little Mermaid toy doll under the tree instead of real life fins on my feet. I didn’t recognize until recently the irony in this wish, how I so badly wanted to become a mermaid and escape to the sea while I sang along to a tale about leaving the ocean to become human. Ironic, even, that this mermaid became human in order to commit to a lover, while I wanted to become a mermaid to find freedom and independence.

Yet, my mom sometimes recounts a story of a very young Simona experiencing the ocean for the first time. I put my hand into the sand, looked at the grains stuck to my skin, stared at the waves, turned my eyes to my mom’s face, and began to cry. Sand was a foreign substance, and the ocean was as threatening as the unexplored depths it guards. This fear of the sea as a young child compared to my love for the underwater world found in films is a confusing contradiction. What impacted me more, the fantasy or the reality?