[DISPATCH] Merry Christmas, you filthy animal
on gambling, being a Grinch abroad and the opportunity of New Year's Eve
Apuestas y Más
The most enthused about fútbol I’ve ever been were the times we would wrap ourselves in blankets, sit on damp grass during Chicago's fall, and watch Gaby’s games. As a midfielder, she did not need to score a goal — but it was really cool when she did or assisted — we barked without discernment. Getting high at Montrose and running up and down Cricket Hill for warmth when needed with the promise of McDonald’s afterward, especially during an isolating and tedious pandemic, was frequently the highlight of my day.
For the majority of December, if I tried to have a conversation about anything that wasn’t El Copa Mundial, I was wasting everyone's time. Usually, when everyone is fixated on a topic I don’t care about, I feign interest for 10 minutes and then find something else to do. One refrain I relied on heavily in conversations just to say I contributed: “¿Qué tan extraño es este Mundial? Alemania, ¿qué pasó?” However, I have learned that, much like a fluency in Spanish, in order to live in Colombia I have to love fútbol. Quickly, I got with the program and learned it's really not a hard mandate. (Writers Hunter Harris and Madeline Hill helped me realize that fútbol’s a bit like Gossip Girl if you squint hard enough). A toe in the water, I followed my town’s fútbol championship, copa de Colombia (I am a Millonarios fan) and most recently, the World Cup. The most helpful aid in learning how to be an ally to Latin jocks: Ron and his gambling addiction.
It’s no secret I love to gamble. If I were a cartoon character, my catchphrase would probably be, “Yeah? Wanna bet on it?” When I first told Jon I started practicing poker online after getting annihilated by my coworkers in a real game, he begged me not to get addicted. (The real digital threat to my wallet is always the Choices app but even those hack stories request a level of rolling the dice for outcomes). Whether it’s money on spades or a niche nugget of pop culture history; my career path; even my life when I bet with myself on how long I can hold my breath in Lake Michigan, gambling is a fucking thrill. So if I admit that betting on Mundial with Ron was my favorite part of December, can you really blame me?
I had a very rocky start. Even though Ron and I are both experienced gamblers, he has me beat in the sports department. He’d propose a bet and I would turn it down in favor of a modified bet based on a strong instinct that he was screwing me over. Had I stuck with Ron’s bets, I would not have over drafted my bank account by $100. I made myself get serious. Suddenly, I was researching player statistics and reviewing previous games to get a sense of champion probability. I found myself downloading score trackers on my phone when I couldn’t watch the matches. I gathered a council of five advisors to weigh in on the bets Ron proposed. The day my 11th graders had graduation, I followed the Argentina - Netherland and Croatia - Brasil matches throughout three different parties, straining my ears to hear a radio or squinting at a cell phone screen. Once, I texted my chief advisor asking whether I could bet $70 on France winning against Morocco and he told me it’s what Beyoncé would do. Sir, say less.
And of course, there’s something to say for the camaraderie of fútbol season. There's valor and heart and pride surrounding the matches. Superstitious and parasocial love. When Brasil lost to Croatia, my coworker turned to me and stated that Argentina had to win so that South America could win. He previously spent all of Mundial hoping that Messi would twist his ankle. For the Argentina - France final, we gathered in Tunja and watched the game in a beer garden. I’d been advised to expect a boring match because both teams who make it to the final are always on the defense, trying not to lose. And it was a slow match until it wasn’t. I had $40 riding on: Mbappe winning the Golden Boot; more than 3.5 goals scored in the match; France winning Mundial; and Mbappe winning MVP. The last bet was a major longshot — of course Messi’s landing MVP in what was supposed to be his last Mundial — but between France and Argentina, it really could’ve gone either way. And it did until the penalties! (By the way, I think winning on penalties is pathetic and Mbappe is young and was under a bunch of pressure so he’s the winner in my heart). Here’s an historic, magical audio message of me telling Nicole how stressed I was about my bets right before Mbappe tied the score with his hat track. Toward the end of the match, our screen started lagging behind by a few seconds, so we ended up crashing the screen of a nearby Colombian family. When Messi secured the win for Argentina, the eruption of sound was earth-shattering. This passion is too new for me to understand how to romanticize it in this newsletter, but I promise it was a really special moment.
A Spread for the New Year
Among my favorite holidays — with Halloween as a firm topper — is New Year’s Eve. That’s definitely because I spent them with Lila and her family when I was younger. As I get older though, it’s the appeal of resetting life. A new year means new opportunities. New ways to curate the life you want. My favorite traditions include: vision boards, getting scolded by security and going home with a stranger, shakshuka, black eyed peas, responding to (deleting) all the messages I didn’t get around to; finishing my journal before reading it cover to cover with the purpose of reflecting and creating goals (I don’t believe in resolutions) for the year ahead. There’s a new tradition this time around: A spread to close the year and welcome the new one with clarity.
I’ll probably experiment with more New Year’s spreads (and maybe design my own eventually) throughout the years to come, but I got this seven-card one to use the past to inform the future from here. In the first, sunset, position, the AoC tells me that an accomplishment from the previous year regards my relationship with intimacy. Joyfully, even though the circumstances weren’t right, I was able to experience divine love and feel comfortable receiving it this year. This card prompts me to remember I am a vessel of love and serves as an invitation to open oneself up with a welcoming heart. In the second, horizon, position, the KnoC frees me to aspire toward emotional rescue. This knight’s mission is compassion and altruism. She allows herself to be led by emotions and intuition, divorcing her actions from logic. Informed by my sunset accomplishment, I can expect emotional sensitivity and expression on the horizon. In the third position, the KnoS, suggests that an obstacle in my journey to emotional rescue will be my ability to assert myself. I need to view myself as the architect of my future and be prepared to do what is needed to get what I want. In the fourth position, The World tells me that in order to harness my inner power I need to release my attachment to fear and become more comfortable with who I am and celebrating my achievements. My individual comfort is a pathway to better alignment with a larger community and the universe as a whole. I am meant to dance with the flow of life, not struggle against it. In the fifth position, the 10oP’s advice is that everything will come together in its own time and there’s nothing more important than family. In the new year, I will need to establish a consistent approach toward my goals of a permanent, healthy future. To me, that feels like working toward my self-fulfillment and emotional stability so that I can be a good mother one day. In the sixth, navigation position, the 4oP guides me toward reminding myself that there is no reward without risk, i.e. I have to be sure that I’m not blocking myself from the energies I am hoping to receive. It might also be suggesting that I orient my priorities for the most fulfilling year ahead. (Honestly, I’m a little confused with this one, but like whatever). Finally, in the seventh, clarity, position, the 6oP states that the theme of the year ahead is generosity. I wrote about this briefly in my last dispatch, but basically this card tells the querent to trust that every contribution — their presence, their time, their wisdom — they make in life is valued and will be returned bountifully.
Christmas in Colombia
I’m currently writing to you on Christmas Day. I’m hungover. The front door is wide open which lets in a very welcomed breeze, a respite from this unbearable heat, and well wishes from anyone who walks by. There’s been a man on a horse, the man who gave me six shots of vino and three beers on Christmas Eve (the 23rd) carting a cow, and several honking motos. I just emptied my uncle’s pockets in a game of blackjack. A different uncle cleaned me out after I taught him how to play a couple of weeks ago. In the afternoon, I have plans to get my foot cracked and wrapped by a another uncle.
This year, I’ve been naughty. I’ve also been a bit of a Scrooge. The truth is that this Christmas has never felt like less Christmas. Many would call me a Grinch in recovery because I only recently obtained a holiday spirit (courtesy of Gaby and R). Still, in the last two years, I have selected traditions that have become very special to me. I have to hear Tamela Mann sing “I claim you to be the Lamb of God” every hour on the hour. The Christmas tree must fill the house with the scent of pine and be adorned with a phenomenal skirt and an outstanding angel topper. (When I can lead my own celebrations again, I think I'll go for a biblically correct one). Thankfully, I am still young enough that a gaudy eyesore does it for me — several multicolored lights with pink being the standout; a random assortment of decorations, glitter tinsel that doesn't match anything else. That monster is the kind I like. Best of all is under the tree watch: constant vigilance of the gradual accumulation of presents in different colored wrapping paper to guess which present is from which loved one. Baking is, of course, a necessity. Elaborate multi-hour meals. Hot toddies. Thick socks. An oversized, ugly sweater. Sobbing into a pillow in the fetal position as Diane Keaton tells Rachel McAdams, “That’s you and me, kid.” The transplant in me needs a blanket of snow on the ground for Christmas Eve and fluffy, falling snow for Christmas Day. This is my winter wonderland.
I didn’t have any of that this year. For one thing, the entire month of December has felt like a poorly written and realized season finale. Plot twist for the sake of plot twist that could theoretically lead to significant character development but it's obvious that this would be an afterthought, a next season quick-wick starter candle to remind the audience of the character they’re watching. Breakneck pacing that makes narrative events hard to digest. December's main character and author of this newsletter, as well as the poor unfortunate side characters who also got saddled with traumatic, shitty storylines, had no idea what she was supposed to learn.
In Colombia, Christmas begins on the 7th of December. In my town, the day featured a star-lighting ceremony way up in the mountains and las velitas. Noche de Velitas commemorates the moment when Gabriel announced to Mary that she was chosen, from before her birth, to be the mother of Jesus. Families gather together to line the street with candles and colorful lanterns with each flame representing a hope for the new year (salud, amistad, fuerza, por ejemplo). It's supposed to be a beautiful time to share with family and loved ones. I ended up crying in an abandoned house and comforting my host mom on the way home. The next day though, I embarked on the most beautiful hike I’ve ever been on which made up for my shitty velitas night. I climbed the tallest mountain in my town with the summit elevation coming in at 3.130 meters, which is a little over 10,000 feet and the Colombian equivalent of Mount Fuji. Afterward, the next two celebrations were graduation and Thanksgiving (a beautiful weekend of barbecue, gratitude, cave spelunking and other hijinks with my two lesbian moms and irritating brothers — minus the part where Lorenzo stabbed me in the back). Novena, which comes from the Latin word novem, represents the nine days of prayer before Christmas and started on the 15th. In my town, each night of Novena is led by a predetermined neighborhood and the process is as follows: a parade, prayer, a contest (my favorite night was when everyone explained how they used recycled materials to create their nativity dioramas), presentations like singing and skits and couplets, and then, finally, dancing until the sun comes up. Recently, someone told me I’m dramatic so I have to emphasize that I am not kidding when I say this. I’ve left every party at 3am with no end in sight. Also, I’ve learned that it’s very possible to dance until you drop.
Unfortunately, this little taste I had of Christmas was rudely interrupted. In the middle of the month, I was forced to evacuate to Tunja for an indeterminate amount of time because the town drunk — who calls me negrita — tried to kiss me several times. This leave would've been fine if I hadn't listened to my security manager's friendly advice to "enjoy my time away" and "discard stress." Dear Reader, I spent that weekend in Tunja like it was my last one abroad. If the novena parties in my small town were wild, those concerts in Tunja might as well have been in Ibiza. I spun into the arms of a short Colombian man who whispered "bailas divina que rico" against my ear. I gifted a gay man his first girl kiss. I committed party foul after party foul. I smoked three cigarettes.
At 1:05am on Monday the 19th, "Titi me preguntó" came on and I lost my shit. I jumped. I landed. I heard a loud crack before I felt the side of my foot collide with a curb. I stumbled and tried to laugh it off. The adrenaline wore off a few minutes later. With every step toward the hotel and up three flights of stairs to my room, a hundred shards of glass clanged around in my foot. (Pablo, who was the fourth person to be robbed of a phone that night, solemnly proclaimed that Tunja took everything from us). The next day, I spent 12 hours in the ER only to be told that there was only trauma-related inflammation in my foot and all I needed was an acetaminophen. To this day, I can’t dance for more than 30 minutes without significant pain.
I returned home in time for Christmas by the grace of God. I quickly learned that, among big families, the range of emotion is dramatic. The main conflicts throughout my host family’s Christmas dinner that exacerbated all the small intrapersonal ones they’ve held on to for decades: the color of our matching shirts being red instead of the previously agreed upon green; es que falta una camiseta para Tere; and the decision to eat at my uncle’s newly opened bar instead of my host mom’s house. There were two meltdowns and it took us an hour and a half to arrive because everyone was snapping at each other. After dinner, during the prayer of novena completa someone mentioned the importance of peace and familial unity in the face of small problems and it started a wave of snipes. Ghetto! Still, when it came time for hugs at midnight, the air was thick with love. Until that very moment, I never believed in Christmas cheer. But in between shots of chirrinche and bendiciones de dios, I was practically infected. Even though I spent Christmas night crying, the brief taste of holiday joy felt like heaven.
An Obligatory Year In Review Media Highlight Reel
I believe in defining years. I’m torn on how to define them according to the art released in said year. For example, I don’t believe there can ever be a definitive best songs of the year list. Even less that it’s something that can be ranked. Maybe there can be a list of most listened to albums in the United States or most popular TikTok sound audios. There can definitely be a list of highest-grossing films at the box office. But the best is a subjective concern. Fortunately, my favorite album — RENAISSANCE — is objectively the best one released this year. On the other hand, my favorite song of the year — Jazmine Sullivan’s “BPW” — may be considered a weak option by a pretentious music snob. A better-read person could make a point about evaluative, attention-based consumerism versus indulgent ecstasy but what I’ll manage is that lists generate a competitive nature around art that breeds soulless creation in a capitalistic vortex of instant gratification. Obviously, significant cultural events define years but not many pieces of art elevate to that threshold (Beyoncé’s reigns over 2013 and 2016 with Self-titled and LEMONADE for example). And that’s not to say they’ve failed in any way but rather that every creation has its audience. So, without further ado, I present to my professional year-end list contributions as well as the creations that appealed to my personal audience.
I reviewed Ravyn Lenae’s debut studio album, HYPNOS, for NPR Music’s Best Albums of 2022 list.
I reviewed Steve Lacy’s “Bad Habit” and Vince Staples’ “WHEN SPARKS FLY” for NPR Music’s Best Songs of 2022 list. I also guest hosted an episode of All Songs Considered with thee Ann Powers and Anamaria Sayre where we had a lovely, chaotic chat about the year’s top 10 songs.
I reviewed some of my favorite films of the year like Everything Everywhere All At Once and NOPE for Okayplayer’s Best Films of 2022, a list curated by their staff. I unfortunately did not get to review GDT’s Pinocchio but that’s probably for the best since I don’t have words to do it justice.
The top five films I probably would’ve designated as favorites if I had the time to watch anything this year: Marcel The Snail With Shoes On; Tár; Fire of Love; Weird: The Al Yankovic Story; Turning Red.
The five sonic experiences that gave me goosebumps this year: turning off all the lights and putting on noise-canceling headphones to listen to RENAISSANCE for the first time, especially “VIRGO’S GROOVE;” hearing “welcome to the calentón” live; the ceremonial chants of Fiesta del Huán, an annual winter solstice celebration that an indigenous Colombian group, the Muiscas, observe to welcome the first sunrise of the new year; “papi bones” featuring shygirl; Weezy’s lighter flick in “I Heard You’re Married.”
The top month of the year: April
My favorite read(s) of the year: Taylor Jenkins Reid’s The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo and Malibu Rising; Yoko Ogawa’s The Memory Police; Harsha Walia’s Border and Rule: Global Migration, Capitalism, and the Rise of Racist Nationalism
The top lie of the year: Barack Obama not only saying that he listened to “American Teenager” by Ethel Cain but that it’s one of his favorite tracks of 2022.
This month’s movie: Thomas Bezucha, The Family Stone
This month’s most played record: sorry, I really tried but it’s still Beyoncé’s RENAISSANCE
This month's quote: “Chantilly! Go’n out back ‘n and get me a switch.” — Lorenzo
This month’s playlist:
xoxo,
a lamb of god