The woes of being a Mexican introvert.
I had not been gifted ultimate freedom, though. In our house, there was an open-door policy. If I closed my door, it must have meant that I was doing something unexplainably dirty or wrong. Especially if I had a computer in there -- forget it. Even when my mom was cooking loudly or the Spanish radio station was blaring, a closed door with an open computer equaled only one answer: that I was googling some variation of porn or anti-religious propaganda.
house, on Avenida Guadalupe, is three stories with a stone staircase and a specific smell that is a mix of freshly cooked beans, flowers, and cleaning supplies. Abuela’s room is on the second story, but visitors always stay on the third. I also have ten first cousins, who constantly seem to be going in and out, if not sleeping there half the time. Combined with the various women that help upkeep the house, there is never a dull (or solitary) moment. And with the somewhat unsafe conditions in Mexico, taking a leisurely walk around town, alone, as a woman, was never really an option. Growing up, I began to believe that it was impossible to not be in a room with someone else.