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March 2012
Women. Brunettes. Blondes. Gingers. Auburns. Shy. Outgoing. Free. Guilty. Happy. Brave. Resigned. Proud. Blind. Sensitive. Awake. Women who are just what society allowed them to be. Women who make themselves every day. Women who change the world and women who don’t believe they are strong. Women who love women. Women who love men. Women who can’t even love themselves. Blue, black, grey, brown, and green eyed women. Women with a dark gaze. Women with a light gaze. Women who are in my day to day life. Women who make me happy, who give me life, and take it away. Women I see on the streets whom I don’t even know.February 2012
Don’t kid yourself, lesbian, you don’t exist. I know it would seem as if you did. When you are in the subway or walking down the street, you look like any other woman. A real woman. But you are not. Your inexistence started before you could even assimilate it. You weren’t born yelling from between two open legs because you, lesbian, have been delivered by a man not by another woman. In this a man’s world, it’s men who have defined and explained lesbianism – always in relation to them and their role in society. You have been sick or a pervert. Rebel against your gender assigned role. Strange. Sinner. Depraved. Naïve. Too ugly to attract a man. A bad copy of a man.
June 2011
It seems than colours and words can't be mixed. How serious and faithful is a speech whose words are leaving a pair of lips painted in red? Some time ago I addressed a speech about Lesbianism and Visibility. As soon as it was finished, a woman from the audience got close to me as to spring these remarks on me: “Before you started talking, I dismissed any sort of depth or strength in your words due to your feminine image. We're used to find the best speeches in those women who wear short hair and whose images are completely male appearances, or pretty ambiguous at least.
May 2011
Last morning I received a letter that made me feel different and made a great change in my mind. It was from an eleven-year old girl’s father. In order to keep their privacy we’ll name them as John and Helen. John got divorced three years ago. Now he just enjoys Helen two weekends a month and a couple of evenings every week since his ex-wife is the one who was given custody of their only daughter. Since Helen was a little kid, John realized she was different from the rest of his friend’s children. As he writes on his letter: “She never enjoied dolls or little girls’ games; she plays football much better than her male cousins do; she likes wearing short hair, braids or pony tails; she feels very embarrassed wearing those dresses her mother buys to her. Even her grandparents on her mother side are frequently calling butch to her
April 2011
What being alive is? Are inhaling and exhaling enough as to say we are alive? Breathing is basically, an action to make a difference between those who are stepping on the ground and the ones who are resting under it. Some of these, even when they’re supposed not to be able to do it, seem to be alive more than most of us. And it may be because of their achivements, or because they left unforgottable traces or even because they hurted a lot and left countless wounds and scars.
May 2010
What’s to read in us? Writer Paul Valèry used to say that people and books have the same enemies. Moisture, fire, and of course, our content. Our content. Our ideas, our introduction, our chapters, our footnotes. Our prologue, our conclusion. Everything we say when we say and everything we say when we are quiet. A couple of weeks ago a young lesbian got her family toghether to comunicate her sexual orientation and inform that she was moving in with her girlfriend. Her parents and uncles approached her with arms wide open. To hug her? One might think so, precisely because one’s family is supposed to be the group of people that love one the most. But I allow myself to anticipate the end of the story before we reach it. It wasn’t to hug or support her. Prejudices win in this story, not love.
April 2010
How much life conceals an act as ordinary as having breakfast? It’s a morning of march at a cafeteria in Madrid. A coffee, some toasts with tomato, a newspaper, and in the background, a television where a number of people that fit in 30 inches analyze with the same concern and depth the sex abuse perpetrated to a group of boys and the new love in the life of a model. At the next table a group of women discuss that this will be a very bad spring, just because it’s raining lightly today, just because the sun hasn’t come out today, as if one day was enough to judge a whole season. As if we weren’t able to see beyond what’s in front of our pupils.
Women. Brunettes. Blondes. Gingers. Auburns. Shy. Outgoing. Free. Guilty. Happy. Brave. Resigned. Proud. Blind. Sensitive. Awake. Women who are just what society allowed them to be. Women who make themselves every day. Women who change the world and women who don’t believe they are strong. Women who love women. Women who love men. Women who can’t even love themselves.
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