Back in the 956: Malcriadas Healing Through Community
12 minute read
Visiting your hometown after moving out of state as a First Gen, Eldest Daughter.
Healing from family wounds
Creative journey
Community building
Country to country. House to house. School to school. I’ve moved a lot. I stopped placing sentimental value in the places I went to, even people I met. I thought there was no point. I’m going to leave anyway. As a result, my family thought of me as cold. So that’s what I saw myself as too. A cold, emotionally detached person. Never really there. Never really whole. I lost so many belongings between each overpacked truck drive. Parts of me are scattered across the valley. Laredo, Mission, McAllen, Edinburg. Maybe I was able to survive this long because I stayed close by. Under the Texas sun. But once I moved up here to Washington State, it became clear; I left my heart back home.
The Eldest Daughter
I knew I was depressed. I’ve known since I was 8. There was something dark happening in my head. But I didn't have the language for it. While I scrolled online, the internet taught me about mental health. Term by term, video by video. But everything I learned I’d have to keep to myself. I was never told this directly, but I understood I was not allowed to take up space in my home. If not, chaos erupted. I made myself smaller for the comfort of my dysfunctional family. And like a good daughter, did everything I was told.
Looked after my younger siblings. Got Married. Finished a Bachelor’s Degree. Made sure my parents don’t pay rent. I did everything right.
So why this emptiness in my chest?
I learned my childhood was the opposite of a Monet. When you’re up close, it's enthralling. But appalling once you step back and get the full context. The distance between me and my home forced me to look inward. Assess the damage of my wounds. And Spend time with myself under the rainy skies of the Pacific Northwest.
During my time up here, I recognized I was a high functioning kid. Perfectly stable on the outside. But miserable on the inside. In that early stage in my life I was shamed for my queerness. I was experiencing COCSA (Warning before you open the link defining COCSA). I lived in an abusive house. And still, I came home everyday with straight A’s…Ok, occasional B. But that’s besides the point. Taking time away from the people and places that hurt me so much gave me clarity. But it also left me feeling stuck.
Ok. Abuse surrounded me my whole life. What now? What do you do with all these suppressed memories now running around freely in your head? What do you do when your mind replays the abuse while you’re cooking? Or showering? Or the minute you wake up?
You break.
The Breakdown
I hyped Washington up to be my great escape. I’d be the new girl once again. I was going to dive into my writing, become an author, and live out my wildest, creative dreams. But then came the tears. The inability to move. The agoraphobia. The hopelessness. I stopped functioning.
I always thought of myself as a cold, emotionally detached person. Crying felt like a betrayal to that identity I grasped so tight. But here I was, spilling myself through the pouring nights. Wondering why my parents called their little girl cold, instead of asking what was wrong. Wishing my frowns warranted concern not annoyance. Suddenly I was that little girl again, but this time I couldn’t dissociate in my innocence. I was forced to feel my pain. It swallowed me whole.
I broke down! Of course. I was in a new city, dealing with culture shock, didn't know anybody, asking myself what the fuck am I going to do with my life? As most eldest daughters in their quarter life crisis do. But this time I didn’t have to cry silently into my pillow to not wake anybody up. I could let out the loudest, ugliest cries. Without having someone invalidate my pain. I had my own space to heal now.
But fuck. Shit’s still hard.
The Inspiration
Luckily, the internet was flooding with eldest daughter content. Trend after trend on the eldest daughter stories. It’s clear our experience is universal, and we are here to reassure each other that we are more than enough. Regardless of what our society, riddled with machismo and marianismo, tells us. I was moved.
On a whim, I posted a stanza I wrote about the topic. To my surprise, it went viral. It was incredibly validating to see so many people sharing their similar perspectives in my comments. They were tagging their little siblings, changing up the wording, telling me the poem made them cry. To think my words could make millions gather and feel something as one. I was in complete awe. My call to the collective was answered. It inspired me to pursue my writing. Seriously this time.
That's what I was missing. My creative outlet, my passion, my art, my voice, me! But how to go about it? How to manage creativity and community building? How does that look like for me? I’m still figuring it out. We all have to start somewhere. For now, all I have to offer are my words. Some big sister advice. And cunty visuals. But I want to do so much more with my community. I’m aware a couple poems and blogs here and there won’t move mountains. But if other Malcriadas see themselves reflected in my words, I think that’s a beautiful way to start.
I still have days where I can’t get out of bed. And I have the most horrible thoughts. But this time away has helped me realize, I can’t shame myself into healing. Crying, breaking down, messing up… it’s fucking inevitable. Especially with all the bullshit first gen, eldest daughters go through. Fortunately, we are no longer those helpless little kids. But to be the adults we wish we had, we must lead with compassion when we’re feeling our lowest. The world is cruel enough.
The Visit
Washington State is beautiful. I’ve been here almost a year and the scenery still amazes me. I’ve never seen trees this big. They seem like wise, still giants. On sunny days, fluffy clouds race in the sky. And the foliage is so playful. The nature up here is truly mesmerizing.
But the culture shock is real.
I’m from the south, a border town. As a result, I was still surrounded by my culture when I immigrated to the US. Of course my family still experienced discrimination, come on, it’s Texas. But for the most part. Our customs and language were common. I was used to the warmth of the Valley. And was not at all prepared for the Seattle Freeze. I’ve never heard of the “phenomenon” prior to moving. The Seattle Freeze is, according to widely held belief, a difficulty with making new friends in Seattle, and the Pacific Northwest in general. The hyper individualism up here is so off-putting. And it’s mostly being perpetuated by the white people I meet. Given the history of the land, it’s nothing new.
In an article by The Stranger , Maybe It's the Seattle Freeze, Maybe It's White Supremacy, author Megan Asaka discusses how she had knowledge of Seattle history that was never reflected in its academia and other media outlets. Like the rest of this country, Seattle was built by indigenous and migrant workers through exploitive measures. Yet its academia celebrated settlers and the idea that Seattle possessed a history that was more progressive than other cities, especially when it came to race.
Have you ever had a white woman tell you her family was in the KKK on the first day you met? You’d think someone would take that to their grave. Not eagerly tell the first Mexican they saw. A lot of outside interactions consisted of ugly looks and passive aggressive language. Old white men in conservative slogan T- Shirts whistled at me like a dog. It was a lot of nonsense back to back. I was tired. Going out stopped interesting me after a while.
It was safe to say I missed home. I missed driving around roads I knew. I missed eating delicious, affordable food. I missed going to the Pulga for fresh produce in the morning. So when an opportunity arose to go visit. I took it. I needed my heart back. I realized I have so much attachment to the valley. Not to any place we rented, or any institution I attended. But to my valley, my borderland, my 956.
I got a lot of wins in the valley because I immersed myself in my community. I launched my website. Conducted my first interview for the Malcriada Thoughts Podcast. Went to a local show. Went to a protest and made a friend! And most importantly, I felt at home. Not with my parents, funnily enough, but in the valley. I felt unstoppable, completely in my element. Inspired by community, chosen family, and connection. It was the recharge I needed.
The Return
Now I'm back up here.
Washington was never a permanent plan. But now, I’m more excited than ever to move back home. I’ve lived in the valley for 16 years. During those years, I spent so much time dissociating. Pouring all my energy into family, school, and work. But never myself or my community. I want to change that. The valley is special. It deserves to be celebrated and cared for. But there is still work to be done.
We need to learn about the biggest threats to the valley: LNG industrialization, food deserts, and school to prison pipelines, just to name a few. I’m still learning myself. Don’t feel intimidated if you’re unaware of these issues. Trucha, an RGV-based grassroots multimedia platform, is an amazing resource for those new to social justice topics of the valley. Check them out!
And lastly, if you spent your childhood in the clouds, escaping reality, it’s time to place your feet back on the ground. Bring your dreams of a better world to reality by immersing yourself in the valley. Rich in culture, art, and history.
If you made it this far, thank you for checking out my blog. I’m still finding my blogging voice, so I appreciate my Malcriadas supporting me regardless of how I show up. If you have any questions, comments, or compliments, make sure to send me a message on Message Malcriada.
See you on the other side.
All love,
Zadria Knives
