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On the women who have helped me build a home

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I have been thinking a lot lately about the women who have made me who I am. The women who have taught me to be strong. To protect myself and to protect each other. The women who have taken me in and wrapped me up and given me a home, or helped me build one.

These are women who deserve to be thought of and honored every day. But unfortunately, I’ve been thinking a lot about them lately in particular because of the 9M (March 9) Paro (strike) in Mexico and the events that led up to it. 

The idea of the paro is that on Monday, women who participate will not go to work, not attend school, not be in the streets, not buy things in stores, not produce nor consume. An average of 10 women were killed per day in Mexico last year. On March 9, the absence of women will simulate on a massive scale the forced absence of the thousands of women throughout the country victim to femicide and gender violence.

The overarching point, for me, is this: It is dangerous to be a woman and walk to school or work. It is dangerous to be a woman and ride in a taxi or bus. It is dangerous to be a woman and date. It is dangerous to be a woman and occupy both public and private spaces. It is dangerous to be a woman and be.

It is dangerous because governments and systems have failed women, not just in Mexico but all over the world.

Who steps up in the wake of that failure? In my personal experience, the answer is other women. The paro asks us to reflect on what our days would be like without the women who fill them. This is my answer: Without the women who have lifted me up during my time here, I am nothing. Without them, I am no one.

I want to recognize a few of those women, not by their names (to respect their privacy), but by their actions. They are…

My coworkers, who ask me how I am and listen to the answer, who bring me medicine and explain home remedies for cuts and stomach aches, who bring me food, who invite me out, who answer WhatsApp messages at all hours of the day, who lend me their space, time and expertise and ask for nothing in return.

The women in my book club, who gather monthly to discuss books written by women, who bring cake and coffee, who listen to my opinions (even when expressed in disjointed Spanish) with nods and smiles and support, who always offer to give me a ride home afterward.

All of my female students, who always, without fail, choose kindness, choose compassion, and brighten even my most difficult of days. Who balance school with work and families and long lists of responsibilities and find time in that balancing act for a smile. In particular, the student who organized orders for women on campus to buy pepper spray, which I carry now when I walk alone, which is not much of a match for the centuries-old systems that have enabled and encouraged violence against women in public and private spaces, but which makes me feel a little safer nonetheless. The students who wrote essays about their experiences with street harassment that were so raw and honest they made me cry. The students who organized events to amplify the voices of women on campus, especially those who have suffered from gender violence.

My roommate, a roommate who has become a dear friend, who spends more time with me than anyone else and who deals with me more than anyone else, who knows how to listen unlike anyone I’ve known before. Who splits a vegan pizza with me or restaurant hops in search of an IPA when I’ve had a bad day. Who’s seen and heard me cry, and who has validated my feelings in doing so. Who accompanies me on errands that could involve creepy men, and who has been known to flip off those same creepy men when they make comments on the street.

My fellow Fulbright grantees and my mentora, who inspire me to be better, who create a safe space where I know I can share feelings freely, who see me but do not judge me, who go out of their way to check in and make sure I’m safe.

The women who I've interviewed, who have shared their stories with me, given me their time and some of the rawest parts of themselves, asking for nothing in return. Who without fail end our meetings with a hug and tell me that if I need anything at all to just call them. Who mean that when they say it. 

My women back home, who know me enough to know when I’m not okay, even from thousands of miles away. Whose presence on the end of a phone line gives me strength. Who taught me to be strong long before I got here.

The women who smile at me on the bus or the running path, their smiles containing a promise: we’ll look out for each other.

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