On Freedom (Part 2)

One day I was watching Oprah and it featured a story about Amanda Knox, a young girl who was imprisoned in Italy for allegedly killing her flatmate. She has been convicted for 25 years at her last trial. Before she allegedly killed her friend, she was in Italy for what can basically be called “cultural studies”. She studied and the rest of the time was free to be a tourist like any other North American in Italy, living a life with few intrusions and hassles. She had a good family back in the U.S. to support her, too.

Now this girl is imprisoned and she has no responsibilities whatsoever —no-one expects anything from her. She has “things” to fill in her days, weeks, months, etc. On Saturday mornings she calls her family and the family have come to make a ritual of it. The family gathers at the parents’ home, with her close friends also attending, and they have a general chat, as if she were right there. During the other 6 days, 23 hours, and 50 minutes of the week, the girl can do anything she wants. A general goal is to get herself freed, so she can devote part of her time working on her defence, reading law books, praying, and doing all the things that are permitted in Italian prisons. The rest of the time she can do whatever she likes (especially given that the general goal of freedom is also voluntary, i.e. she could choose not to appeal her sentence, as some people do). There are certain things, a lot of things, permitted in Italian (as in Australian) prisons; she could choose to read about Italian culture, the language, history, other studies, other books. She could pass the time doing things that aren’t all that different to what she was doing “on the outside”, living her generally carefree life. Now she can even afford to be more carefree: she doesn’t necessarily have to cook for herself, worry about where the money for food or shelter will come from, etc. She is a supported citizen (perhaps even better supported than some of our pensioners and elderly)—and nothing in return is expected of her. If she misbehaves, how will she be punished? She is already in prison. One day she may decide that her plight for freedom is redundant, that she has no hope, and she may give up trying. What then? Well, then off to read or study or whatever other “entertainment” activity she’s allowed.

Now, I don’t mean to romanticize prison life, I know most other co-prisoners aren’t going to be “nice”, that prison staff aren’t always pleasant to deal with (to say the least), that there are certain things mandated of all prisoners (work details, etc.), that small unchanging spaces can be nauseating, and that there can be extremely harsh punishments for acting out of line. What I mean to say is that prison life doesn’t carry with it things of social life which can be just as imprisoning, for example, the obligation to provide for your own meals and shelter, family responsibilities, fear of judgement, fear of job loss, poverty, family conflict, etc. I mean the social aspects of being human. (Similarly, I don’t aim to make any sort of comment about the Amanda Knox case or the treatment in Italian or Australian prisons. I am using that as an example, only.)

Me, if nothing were expected of me, I’d read. I’d read all day; I’d be happy to. I’d get up to eat, shower if I felt like it, then read, read, and read. Which leads me to ask myself two things: 1) Who is freer? and 2) would life in prison be that much more different or unpleasant than life as it is now? Interesting. A third question could be whether my life is actually lacking if prison life seems to be not that different to how it is now—and why.

Dr. Ted Kaczynski (aka “The Unabomber”) once said in an interview “what worries me is that I might in a sense adapt to this environment and come to be comfortable here and not resent it anymore. And I am afraid that as the years go by that I may forget, I may begin to lose my memories of the mountains and the woods—and that's what really worries me, that I might lose those memories, and lose that sense of contact with wild nature in general. But I am not afraid they are going to break my spirit”. Prison, imprisonment, the isolation, the confined spaces, aren’t what is horrible and punitive about prison, it is what it does to the human spirit, to a human spirit that has truly had better before. And the worst thing is that sometimes we don't even need the physical confinement to be imprisoned.

Another Story about Freedom

Do you know what loneliness is? It’s not a lack of friends; it’s a lack of purpose. The drugs won’t kill you. The drugs are just an escape from this emptiness that nothing can fill. Putting a man in a cage is not the punishment. Taking away his job, his people, his love of life, that’s the torture. “Why, God, must I go on living?” they say in their moments of distress.

A man can have it all: life, health, faith, company; but without love or purpose he is nothing. It’s easy to see from the outside and see a beggar dragging himself around in his rags with a bottle by his side, a syringe, some magical powder. It’s easy to hate him for his weakness. But behind that, there is a man. A man like you or me. A man who is not lacking a house or a bed or clothes. That man lacks a purpose. Where do they sell that? Where? It’s not at the bottom of any bottle, or in the embrace of one or another stranger’s body. We might search for it at the bottom of the ocean with the same luck of finding it as finding water in the Sahara. Where? Where is it?

Yet that same man would change his clothes, his city, even his life for a purpose. An embrace from someone that sees you, that loves you regardless of whatever you may be, that wants to know more—your name, at least. Sometimes we don’t ask because we think that that way we are giving others their “freedom”. Freedom from what? Nobody is freer than that beggar on the street without a purpose; and there is no-one more miserable than he. Who wants the freedom to be miserably alone? That freedom sounds mysteriously like rejection/neglect, disinterest, like the disgusting silence that follows a bomb explosion. Where is that beggar? That beggar isn’t in your way; he’s not invading your public space. That beggar is free—and there is no worse punishment than that.
—26/11/2008

On Freedom (Part 1)

Paulo Coelho, in “The Zahir”, writes about a "successful" man. The man was a writer, had money, many houses, a wife, etc. One day his wife disappeared. His friends tried to cheer him up and told him to enjoy his freedom, to delight, to be glad that now he was a "free" man. He had the freedom to be with whoever he wanted and with as many women as he wanted—without any sort of commitment. So he tried to be a free man, a bachelor, to act like he was happy in his solitude. One day, alone, he realized: who wants this freedom? Who so desires this freedom to be alone? This freedom to be miserably alone? He realized at that point that "freedom is not the absence of commitment. Freedom is the capacity to choose, and commit ourselves to what we choose".

People who think they know me will at times discuss ME with myself and tell me how lucky I am that I am single, that I’m “free”. Who the hell wants to be “free”?! If human beings wanted freedom, then religion, friendship, or love would have no place in this world—and what a lonely hell that would be!
Other people tell me that it’s a great decision I’ve made to remain single. They think I chose this? The only reason I would “choose” this is because I believe that it’s better to be alone than to be in bad company, and that it’s better to be miserable on my own than to indiscriminately be with someone and end up making them miserable also. I don’t choose to be alone, it’s just that sometimes for people like me, for whatever reason, there is no other option. I didn’t choose to be single because of my career or my religion or my anything of the sort. I’d give up any and most of those things to have a companion. Seriously! People always tell me not to sell myself short or that I can “do better than that”. Well, if that were true, then I wouldn’t be in this predicament would I? If I could do better, why haven’t I? Why would I choose less than the best?

But my anger isn’t directed at the world or God or whatever could potentially be held responsible for my solitude. I take responsibility for where I am, and I direct my energy to trying to figure out why I am where I am. My anger, in fact, is directed at the people who would rather make judgement of me, assume things about me (e.g. that I’m too career-focused to want to be with someone), than ask me how I feel. It’s those people that irritate me. It’s those people that I can’t call friends—and I’d rather be alone than in their company.

(I wrote this rant some weeks ago while some judgemental people were getting under my skin. Part 2 is way better, I promise.)

On Travelling

There’s a scene in the movie “Motorcycle Diaries” where the characters of Ernesto ‘Che’ Guevara and his friend are travelling through the Atacama desert in Chile on their way to Peru. They meet a couple of peasants in the middle of the desert and they sit down to share stories and a hot drink over a camp fire. The peasants tell them of how they’ve been forced to leave their homeland because of political unrest and bad working conditions. Then it’s Ernesto and his friend’s turn to share their story. Ernesto tells them how they are travelling “just to travel”. A silence takes over the camp. Ernesto and his friend sit there almost in shame, and the peasants in complete disbelief that people can and do this. Finally the female peasant breaks the silence and in acceptance tells them, “Bless you... Blessed be your travels”.

The reason this scene was so significant to me was that when I was younger I never understood why people enjoyed "travelling" just for travelling. Like the peasants in the movie, I was raised in a very different place, where people only travelled when they had to, usually for work or escaping a physically dangerous situation, so unless your job was an explorer, then it didn't make sense to travel.

I couldn’t understand why people would choose to travel unless they had to. Later I came to almost despise it because a lot of the people I knew then described themselves as “travellers” when they meant to say “tourists”, or when they would try to make me believe that because they had travelled they were somehow more “cultured”, more “experienced”, better than average. Travelling to me in these cases always seemed a luxury, something someone did by choice and not for survival. It seemed redundant and I found it offensive that these travellers acted as if their journeys had been some part of a humanitarian mission. Seeing a pretty place or partying with other tourists or eating local food did not seem particularly special to me.

And then came another time of my life I found it very hard to stay in one place—the anxiety was unbearable—so I started “travelling” too. It took me ages to realise that running away doesn't make your problems disappear, because your problems have a tendency to follow you around.

As I grew up I eventually came to have more tolerance of this travelling business and I came to see some places myself which made me feel blessed because nature can be so breathtakingly beautiful. Yet still, travelling to me is still only escapism. But everything that isn't survival-related is escapism—and there’s nothing wrong with that.

Travel

One day she left to travel. I’ve always believed that those who like to travel are running away from something. For a while it seemed as if everyone was travelling. Maybe everyone was running.
One day I travelled and a lot of things happened, others changed, and the rest remained the same.
She left, but she said it wasn’t because of me. I believed her because, well, why wouldn’t I? One day she called me and asked whether I missed her. I wish I hadn’t said anything, but I said I did. (Sometimes it’s less complicated to say nothing at all.) She said she hoped I wouldn’t forget her, nor the things we had lived. After that, we said nothing at all.
When I realised that there is nothing behind travelling other than self-indulgence, I wanted to humiliate her, myself too, and to just tell everyone “the truth”. We wanted to deny it, but how could we?
She ran away from the truth and left. Me, I keep thinking that those who like to travel are running away from something.

One day I left to travel. It was early on since we’d met, but I missed her as if she had been a part of me for centuries and lives before that. She called me to wish me well. I told her that I missed her and that I loved her deeply. She didn’t know what to tell me so she told me that she had missed me too, and wished me well (again). I don’t know what happened to us since then.
One day, without saying a thing, she travelled to the same place where I had been without her. She never told me about that trip and I can only ask myself, “could it be that she forgot about me in the same place I had gone to forget about her?” The secrets that the mountains must hold.

One day, walking alone through life (or the park), I thought I heard something that sounded like my name. I wanted to cry but I kept quite. Sometimes I can get so lost in the silence that I even forget the name God himself has given me.
Lost in the silence one day, I thought I heard my name. It wasn’t anything. My consciousness was shouting at me to wake up. The vice of nostalgia was crying to tell me to let myself go. The stars tried then to tell me something, but who sees celestial things during daylight? (The faithful ones who never wander?) I got myself lost because I listened to those three things that were screaming things that I heard as my name but in reality were probably saying something closer to “No!”.

One day she tried to embarrass me for speaking of God. Who was I? Who am I? God knows who I am, the rest doesn’t matter.

—2005 (I initially wrote this story in Spanish, but I’ve recently started to think about it again because I’m on holidays – and not travelling.)

On the “tres puntos” tattoo

First of all, let me say that I would not choose to get a get a tattoo for the simple reason that as a Christian I do believe my body is a living sacrifice to my God. (Same reason I choose not to smoke or take recreational drugs or other forms of “self harm”.) Some say the body is a temple for the worship of God, and things like “fornication” are forbidden along the same vein (1 Corinthians 6:18). Tattooing was also explicitly forbidden under Mosaic law (e.g. Leviticus 19:28); and scarification and self-flagellation were believed to occur as a result of being incited (or possessed) by unholy spirits, and in fact was a common practise in the worship of non-Judaic gods. All in all, the general Judaeo-Christian principle is that tattooing is a “bad” thing. I am Christian, and these are also my beliefs. Having said that, I emphasize that my beliefs apply only to me and only I can be judged by them by a being I call God. My second comment is redundant but and that is to say that I too sometimes do things that are contrary to my beliefs. Which reminds me of that tattoo a lot of gang members get that says “Only God can judge me”. Solo Dios me puede juzgar.


OK, the three dots (aka “tres puntos”) tattoo. First I heard of the tres puntos tattoo was back in high school when I was around 14. Tres Puntos was a fictional Latino gang from the movie “Blood in, Blood out” (also known as “Bound by Honor” in the US). They were the rival gang to Vatos Locos, another fictional Latino gang, and were generally thought to be weaker than the VL gang. In all, Tres Puntos were thought of as losers despite perhaps being more powerful in terms of street gangs.

Next I heard of tres puntos is again based on another movie, “Mi Vida Loca”. Similar to Blood in Blood out in that it dealt with Latino street gangs in L.A., but here the main characters are female. One of the leads in the story has a tres puntos tattoo at the temple, near the corner of her eye. Tres puntos = Mi vida loca, or generally just what life is like if you’re Latin (and living in the US, I suppose).


Urbandictionary.com defines the tres puntos tattoo as “A tattoo many Latinos get representing their culture and pride in being Latino”. (Read the definition, urbandictionary is always really funny.) The tres puntos tattoo, however, is particularly popular amongst Latino gangs. Largely it signifies the three fates of gang life: the hospital, the cemetery, or prison. So on the one hand the tres puntos tattoo is about pride in being Latin, and on the other hand it’s about all the negative consequences of being Latin... and being in a gang. I emphasize the latter part of that statement because a lot of people who are Latin, and take pride in being so, are disappointed in the association that is made between being Latin and being a “thug”. And of course, not all Latinos are violent gang members, in the same way not all Latinos with a tres puntos tattoo are part of these gangs.


The three dots tattoo are also not exclusively used by Latinos. I recently read a blog about this and the three dots tattoo have also been used by Russian, Turkish, French, German, and Asian groups (albeit mostly members of criminal organisations). Sailors and the homeless have attached particular protective properties to the dots, offering hope and protection from the evils they could come under. The concluding point of most of what I’ve read to date is that it is often up to the wearer of the dots to define their significance.


And now to my dots. Yes, I’m Latin. Yes, nobody forced this on me. Let me tell you a story. One day I was watching a documentary on prison gangs and how one the ways they use to establish their identity, their membership to what comes to be a pseudofamily while in prison, is gang tattoos. Different tattoos are associated with different gangs. Now what interested me about this (from a visual arts point of view) is how these guys were getting such elaborate and large tattoos engraved on them while in prison. What instruments were they using? How painful was it? Were the risks they were taking (infection, etc.) really considered less than what they could gain from it? I could understand this last point because at times anything seems worth a feeling of belonging, of camaraderie. Anyhow, I got the point of “how?” stuck in my mind. 


One day I was at work about to suture someone’s wound and I started thinking to myself that perhaps infiltrating ink directly into the skin the way someone infiltrated local anaesthetic would have the same effect as getting a tattoo with a proper tattoo gun or even with a needle alone (as I presume they use in prison). I raised the point with several colleagues (interns, I should specify) and the conclusion came to be: 1) prisoners prick themselves with a lone needle and some ink to create their tattoos, 2) yes, infiltrating ink will have the same effect, and 3) I should try it. And so, I came to listen to all three conclusions. I had Indian ink at home that I use for my drawings and I collected the syringe and needle from work. Guess what? It worked! Unfortunately it worked – and it’s permanent. I went for a tres puntos tattoos because, well, I’m Latin, and secondly, because I didn’t believe the other two dots would work. Oh yes, they worked too. And now I have a tres puntos tattoo :(


Solo Dios me puede juzgar.