political decline + personal growth: january 2025
I left the United States on January 3rd, two weeks before the presidential inauguration. I had a red backpack and my dad's oversized suitcase, both filled to near-overflow. I wore a Betty Boop sweatshirt and braided my hair. I did not have a return ticket.
One layover, three coffees, and nineteen hours after hugging my dad and California goodbye, I arrived in Buenos Aires. I spent an hour in the customs line for foreigners. When it was my turn to be analyzed and assessed, I calmed my resting bitch face and put on my most endearing smile. My interrogation took all of ninety seconds - how are you? where are you staying? when are you leaving? thank you have a good day. Zero questions asked about my lack of return ticket.
I grabbed my forty pound suitcase from baggage claim, and stood in another line to have my belongings scanned and approved or denied. The airport agent manning the line asked me if I was alone, I replied that I was in broken Spanish. She waved me past security and told me to enjoy Argentina.
The boy I love met me on the other side. I hugged him with one arm as he hugged me with two, kissing my cheeks and taking my luggage. He smelled like home in a place I had never been.
It was 10 A.M. and 90 degrees as we waited for our taxi. I held Joaquin's hand as he held my belongings. I had no idea what I was doing here but I knew I was in the right place. We drove for half an hour to our airbnb where we would be staying for the next month. Joaquin sat behind the passenger's seat and I sat in the middle, pressed against him in spite of the heat. It was perfect.
☆⋆｡𖦹°‧★☆⋆｡𖦹°‧★☆⋆｡𖦹°‧★☆⋆｡𖦹°‧★☆⋆｡𖦹°‧★☆⋆｡𖦹°‧★☆⋆｡𖦹°‧★☆⋆｡𖦹°‧★☆⋆｡𖦹°‧★☆⋆｡𖦹°
January was filled with calm and it was filled with adventure. We made more empanadas than I can count, ate pasta on Sundays, rode bikes through the park, walked a stranger's dog, slept until 1 P.M., and reminded each other we were loved.
David Lynch died and Trump took office. Los Angeles caught fire. A family member was arrested. My bank account dropped below $100. I watched friends' Instagram stories about the politics back home, and Joaquin told me about politics in Argentina. It seemed that everywhere I went, fascism followed. We visited la Casa Rosada, and joked about burning it down. I want to take Joaquin to Washington D.C., but visas are hard and will become increasingly harder.
☆⋆｡𖦹°‧★☆⋆｡𖦹°‧★☆⋆｡𖦹°‧★☆⋆｡𖦹°‧★☆⋆｡𖦹°‧★☆⋆｡𖦹°‧★☆⋆｡𖦹°‧★☆⋆｡𖦹°‧★☆⋆｡𖦹°‧★☆⋆｡𖦹°
I am trying to slow down and kill the fascist in my own head. 7 PM has become my favorite hour, when we drink mate cocido and watch the people on the street below. Joaquin tells me about his day, and I tell him about mine, and everything is quiet for a short while. We walk to the market holding hands and buy ingredients for dinner, talking incessantly the whole time. His English is improving rapidly and my Spanish is not.
The world is worsening and I feel guilty about being happy. I want to simmer in my anger and rage and sadness and fear, but my love is so loud that it stifles these noises. Perhaps a part of resistance against fascism is centering community and family. So, for now, I will kiss Joaquin, I will call my mom and tell her I love her, I will remind my dad that he is the coolest man alive, I will pray for my brothers, and I will not stop letting my love be loud.