[DISPATCH] ¡Ánimo!
on COVIDval, the gender politics of tejo and a massacred pink szn
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Tejo: The Colombian Cornhole
The best part of February was tejo. Originally named for its town of origin, Turmequé — which was named for the chief of the Tumas1 — consider tejo a version of cornhole that involves explosions. Unlike bolirana, (a different game I also fell in love with this month after nailing the strategy for landing the metal balls in the mouth of the biggest frog) tejo has been a Colombia pastime for more than five centuries. Its practice began long before the arrival of Spanish conquistadors. The story goes that the Devil stood on one side of the mountain and the la virgen María stood on the other and threw stones at the intruder until he fell. These allegorical stones are now called tejos.
The game of tejo is played in a cancha — the official, sport-qualifying length is seventeen meters but there are canchas of all different sides — with two tablas of clay at each end. Each slab of clay features four metchas (triangles filled with gunpowder) arranged in a circle. The area of clay inside of said circle is called bocin. To win a mano (a hand), you have to throw your tejo inside the bocin, a score worth six points. If your tejo explodes a metcha when it lands inside the bocin, you get an additional three points. Together, these nine points are called moñona. If no one scores inside the bocin, one point goes to whoever landed their tejo closest. The person with the mano (basically, whoever won the turn) goes first on the next one. The winner of a chico (a round) is the first person to get twelve points. This is all of the official language, and there are a lot of variations to playing. The most important thing to know about tejo is that it only ends when the case of beer is finished.
I exploded my first metcha on the tenth of February. Many might not count it because it happened in a particularly small cancha (the first time I went to a real tejo spot in Toca, I lost my mind) but you have to understand that tejo is a boy’s game. In January, my male coworkers taught me how to play. Where they were condescending to me (“no te preocupes gorda pesa mucho”), they were intent on turning my male sitemate into a pro. He exploded his first metcha while I sulked in the shade.
This month, Tejo, and la cultura machista it lives in, has been a frequent spring board of conversations about gender. I will never be a part of the boy’s club. I don’t necessarily want to be, but there are so many opportunities for cultural integration that I miss out on. (One of my coworkers told me he doesn’t invite me to play soccer because he views me as fragile and wouldn’t want to make me cry if he hit me.) Usually, when a man invites me to an event, it means he wants to have sex with me. If only men are inviting me to events, is my company only desired in a sexual context? Recently, I played basketball with some female teachers from the veredas. After I body checked the male teacher guarding me only to receive congratulations, I realized I’ve let perceptions of my imagined fragility and overt sexuality cloud my self-perception.
I thought of Isabella, my coworker’s niece, who spends her time chasing down frogs and treating bunnies half her size like they’re hamsters. She has so much fucking spunk. I hope that quality never dies. I pray she never meets someone who makes her feel like she has to snuff it out. She inspires me to stroke dying flames.
Heard It Through The Grapevine
In February, I heard a rumor so insane that it made me to re-evaluate my character. That sounds dramatic, but small towns in Colombia tend to be lethargic. Using stories to pass the time, whether through divine creation or recount, is an approach as old as time. I learned early on: the slower the passage of time, the more vicious the invention. This particular invention posited sexual assault as a laughing matter.
My stomach spent a week in a million knots as I considered the questions: what if this is true? what do I owe this person? say I don’t owe this person anything, what is due to my conscience? what is the conscience? what’s the point of telling someone something I can’t confirm whether is true? am I a bad person if I don’t inform the affected party that they’re the subject of violent gossip? who do I want to be?
After hearing a particularly disgusting detail to this chisme, I told the person and, thankfully, the rumor turned out to be false. However, throughout the deliberation process, I felt like an undeveloped version of The Hermit. I had a secret — usually, one of my favorite things to hold — and it was comparable to harboring a demon. The information made my blood run hot, as if spiked with poison. There was useless noise all around me and I withdrew to search for an inner truth. When I returned to this anecdote in the future, would I be proud of what I did? Often, especially considering college memories, I can’t do that. So I tried to do something I would remember with honor. In the process, I realized that it’s much easier for me to tell someone how ridiculous they are than to act with compassion.
Sharon tells me that it’s because I have the curse. Everyone is an idiot. But if everyone’s an idiot. I have to be one too. And if I don’t respect anyone, I have to lack respect of self. So I turned to the cards to inquire about the quality of my self-respect. I didn’t really understand the response so I asked them why someone — who I’ve speculated lowers my self-esteem — entered my life. That answer was a little more straight forward but everything about it is, in the vein of my favorite indie one-hit wonder Sky Ferreira, embarrassing. I’ll share them both here with brief explanations.
I received this spread from the Hood Witch. In the first position, the 6oC represents my ability to set limits and boundaries. I believe I need to interrogate my inner child to better understand that. In the second position, Strength suggests that my flexibility and openness would improve with more compassion and less anger. Big ask. In the third position, Wheel of Fortune refers to my ability to give and receive love. Two ways to interpret this: love is a rollercoaster so embrace the ride or I need to get better at identifying patterns. (Side note: I’m always pulling Wheel of Fortune and I wish I got it by now.) In the fourth position, (I think) The Magician tells my capacity for integrity concerns willingness to take the tools in front of me and go after what I want with a clear vision in mind. In the fifth position, the 5oW tells me that I dull my communication skills by involving myself in useless conflict. I should be more of a peacemaker. Finally, in the sixth position, the KnoP suggests that my sense of honor and self-respect comes from ideas about work and achievement.
In the first position, the 3oC represents the relationship. Three is an auspicious number. One of harmony, creativity and communication. And in this spread there are three. Here, specifically, I believe it alludes to a powerful creative collaboration. Lorenzo taught me that strong relationships involve shared projects; the 3oC basically suggests that the harmony of this union can bring a wider community a lot of happiness. In the second position, the AoC says that I will teach this person expression. In the third position, the 3oW says that this person will teach me foresight and to acknowledge the abundance of opportunities in front of me. (Personally, I think this means I’ll finally understand polyamorous people but I’m still learning tarot). The fourth position represents how the relationship is currently evolving — embarrassing. The fifth position gives me advice — embarrassing.
Carnaval COVID-19 Diaries
“Well, I didn’t know what color watch to get at first. And then I closed my eyes and thought of you. I only saw pink.”
This is the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me. A similar sentiment is all of my students correctly guessing that I would be a flamingo if I were an animal. Another similar sentiment is Sharon complimenting me upwards of ten times in one day when I wore a hot pink crop top. I, usually aided by the smart lights in my city bedroom, am someone who glows pink in the night. This soft nature is a long-documented fact. Thus February, the commercially-mandated pink season I personally enforce through Aquarian birthday parties and dying loved ones’ hair, is one of my favorite times of the year. Yet, people have spent the month telling me to animo. I only inched closer to bitterness. My failed pink season started with a government-mandated week in Tunja. After a blissful day back in my pueblo, I was evacuated. (Surprisingly, it improved with a week left alone at home with seven eggs and a pineapple, but let the record show that I spent most of February crying in hotel rooms.)
For months, I had planned that this section would be filled with blackout notes2 dedicated to crazy times at Carnaval. I would entertain you with tales on how much money and personal belongings I lost in four days and discuss the racial politics of white Colombians painting themselves in tar. I had real, concrete, pool lounging plans that I wanted to spin into grandiose tales. Then, on the Monday before my Friday afternoon flight to Barranquilla, I tested positive for COVID-19. Again. For the second time in less than a year. After avoiding it in a congested Chicago for two years.
Here’s a brief play-by-play of my evacuation: I tell my assigned doctor that I tested positive for COVID-19 on Tuesday morning. She tells me to prepare my suitcase because someone will pick me up in two hours. I suggest that might be a rash decision and inquire whether it would be possible to stay in my little town because I just got back from Tunja. She says no because I’m high risk and need to be near a hospital. Baffled by this news, I ask how long I’ve been considered high risk. She tells me since forever. The conversation stalls there and I fall asleep because of a benny I popped earlier that morning. After a tear-stained dream, I wake up to a text saying that I can’t be forced to do anything I don’t want to do and just need to sign a waiver saying that if I die because my local clinic can’t offer me emergency care, I can’t sue. “Fuck it, we ball,” I thought to myself, only concerned about being robbed of the opportunity to wallow in my own bed with cats crushing my windpipe, “If I die, I die.” I sign the waiver and send it in. Again, I fall victim to the benny (I might have taken two). I later wake to 35 missed calls and ten messages across two phones from the person assigned to pick me up. I call him back and he, politely but tersely, asks where I am. He says he’s waiting for me in the park. Le dije: “¿Cómo así? No me voy, la médica ya me dijo que me puedo quedar acá. No entiendo.” This starts an hour of “I need to speak with XYZ, let me call you back.” There I find out I am considered high risk because of a high BMI (a medical tool as racist as it is antiquated). This game of telephone ends with the highest authority on the totem pole telling me that I am not being asked to go to Tunja. I am being sent to Tunja. I cry as I hang up and I continue to cry for four hours straight until I reach the hotel — a voyage that includes a 45-minute wait in a hot car sin almuerzo; being yelled at by a man who almost drives us off a cliff because I won’t stop crying; and watching Subway pass even though I asked to go there after he said to let him know if I wanted to stop somewhere to eat.
More mishaps happened but I’m learning to not remember every single weapon formed against me. (Also COVID-19 brain fog.) Anyways, there’s really nothing to learn from this tale except that I missed coordinating outfits with my girls and visiting Palenque and swimming in the Caribbean sea and I will subsequently never feel whole again, so here are some highlights from my sick stay:
Directing my unpublished script of Stomp The Yard 3 until I get carried away by krumping to Michael Jackson’s “Heaven Can Wait” which inevitably ends with me falling over, wheezing. (Also, now that I’m thinking about it, Zoe really jacked her shit from the final battle scene in Rize! Also, also, that’s a good ass documentary. White Dave Chapelle, you have an unfortunate name and an impeccable eye!)
Wondering how long diarrhea can last.
Showering three times a day for fun (also because diarrhea can last a very long time).
Debating whether the aftertaste of Paxlovid can be described as savory.
Feeling like Jeff Bezos after successfully hardcoding Spanish subtitles into every episode of Avatar: The Last Airbender for my students.
Referring to myself as maldita in a text message to an acquaintance checking in on me and immediately getting a phone call to be prayed over. Passionately. (Never, ever call yourself cursed in front of a Colombian. They will lose their shit.)
Timing myself on how long I can sit on the floor and do nothing until I get bored.
Realizing that no one will ever find me as funny as I do and feeling bad for them.
Putting “Evergreen (You Didn’t Deserve Me At All)” on repeat until I cry so hard I get hiccups.
Struggling with the fact that I might never ghostwrite Beyonce’s autobiography and forcing myself to accept a Ponytail contract instead.
Researching the Coppola dynasty — and subsequently having to take a deep breath when I find out who Nicolas Cage’s uncle is — for the eighth time since watching The Godfather.
Crying non-stop while watching the Valentine’s Day special of HBO’s Harley Quinn.
Sobbing during the end of Turning Red while blocking every white man who rated it less than five stars on Letterboxd.
Flashing my window, where there are people that I think can’t see me because I’m on the fourth floor, and flinching when the phone immediately starts ringing.
Trying to hit the final run in “Defying Gravity.”
Staring at my manuscript before giving up and spending five hours editing my Linkedin profile. (The following day, I changed one word in said manuscript based on a brief synonym search and then spent eight hours editing the OISTE bible.)
For lent, I’m giving up candy, Instagram and lust (so far, I’ve kept promises to God and myself on two of those).
This month’s movie: Hayao Miyazaki, Princess Mononoke
This month’s most played record: Omar Apollo, Ivory (Marfil)
This month’s Tiny Desk: Fousheé
This month's quote(s): “I have crossed oceans of time to find you.” — Bram Stoker, Dracula and
“I don’t think you [LaTesha] need a psych evaluation, I think you [LaTesha] need to shut the fuck up.” — Lorenzo and
“Do you like Caucasians?” — Martha and
“I’m not embarrassed of my heart or its boldness. Well, actually, I’m embarrassed all the time but I do it anyway.” — Constance Wu, Making a Scene
This month’s playlist:
xoxo,
a once gay flamingo
A people Indigenous to Colombia’s center. Deriving from the lost Chibcha language, this can be translated as potatoes — which Turmequé is known for — or testicles.
The little thoughts I jot down in my notes app when I am blackout drunk or too high to talk. One of my recent favorites: “I’m so overbearing with how much I like people ... Do they think I don’t mean it ? I love everyone so much ? Do they think I’m lying ???”