June 18, 2007

Today, no work. A day for myself. I shopped, I pierced my body. No pain. Only an inch toward rebellion.

Not much to say. I am a disappointment to my girls. My girls. They are mine, and I let them down daily. Where is my heart? Completely numb to their cries, because the pills I take to ease my fear and everything I might be feeling now.

So much to say, I cannot even type...

June 19, 2007

The new girl is a bitch... but she is a bitch in rarest form. She has brought me some type of inspiration: the vitality and liveliness of being truly, in-your-face honest. Honesty-- oh, so sweet.

It's in your face. What do we fear? The truth. Every single last one of us. She brings it to us all, and the others cringe at what she has to offer. I dig it.

Tomorrow is going to be quite a day. I have to wake up early to help fundraise for the orphanage Dominga Boca with Michelle. It will be an experience, but I also feel guilty for neglecting my girls. When I am there, I feel useless. When I am not there, I feel like a mother neglecting her children. These girls have already been abandoned. The one glamourous thing in their life-- this blonde-headed, blue-eyed American giving out her love to each one of them-- takes time for herself. Is this permissible?

When I was walking from my orphanage to Dominga Boca, a guy grabbed his crotch and made a kiss face at me. I gave him a bad look, and then he did it again. This kid was no older than 17, and so I gave him the bird. I was so angry.

We went for hamburgers tonight, and this Ecuadorian girl dressed in scrubs comes up to me. She introduced me to her male friend, and next thing I knew they wanted pictures, and more pictures. Ha! Here is me, this white girl... and that's all that I am. My pride is uncontainable at some points. Not because I am from the United States, but because I am automatically famous because of my genetics. The natural blonde hair, my eyes that shine brighter than ever in the midst of a world with only black eyes. My eyes give me away more than anything. Sometimes, I feel like looking at no one. Why share the clear, glassy blue only to be gawked at like some supermodel or gestured by the men as some Paris Hilton prostitute gamete.

If they only knew the truth. The past of my drugs, and my family, and my own history of poverty and pain. I am different by the amount of melanin in my skin and the color of my eyes, but I am more similar to some of these children and people surrounding me than they know. I have known neglect. I have known abuse to some extent. I've experienced the police being involved with my family. Foster care, and supporting myself, and being forced to rely on the kindness of a stranger.

Yet I am treated like Brittany Spears or a Kelly Clarkson. The benefits are interminable. They see my Americanism and assume riches and opportunity. Sure, it's true in some aspects. Who reaches out to those of us like me? The children with their lice-ridden hair, and stretched out panties, and their funny hairstyles and crooked teeth: the USA is proud to give proceeds to them. But what of the blonde-haired, blue-eyed children who are entirely misunderstood by their fortunate genetics? Assumptions. All assumptions. They are blind to my bleeding. They would never dream of my own desire to lie down and die. They are deaf to the mourning of my own heart. Because I am from USA; because I am here for them, not myself.

These little ones, they give all that they have... their love. Today, I received a hair tie from a girl who braided my hair at my orphanage. "Un regalo". So simple, yet so significant, in that I have a plethora, and this is one of the few that she has been GIVEN. My gratitude is that of a multitude, all over a simple, pink hair tie and the simple act of braiding my hair.