Make-up removal

This week, a friend of mine needed someone to be her make-up model for a job interview at one of the two most important television networks in my country, and I borrowed her my face.

Truth is I'm not someone who wears too much make-up on a daily basis— I'm super lazy, I usually don't have much time and I know that a wonderful make-up routine has a bunch of techniques and artsy stuff that I simply don't know about. So you can imagine that I was a bit nervous about this because

a) I'm no model material. This has nothing to do with my looks or my body.
b) I assumed I would be wearing a bunch of make-up and I didn't know how I would react. 

These are the most important things I thought, felt and did during my experience. 

• When the first look was done, I had a really weird feeling. I knew that lady was me, but I felt like I was looking at a different person in the mirror— not because I looked bad (God knows my friend is an artist), but because I couldn't shake the idea that there was a general something that was different in my face. Maybe that lady on the other side of the mirror was a fancy cousin of mine, but it wasn't me.

• I could spend the rest of my life brushing my face with that magical soft brush used for foundation (I think it was foundation). It was the most relaxing thing ever, and I'm seriously thinking about buying one to calm myself down or treat myself when needed. It was magical and it took my fears away, at least for a while.

• I suck with false eyelashes. I can't even. It was just too much. I couldn't open my eyes— and when I could, I felt beautiful, but it was kinda difficult to appreciate a moment of physical beauty when I literally couldn't see it, being someone who relies completely on her sight to appreciate her physical traits.

Even though I couldn't recognize myself and I had to acknowledge several times that it was difficult for me to hold on or to feel comfortable, I felt like a beautiful princess. Even though the supervisor talked about my downward eyes, my wide nose and my big wide mouth, I felt like a gorgeous princess who goes on tour with her heavy metal band every once in a while.

  

 Your metal princess (without false eyelashes). 

But as the day went by, I couldn't stop thinking about my downward eyes and my wide nose and my big wide mouth. My goodness, I though I had an aesthetically acceptable face, was that a lie? How can I actually be attractive if my eyelids fall instead of floating? Would my lifetime crush have liked me if my eyes had pointed upwards, if my nose had been thinner, if my mouth had been smaller? The answer, of course, was, "No fucking way. I was not his type, not physically, not otherwise. Period." And yet, I asked myself that. And why on Earth was I asking myself these questions when I've always felt confident about my face (except my nose, goddammit)? 

At night, when talking to my mom about the whole experience, I mentioned again the exact words about my face that I had repeated for hours, as if I wanted to sing the lyrics that I had learnt that day. Only this time, as I said them, I felt proud. I felt proud about my eyes like Droopy's, because of the light that shines on them, because I can see with them, and what they do for me is just awesome and amazing and something I'm grateful for every time I grab a coloring book and stare at the stars and look at faces of the people who are close to me. I liked to say that I had a wide nose and a big wide mouth— as far as I'm concerned, those are not traits linked to a caucasian person, which made me feel more mixed than usual and I loved that so much! I like that I have a nose that's so similar to my mom's, and that hers is so similar to her grandmother's nose. I like my lips not only because they help me get fed, but because they are key to my talking, laughing and singing moments.

My lips help me to smile. My big wide lips are a constant big wide smile, and I love that. 

I finally removed the make-up and I felt free. Not free from social and cultural expectations and demands (or maybe I did), but free from self-criticism. I had never loved my make-up-free face as much as I loved it that night. Looking at myself as a beautiful princess with make-up on made me appreciate what a beautiful princess I am with and without it. I guess it's just a matter of how we tell our tales.

   

Your metal princess (without make-up)

Breve agradecimiento

Hace una semana saqué una Mención Honorífica en el Premio Compromiso Social a Alumnos IBERO BREMOND FICSAC y me sentí muy honrada por eso. Lo pondré de este modo: compartí la distinción con otras cuatro personas (del alumnado IBERO) que se dedican a trabajar con estudiantes sirios; en observatorios de violencia psicosocial y en asociaciones estudiantiles que promueven el desarrollo desde diversos ejes; recorrer en bicicleta las rutas migratorias en México para visibilizarlas, y limpiar el agua en comunidades de otros estados, lo que incide directamente en su calidad de vida (tanto en salud como en educación). Además, estaban lxs cinco ganadorxs del Premio, quienes se dedican a la defensa de los derechos de las mujeres, de las tierras de comunidades indígenas, del desarrollo económico sustentable; que le apuestan a la lectura como medio idóneo para no caer; que saben que hilar pensamientos, conciencias, voces, juegos es la manera en que se construye comunidad.

Las personas que me conocen saben que suelo autoflagelarme dos o tres veces por semana ser muy crítica conmigo. Hay dos consecuencias principales en mi vida: la dificultad para recibir halagos sin que me ponga roja y reprocharle cosas a la Erika del pasado. Por ejemplo, durante el último año (y más con lo del Premio), he pensado infinidad de veces que yo debería haberme involucrado en proyectos de defensa y promoción de los derechos humanos desde hacía miles de años; no importaba si, según yo, me iba a dedicar a la investigación en neurociencias, debería haberlo hecho.

Sin embargo, en los últimos tiempos (¡¡¡por fin!!!) he aprendido que mi tiempo se invierte mejor en otras cosas que no sean reprocharle cosas a la Erika del pasado; cosas como ver los intensos colores de cada flor; disfrutar el olor a comida; reír tanto que ya no pueda respirar, y ser agradecida. Así, hice esta pequeña carta a todos ustedes que me hacen entender cada día el significado del En todo amar y servir. Me sentí una rockstar en potencia ese día, pero sé que es un esfuerzo de muchísimas manos. Mi medalla es tan mía como de ustedes, así que les tengo un pequeño mensaje.

Estoy más que consciente de que este mundo nuestro se mueve por hilos que están tan arriba (¿o tan en lo profundo?) que no podremos hacer cambios radicales, tajantes, totales. Y no me importa ya eso. 

Me mueven las comunidades que nos ofrecen sus espacios, sus saberes, sus hogares, su comida; me mueven los niños que me hacen caso porque su recompensa es pintarme con acrílico cuando acabe de trabajar; me inspiran los adolescentes que hablan del patriarcado y sus injustos efectos; me llenan las risas, los abrazos, la fuerza tan enorme (llámenle recursos o resiliencia o como quieran) de quienes sonríen cuando el panorama está negro y espeso; me impactan los adultos repletos de historias de vida, de esas que concluyen con un: "Lo hice porque alguien tenía que hacerlo", o con: "Ahora veo atrás y no entiendo cómo le hice, pero lo logré"; me llenan de lágrimas y orgullo quienes convirtieron su dolor y su sufrimiento en un poderoso motor de lucha. 

Y me mueven ustedes; me mueven nuestros chistes malos, la música que compartimos, nuestros días de rabia e indignación; nuestros gritos en marchas, nuestros susurros a altas horas de la noche. Me mueven ustedes porque son mis compañeros/as de lucha, pero también porque les admiro y les quiero profundamente por enseñarme que vamos caminando, a veces a toda velocidad y a veces paso a pasito.

Gracias por abrirme los sentidos a tantísimas cosas; por vernos y compartirnos. Mi cielo se ha vuelto una perpetua noche estrellada desde que les conocí.