This is a piece written by my good friend Victoria Gavia (with minimal contributions on my part), about our day with the “Caravana 43”, the parents and classmates of the 43 disappeared students from Iguala, Mexico. It was an honor to stand in solidarity with these brave souls. Emotions were high, and I will also remember this as one of the most passionate marches I’ve ever attended. Feel free to share this on social media, and make it clear that we demand an end to military aid to Mexico (Germany has done it, we can too!)

¡La luuuuuuucha sigue, sigue!

United with the Caravana 43 in Seattle

By Victoria Gavia

This past weekend the Caravana 43 from Iguala, Mexico (in the state of Guerrero) made their way through Washington in an effort to raise awareness, gather support, and continue their search for justice. One of their stops along the way included a panel presentation at Seattle University, along with a rally at the Mexican Consulate downtown, and a march from there to Seattle’s Federal Building. The 43 disappeared students of the teaching College of Ayotzinapa is an injustice that must not be ignored or forgotten. If you are unfamiliar with this tragedy, I urge you to research it—because despite what you might think, it affects you. This caravana (caravan) symbolizes the struggle of their parents, the struggle for justice, and the struggle for the truth.

“No Justice, No Peace”

On September 26^th, 2014 the normalistas, who are all members of the Federacion Estudiantes Campesinos Socialistas, were blocked by municipal police who had left one of their patrol cars in the middle of the road. Some of the students went outside to move the car—that’s when police started shooting at them. The details of the event leading up to their inevitable disappearance are not all here—this act is couched in corruption and lies—but the reality remains, these young people are gone and we don’t know what has happened to them.

“Vivos se los llevaron, vivos los queremos”

We were shown graphic images of several bodies left in the street from that night, videos of the frequent confrontations between students and police forces, and an image of a man so brutally murdered that we saw the skull under the skin of his face. That night, our student presenter, Angel Neri de la Cruz Ayala, saw 3 of his friends die at the hands of the police.

“Ayotzinapa vive, vive, la lucha sigue, sigue”

Unbelievably, this is only one of many such tragedies that occurs in Mexico—crimes committed by the state with impunity. But, Angel’s brother Josimar, who was standing alongside him throughout the presentation, had an important message for everyone in the room. He said that when he heard what had happened to his brother and the 43 students his blindfold was torn off. He came to realize what kind of world he would be allowing his daughter to inherit by not challenging a system which oppresses. If we let this go unpunished, and unaccounted for it will be repeated again, and again. In the U.S. we see this same devaluation and disregard for life—and it must be confronted with action. Josimar became involved with this caravan not just for his brother, but for his family, and for his daughter. “I don’t want my daughter to inherit a world where she can’t be free,” he said. It’s difficult to raise one’s voice under such circumstances, but it is up to us to sow the seeds of social consciousness.

“Stop Military Aid to Mexico”

Later that day we worked to sow some of these seeds by marching down the streets of Downtown Seattle. We heard from a mother and a father of two of the missing students. They spoke with conviction, passion, and hope—and led the march to the federal building where important government officials have their offices. The italicized phrases throughout this text are just some of the words we chanted to get our message across. “Stop Military Aid to Mexico” is one phrase that has significance not just to the students of Ayotzinapa, but for the entire country of Mexico, and other nations across the globe that the U.S. sends aid to. Specifically, Plan Mérida is the military aid program which the U.S. Department of State website describes as, “an unprecedented partnership between the United States and Mexico to fight organized crime and associated violence while furthering respect for human rights and the rule of law.” Sadly, the reality does not reflect this ideal, and in fact directly contradicts it—as we are seeing, the police and military in Mexico are corrupt in every level, and this money is being used to fuel a narco gobierno (narco-government) that is killing those who speak out against it. Nestora Salgado, who we were also marching for, is a political prisoner (and naturalized U.S. citizen) in Guerrero who was detained and held without an arrest warrant by Mexican federal soldiers in August of 2013. Why? She was a community leader in policing efforts against organized crime. She dared speak out and is paying the price with her freedom. So we march for her; we march for all those in every corner of the world who dedicate themselves to the cause of creating a better world, no matter the cost.

This was one of the most passionate and energetic marches I have ever had the privilege to attend, and as I shouted with everyone in attendance, our voices united to become a force for change. Our march was blessed by the Aztec dancers at the start, their conch trumpets sounded and resonated in every ear—a deep bellow that is our call to action. This sacred and ancient instrument has associations with the sea, the call to prayer, the underworld, the moon, fertility, and the wind god Ehécatl, who had the power to blow life into a void. Its lasting sound is resonant of ‘the primordial blast of the world produced in the underworld by Quetzalcóatl heralding the creation of humankind’ (Patrick Johansson)—on the day of our march it symbolized the sound of our collective action working to birth a new world—one in which the search for justice is not met with enmity.

UPS and Pacific Lutheran University, United for Ayotzinapa

Photo by Emily Pederson

Aztec dancers marching through downtown Seattle with the Caravana

Doing a senior thesis can feel a lot like walking around with an anchor, barnacles and all, tied to your back. It absorbs all your spare minutes and then some, ties your brain in a knot, and slowly compresses your social life until you realize the last time you had a girl’s night was two months ago. Of course, it can also be an intellectually and creatively rewarding experience. It is an opportunity for us to put what we’ve learned into practice and come out with a big…something at the end. Personally, I’ve been working on my first novella. I’m midway through the rough draft and it’s about fifty pages, the longest thing I’ve ever written. Keeping in mind that I’m only at the beginning of the process, here are some tips that will hopefully make it easier for you than it was for me.

1.)    Start early. It can take weeks to find a director and a reader, let alone start writing it. Your adviser doesn’t always do this so you may have to ask around. Make sure you’re working with professors you’re comfortable with.

2.)    Meet with your director often. You really don’t want to find out fifteen pages into it that they think you should be doing a completely different topic. I had to scrap twenty pages of research notes because they no longer fit with the context of my novella. It was painful.

3.)    Apply for summer research. Every year UPS offers summer research stipends, which are about $3250 a piece. If you get one of these stipends you can take the summer to focus entirely on your thesis. I received one for the summer of 2015. As a college student with a minimum of ten things on my to-do list, it is going to be a real blessing. I can take my time and make my thesis the best it can be.

4.)    Revise. Then revise again. Repeat. Good writing isn’t written it’s rewritten.

5.)    Choose a topic that you’re passionate about. There will be nights when you really don’t want to work on your thesis. That forcing yourself to write will feel like dragging yourself to an eight o’clock organic chemistry class. This makes those nights easier.

So this is what I’ve learned so far. Also, apparently I need to add more setting description. My novella currently sounds like it’s taking place in a vacuum. But that’s what second drafts are for. The first draft is just to get words on the page. Anything beyond that is a bonus. So good luck and remember; it doesn’t have to be perfect. It just has to be there.

When people ask me how I like my college, I always respond the same way: “I love it.” I am challenged here, cared for here, supported here. I am involved. I am engaged. I am busy.
I am happy.
Most of the time.
But. There are bad days. Bad weeks. There are unexpected challenges, and I find myself breaking into pieces, watching emotion well through the cracks I have splintered in myself.
It is important, in the midst of the college decision season, to tell you, these times happen. I feel a duty to admit this and to embrace it. We cannot feel joy all the time. I miss my mom. My laptop broke. I was worried about registration. I’m stressed about a research project. I’m sick. This week, I am floundering.
But what it is important to recognize, I think, is that even on these days, this is still an incredible community.
It is easy, when walking around Puget Sound’s campus, to be struck with the idyllic beauty of our world. It is easy when one is admitted to colleges to feel as though you are being overwhelmed with impressiveness of the American University Experience. It seems almost to sparkle. Often, I sparkle too, shining in the light of all the things I see and do here. But this is not always how college feels. It is scary sometimes, difficult sometimes. It is a process of being stretched, pulled wider and longer, a process of expanding. And expanding can hurt.
That’s okay. That’s natural. It is no cause for alarm, and in fact I think bad days deserve our attention and our respect too. Because if every day was the best of our lives, how would anything feel special?
I suppose what I am trying to emphasize is that college isn’t about good days. It is about all days. It is about diving in. That means sunny afternoons on the quad that are like something out of a catalog, that glossy, but it also means listening to John Mayor in my dorm room, nursing my heartache. It means having faith in myself, my school and my community. It means waking up again in the morning, to do it all again.

I thought coming to college there would be time to explore Canada, all over Washington and possibly Oregon. But in actuality college is more time-consuming, travel time is too much time. I think the only time I’ve been to Seattle is for crew regattas and Thanksgiving with my roommate, there isn’t even time to make that 45min-1hour drive. But the one thing we have is technology. The ability to stay in contact, if we so wish with our friends and family, to make friends and explore other places through those new snapchat events.

I have a mental illness. When I was sixteen, I was diagnosed with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. That was a very painful time for me—I spent a lot of it crying. At one point, my mother and I wondered if I would be better off in a psychiatric ward. We went to a friend’s Halloween party instead. I put on my Maximum Ride costume, carved a scary pumpkin, and resumed living my life. It was one of the best decisions I have ever made.

I’m not alone. According to the informational posters displayed by UPS, one in six students here has an invisible disability. And mine is invisible. Most people wouldn’t notice anything different about me. I eat at the SUB, attend classes, and pursue my dream of being a writer. In short, I appear just like the rest of the student body. I may tell close friends about my disability but for the most part it remains “in the closet.” I do not want people to look at me differently. I do not want to look at myself differently.

Despite this, I was surprised when a professor said that admitting more mentally ill people made campus more “volatile” and that was why we didn’t have as many intense debates. I remember thinking that just because we are mentally ill does not mean we are jerks. This professor judged me without knowing anything about me or my situation. He didn’t even have to look at me. In that moment, I was glad my disability was “in the closet.” I did not want to be thought of as less than.

Why are remarks like these considered acceptable? It would not be acceptable to say that African American students made campus more volatile or that gay and lesbian students made campus more volatile. How are students with mental disabilities different? It is the same concept of isolating a particular group and disparaging it for its difference.

Last week, I heard the word “neurotypical” in conversation for the first time, used to describe people without mental disabilities. I don’t believe any of us are truly normal or neurotypical. We are all different, each and every one of us. I adore murder mysteries. My friend is fascinated by autobiographies. My sister loves anime. Wouldn’t it be nice if we supported our differences? Gave each other tolerance instead of judgment? Why do we feel this need to look down on one another?

None of us are less than because of the things that make us different. We all have the right to acceptance and encouragement. And most importantly, we should accept and encourage ourselves. Let’s all take that thing that makes us “weird” and let it out of the closet. Celebrate it! Because in doing so we celebrate ourselves.

We’re halfway through spring semester (and this first blog post is long overdue)! I’ve been up to a whole lot guysss…

So, I was lame and spent Spring Break on our beautiful, lonely, rain-full campus (Close to going on a backpacking trip to Death Valley with Puget Sound Outdoors, I decided to save for a trip to Mexico this summer with my best friend), which allowed me to recover from a very caffeine-intensive, high-stakes, sleep-deprived midterms week. During this free time, I hibernated for three days (because I was lucky enough to have all of my exams and assignments due the Friday before spring break!), repeatedly indulged in “the cookie” from the metropolitan market, and then got back to work again… on the job search and getting ahead on schoolwork because, for seniors like me, we have 6. Weeks. Till. Graduation.

The truth is, I’ve mostly been looking forward to graduating since the beginning of senior year. Yea, I love learning at UPS and I’m sure there are things I take for granted now that I’ll come to miss. Maybe that we actually get rain here, maybe I’ll miss being surrounded by people my age. But really, I’m so ready to get out of the bubble!

I should be more terrified than I am, considering I don’t have solid plans or a job lined up yet. Also, I’ve had to remember to graduate first (and pass BIO 111), before stressing over the future.

In the past two years I’ve discovered that what I really want to do is pursue a career that combines social justice and cultural heritage with the arts and education. I’ve been looking at masters programs in cultural and arts institution management at universities in Spain and Mexico. For now, the plan is to stay in the Seattle/Tacoma area for another year or two before exploring opportunities abroad, ojalá.

I know right, borrring. I really have been up to more interesting things!!! Here are titles of blog posts to come in the next 6 weeks. (Listing them here as motivation to actually write them!)

Meeting important people

No más

The Anthropocene

The German girls of UPS

Black Lives Still Matter

Undocumented Poetry

Spanish Matters

Los pasos perdidos

(In the meantime, soakin’ up the rest of this college life while I still can.)