Alienation is all too familiar to me. There is no way for me to open up, no way for me to show what I hold dear, what I love, what makes me, me. It fills my mind with doubt about my integrity as a person, making me feel somehow that I’m a bad person or just a straight up asshole. It is quite suffocating, and yet, I get pissed at myself for complaining, for others have it so much worse than I do. Yet, it is weird how a personal problem can feel as big as the sun.

It had been a normal week so far. Wake up at five in the morning, take the seven o’clock train into Boston, be at internship for eight hours, commute back, gym, get dinner, pass out, and repeat. Just before the latter, I was awoken at three in the morning with my phone ringing right in my ear. I do this thing to ensure waking up, where I put my phone directly below my pillow as to let the shrieks of my alarm penetrate whatever intense dream I am in. People have told me that I am a very heavy sleeper; even if my eyes are a bit open, which apparently I do quite a lot if I’m watching Netflix or something, it’s still a challenge to wake me up. I apologize for anyone that has to see that, for I know I must look nothing like Gandalf sleeping with eyes open. God my face must be so weird, at least The White Wizard is a badass.

Anyways, back to the phone call, I reached for the phone and fought the blinding light burning my corneas to try and make out who was calling me. Usually, it is either someone I know or a random phone number that somehow someone got a hold of. This caller was neither, so I squinted even more to look at the label the phone usually has if it recognizes the caller’s area code. The text read “Mexico”. I already knew what was in store when I would pick up.

For a while now, my last living grandmother had not been all too well. The rest of my grandparents had died a couple of year’s back, so I was all too familiar with the routine at getting last minute tickets to attend a funeral. Mumbling as I answered, I asked what was going on. My mother informs me that my grandmother has been hospitalized after a stroke and that my father was signing the “do not resuscitate” papers. So my mother told me she was passed out, but that she could still hear. With the phone up to my grandmother’s ear, I spoke to her saying how much I loved her and that I would see her soon. Flight plans were made and I attempted to rest up before my usual start of the day at five.

As I am packing, I call again to check my flight info. Sadly, the news I get from my father since my mom had not answered, was that my grandmother had passed at five that same morning, October 5^th. That generation of my small family had ended that morning, and I was not due to get into Mexico until about nine at night.

On the flight there I try to prepare for any sort of scenario with my family. Usually, these scenarios are full of very emotional bickering, a dash of arguing and a hint of reverse psychological warfare. My father had not seen me since December, so my hair was sure to be a prime point of arguing as well as a great topic when I met up with other members of the family. I was surprised I did not have more than that glass of wine at Logan airport to take some of the edge off. I’d be lying if I said just one glass really did anything for me except for enjoying the drink.

Immigration is easy when you have dual nationality, so at least getting into Mexico was a breeze. I meet my mother and we set off to the funeral home. All is well at the funeral, we stay there to a couple of minutes past midnight, and we all go back to get some rest before mass the next morning. As I enter my room, I get flooded with memories of feeling like an outcast. Alone, in between a constant culture clash between my Mexican father and American mother. Boredom from not being allowed to go out at all with friends, then turning to video games, movies, and pretty much stuffing my face with all the goods Costco has to offer to kill time. Trust me, I have had enough Little Debby snacks to feed a small country. This, in turn, sent me into a downward spiral where I would gain weight as I lost self-confidence.

Sleeping that night in my room was one of the hardest things I had done that week. I still didn’t fully comprehend that I had just traveled internationally, that one of my loved ones had passed, and the fact that I was back in my room, doing nothing, trying to kill time with my good old friend The Internet. I guess jet lag is real? Anyways, at around three in the morning I am finally able to catch some Z’s.

Mass was alright. Sad but alright. I lost count of the hair jokes that my uncle would just keep on bringing up. I get it, man, there’s still no way in hell I’m cutting it off. Anyways, we go to my grandmother’s favorite Chinese restaurant to celebrate her life after mass had ended. Questions about my Japan trip quickly turned into making fun of how I’m never around because I’m in Japan, and that they probably won't see me in the upcoming holidays due to the fact that I’ll be in japan because “I love it so much” and how “I’m obsessed with it”. I brush them off and try to concentrate on something else, but I can sense that I am one push away from snapping. Family outings take a long time, and when you’re annoyed, it gets even longer.

I am very different back home than I am at school. I must hide here. Aspects of my life must be kept secret, making me feel ashamed of myself, fearing punishment or ridicule. I have always been jealous of people that can be so incredibly open with their parents and family. I can assure you, the second anything about my lifestyle comes out, would mean total war amongst my family members. This infuriates me, as well as saddens me deeply. It makes me not want to be with my family. I hate that feeling. It is as if I am a defectuous son, where everyone else has everything in order. Did I not get the memo? Homesick is something I have truly never, ever experienced. I hate that. It scares me that I cannot be comfortable with my own family, fearing judgment, shaming, and disappointed from my kin. Why do I lack this sense of yearn for home and family?

My relationship with my grandparents was a lot better than the one with my parents. There was still the overall arguing and such, especially my mother’s parents telling her how she was not raising me right, which would then come back and bite me in the ass. Even so, every memory with my grandparents, on either side, is a happy memory. My American grandparents gave me a place to go every summer, where I would feel more like myself than anywhere else. My Mexican grandparents would shower me with care and love, taking care of me at any time they could possibly help my parents out. Now they are all gone.

I am good with loss. My Mexican grandfather passing when I was younger taught me a lot about death; How to accept it, and not let it cripple you. Carry on the legacy left by those who are not around, while keeping them close to your heart. Still, I am incredibly sad and torn with the fact that all of them are here no more.

Sad because they never met me at my fullest, happiest self. They did not meet the Diego that loves going to concerts, loves to exercise, tries going out with friends as much as possible, working to meet my own financial needs. They did not meet Diego, who had finally found a girlfriend, which turns out to be one of my American grandfather’s biggest concerns, as I did not really match with anyone back home throughout high school, which meant no girlfriends at all for anyone to meet. They didn’t meet the Diego that has a radio show that he loves doing, even though he has no clue on how many people actually tune in. They knew none of this, nor will they.

However, it is quite ironically hilarious that if I were given a chance to speak with them all one last time, I would not make an effort showing them the real me. I know for a fact it would not go well. Feeling shame for yourself and hiding who you are from people that are supposed to accept you for you because they are your family is a twisted, disturbing feeling. It makes me question if my idea of family is off, if my idea of values is off; if me being a member of this family is even good for them or not. I think I should not have these feelings, but they are there. Buried a bit now, but they surface whenever I am back, for they were very real thoughts back in the day.

I don’t know anymore. I was not able to see the most caring woman I have ever met at her deathbed. She was the most selfless being I ever came across. She could be in utter, excruciating pain, but would be silent if it meant someone else was enjoying something. Be it a meal, watching a movie, going to do something. She would never tell anyone if she felt ill because she thought it was just creating trouble and that she was a burden to us.

She took so much care of me, helping my mom figure out this whole Mexico business, all while being a first-time mother. I was not able to be there for that person. My parents had told me how she felt that I was ashamed of Mexico and just wanted to be in the US. She felt that I wanted to forget about her and my whole Mexican side of the family. I was not there, but through a fucking phone, miles away, without me being able to even see if she could make any sense of what I was saying. I knew she was passed out, but I could not see if she heard me. I could not feel here hands one more time. I had become what she feared and left her alone while I was too busy living it up at college.

It tears me apart. I feel horrible. It makes me question myself. Is being the real me just being selfish? I could not tell, and having my parents here arguing with me over something as usual really did not help me with digesting her passing and what I could have done for her before she had died. I need a lull from all of this. A cease-fire. It’s hard to collect oneself and move forward. All I can do know is try to be as happy as I can be. At least I would be able to fulfill that wish that any grandparent has of their grandson being happy. But I can’t help and feel guilty for the choices I made. I can’t help feel that maybe, just maybe, I’m not too good for my family after all. I don’t really know. I need time to process all of this. Time to really come to peace with myself and make a turn for the better. I just hope that clarity comes quick. And as for my grandparents, if you are watching, you are probably a bit disappointed with some of my choices. But I promise you, I’m trying to be the best me I can be. Rest easy now, I love you all, cannot thank you enough for everything you have done for me when I was growing up, and I will see you all at some point, hopefully not too soon. Maybe then I can sum up the courage to show you who Diego really is... ~ad astra ultraque