Spring Blooming

Spring is a bouquet of new beginnings and a reminder of how our times of darkness are never as permanent as they seem. Warmer weather and flowers in bloom don’t just make this world a brighter, more colorful place. They shake us awake from the various forms of slumber that take hold of us in winter.

How crazy it is to think of who we were even only a few weeks ago! Whether it was physically bundled up in defense against the elements, or locked away mentally in attempts to weather internal storms, today, I hope, is different. I look back, an act of quiet privilege, to see how growth has shifted me further and further from what once felt so permanent. The shiver against the cold has left my body, and though I remember its chill, the warmth of today feels all the more welcoming.

We speak so often of happiness, something as fleeting as our seasons, but I think our focus is sorely misplaced. You see, people want the state of happiness like they want warm weather. Are we not the same people who dredge through the summer months as well? I can picture us now, soaked through our clothes and brows permanently slick with perspiration.

Like hot and cold, life’s challenges ebb and flow, and to want for one is to unknowingly beg the invitation of the other.

To chase happiness is to chase a feeling that we tie to a certain day or moment in our lives where it seemed like cold or even brutally hot days would never again surface. You can cling to that for as long as you want, so long as you realize you will be forever subservient to an idea, a yesterday that has come and gone.

Instead of happiness, like a new spring each year, I yearn for growth. Truthfully, it’s within growing that we gain new understandings of peace – something well beyond the limits of a happiness that once served us. Discover the peace of letting go of the idea of chasing happiness, and realize it’s right here, regardless of the weather.

I’ve always dreamt of an eternal spring.

To bottle the energy, sights, and smells of this season would be like capturing our closest slice of utopia. However, to bottle spring without an inkling of winter or summer or fall, would be like getting all dressed up to sit on the floor of your living room. There would be no substance, no reason to rise to the occasion and step into the warmth we all so dearly cherish.

This winter, especially, seemingly drawing to no end, has made me appreciative of the need for seasons; the need for change. I savor every day, even the gloomy ones, more knowing that the world I see today is constantly changing. The tears we shed today will be gone tomorrow, the snow that once blocked our paths will melt away, and the flowers will bloom. Those flowers, though they will leave us, or even precisely because they will leave us, bring joy.

It’s in seeing the beauty of a world that starts again; in life that opens up in the aftermath of winter’s hostility, that I see our lives are not much different.

With each season I feel myself growing closer and closer to something I can’t even put words to yet. I remember once spending my days worrying about if I would ever grow, and now I simply marvel at what I’ve grown into. That’s my favorite part about all of this, and I see it reflected in the world around me as I see flowers blooming in places I would never have expected. I see colors where I once saw barren nothingness.

In my life, as I know thanks to the nature around me, other seasons rest around the corner, waiting to instill even more growth. There will be sunny, tormenting, and unbearable days, where I fly too close to the sun, foolishly thinking I won’t get burned. Cooler temperatures in fall will show me respite, but also leave me wishing the colors that once adorned the trees would stay evermore. Finally, and most certainly, there will be winter yet again. There will be darkness and frost that freezes over many of the things I cherish.

Of course, this is all for a reason, and, yet again, we will bloom in spring.

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About the Author

Miguel is a senior at American University studying Business Administration with a concentration in Sustainable Change & Analytics. His passions outside of writing are running, traveling, and learning new languages. Follow him on Instagram.

The Erasure of Queer Love Stories

Spurred by the need for some kind of normalcy and a yearning for quality time with friends displaced by thousands of miles, I found myself a part of a Zoom book club. Book club life has brought so much light into what has been an otherwise dark time. For months, my friends and I have met each week to discuss not only our current shared book but also our thoughts and musings as 21st-century social experiments.

In our little moments together, it can feel as though we’ve cracked plenty of codes, while at the same time discovering there are mountains more that lie ahead.

Perhaps the most recent, and arguably most timely one, was something unearthed in our reading of “In the Dream House” by Carmen Maria Machado. Machado’s words navigate the worst kind of love: one that turns abusive. In her recounting of her own experience, one sees first-hand not only how damaging emotional and psychological trauma can be, but also how isolating that experience can be for those that identify as queer.

Historically, and still today, society is biased towards the idea that queerness somehow negates the ability to be subject to abuse at the hands of one’s partner. This is especially true for lesbian relationships, where it is debated whether it is possible for a woman to take on what is assumed to be the “male role” of being the abuser.

It’s not rocket science: abuse is abuse.

Nonetheless, court systems continue to fail to protect the abused, like in the case of Debra Reid, a Black woman who went to jail for defending herself against her abusive partner – while straight, white women who did the same walked free.

In the spirit of Valentine’s Day, no matter how un-festive I might be, I don’t wish to focus on abusive relationships. There was actually another part of Carmen Maria Machado’s book that stood out to me: the often undiscussed love affair of Eleanor Roosevelt and Lorena Hickok. As readers, we are introduced to this bombshell as Machado discusses the concept of archives. Much of what remains of history is what those that came before us allowed to survive.

Each person has the power to discern what is deemed important enough to be archived, and likewise what is destroyed, with subsequent lessons and truths along with it.

We know of Roosevelt and Hickok’s relationship today because of boxes of letters that the Franklin D. Roosevelt Library uncovered in 1978. These letters are only a piece of the story, as Hickok is reported to have demolished any evidence of some of their more explicit words to each other. Upon learning about this history, a mix of emotions seemed to flood over me. Firstly, this seems like something that should have been brought up much earlier.

Given all the times we were force-fed information about historical figures, I can’t help but feel this omission is targeted.

Thus, came along the second wave: grief. Grief for the stories that will never be told, and the voices that historians and even the speakers themselves have silenced for fear of backlash or “brainwashing” of the youths. Queerness, contrary to what some choose to believe, has been in existence for eons. Erasure and untruthful storytelling have led many to think otherwise, for the sake of adhering to such frivolous things as “societal ideals.” In fact, after Roosevelt’s death, it was reported that the relationship she had with Hickok was simply a friendship.

How many friends send each other daily handwritten letters for 30 years? I’ll wait.

Glazing over the obvious ethical questions of privacy, reading a selection of these letters felt like a piece of history righting itself; erasure being erased. Here’s an excerpt written by Hickok:

“I’ve been trying to bring back your face — to remember just how you look. Funny how even the dearest face will fade away in time. Most clearly I remember your eyes, with a kind of teasing smile in them, and the feeling of that soft spot just north-east of the corner of your mouth against my lips.”

Historically speaking, some of our greatest writers, artists, and free-thinkers lived lives outside of hetero-normity. It is simply gut-wrenching that even today we continue to be misled to believe otherwise. I’ll dare to say that some of the most incredible love stories are (or were) queer, but it’s unlikely we will ever uncover them because of archivist with hidden agendas and misguided concerns. It is crucial that these stories are shared, and that as curators of our own archives, no matter the subject, we lay out our truths in bare nakedness.

Hear me out: Queer love is not taboo.

It should be just as much a part of our conceptualization of what love can and does look like. Hopefully, the day we can fully accept this fact is also the day that we can begin to see queer relationships outside of a heteronormative lens. Perhaps then, victims of abuse will finally get the justice they deserve, in a society that supposedly believes battered women – only when they’re battered by straight men.

As I think of Valentine’s Day, and what it means to be loved and to love, I am thinking of all love: one love.

I am thinking of those that feel filled to the brim with love. And those that have had to hide their love. There are those that have been hurt by love. And those still hoping to find love. More importantly, looking at the queer love stories we do have access to, even if only for one moment, I hope you find some bit of love through the words that were able to survive. There is so much power in knowing they did so, in spite of a society that wanted to see them die.

Always remember, even through concrete, flowers can (and will) grow.

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Milestones and Birthdays

I’m penning this in spite of the party poopers that feel like after 21, there are no more milestones to look forward to (other than getting old).

Today, in this body, I’ve been witness to so many milestones – both visible and invisible (like, for instance, getting my ears pierced for the first time a few weeks ago!). Looking back, I realize I spent so much time looking forward to society’s markers of adulthood, and now it feels as though I’ve largely arrived.

In a way, like if life were a video game, I do feel a sense of accomplishment in realizing I have gotten to this level and somehow managed to stay alive.

Still, the fervor with which I yearned to reach many of these milestones seems largely displaced. I would surely tell my younger self that driving honestly isn’t that fun, college graduation will most definitely be online, and tequila is the devil. In true Aquarius fashion, I’ve identified my act of defiance: creating my own milestones, ones that hold meaning and are reflective of what matters to me. That’s why, for my 22nd birthday, I’ve decided to launch my own website!

The past few years, though they have been incredible, have arguably been a time of confusion and exploration. I mean, I guess that’s college for everyone, but it has felt so starkly opposite to the clarity of vision I held as my younger self.

My life before college was devoted to riding horses. I lived on farms, drove horse trailers thousands of miles, and dreamt of one day doing it all on my own. There was a fire within me to chase down something that was largely intangible, and that feeling honestly still astonishes me. Clearly, there is so much power in defining and chasing your passion and I’m thankful every day for the people that recognized something in me and went out of their way to support me.

Needless to say, so much of who I am is because of them and I find that so beautiful.

In many ways, I accomplished what I set out to do: showing at horse shows across the country while never owning a horse of my own, and soaking up all the knowledge I could along the way. It never dawned on me that there might be other sides to myself that I had yet to uncover. Of course, life has an interesting way of redirecting us.

Going to college, unbeknownst to me, I was steadily investing in my writing skills. Through my coursework, interviews with female entrepreneurs for The Bloom Journal, writing about concerts in DC for WVAU, and lending my voice to The Blackprint, I found myself typing way more than I think I had originally intended.

After working all year, summer break was the first real time in 5 years I truly had no obligations, so obviously I booked a flight to Europe.

It was in the back of a Megabus headed to New York to catch my flight that I thought about keeping a blog to document my travels for my friends and family. For two years, I have maintained my Tumblr page, recounting my experience with police brutality, my love for travel, and even some of my struggles as a young person trying to figure out love and life.

Time and time again, against my better judgment, I pushed back against the people around me when the idea of investing in myself and creating a real site was brought up. Sometimes, the plainest truths rest right under our noses. All along I have been developing my voice and purpose as a writer, though I was arguably the last person to come to that realization. My love for storytelling and traveling has shaped my experiences and the life I live, but I don’t think I ever recognized any real value outside of the fact that they make me happy.

Today, I’m thankful to the people around me that have supported me and pushed me to create. You all saw something I was completely blind to.

I am a writer, which, I must say, feels kind of crazy to type out. I’m stating it unequivocally because if writing has taught me anything, it’s that our words hold power, far more than we will ever be able to comprehend.

Through lilmigsbigworld.com my aim is to cultivate a space to share my stories. Please go check it out and let me know what you think! It’s been a long time coming, and honestly something I wish I had done ages ago. Alas, one can’t rush the process, and, if anything, continuing to work on this site has shown me how restorative investing in something that is “yours” can be.

Writing might not always be a driving force for me, but, today, it feels like one of the few things that makes sense. There are certainly plenty of unknowns but it feels as though I’ve found my North Star yet again. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in these 22 years, it’s that life is far too short to not be doing something that stirs something within you. I’m not envisioning a fairytale, because, without a doubt, there are tough days where you literally end up crying in a manure pile (ask me how I know lol).

Those days are definitely not fun, but they make the other days, the awesome/phenomenal/insanely blessed days, that much more valuable.

Good or bad, it doesn’t matter… As long as I can find meaning in the effort I’m putting forth, life will handle the rest. Now, I’m learning to breathe in patience. Life really is not a race, and have no intentions of seeing it flash by. I’m setting my own milestones. Who knows, maybe the next one is a book?

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