not on top, but up-and-coming
Si prefieres leer este texto en castellano, te recomiendo que compres “La Practicante” de una vez.
If my twenty-one years have taught me anything it’s that I’m a flawed human being. And no, I’m not saying this in the poetic, pseudo-religious sense—I mean it quite literally. I’m a biological flaw, a natural accident. I’m probably God's rough draft of some formidable human who’s right now walking around the streets of Berlin. Why Berlin? Don't ask me. I just think Berlin is where I’d be if I wasn't so clumsy.
From the time I was born my mother knew I’d have a close relationship with the ER and the local clinic. I was born with a bruise on my forehead. I was supposed to be born two days before but I didn’t quite make it. I even failed at being born. Look at that. Apparently, I kept pushing into my mothers vagina, gasping for air, fighting for a release that never came. And when I finally popped out of that uterus a dark gray bruise was there to tell the story of my struggle.
Two summers ago my accident-prone nature reared its head on my first (and last) day at a fashion internship with an up-and-coming brand. It was a sign from God—“Fashion isn’t for you. These people never eat. And you love eating.” But God sometimes has tricky ways of letting you in on shit. It was 9am, it was raining, and I was on my period. I arrived at the headquarters of the startup looking like a survivor of some war in a tropical country, a very moist country. The combination of rain and sweat made my feet look like two swollen replicas of Noah’s Ark. Plus, the yellow dress I had decided to wear now looked like it hadn’t been ironed in twenty-seven and-a-half years. I was, altogether, a hot mess.
I was hired by a woman named Alexandra, who greeted me at the office door and guided me straight to my computer where she told me how important it was that I create a set of moodboards by EOD. I sat next to another intern who was working with text on Photoshop—another thing my twenty-one years have taught me is that you never, ever work with text on Photoshop. How could they have hired her? This was not a good look.
By noon I’d stopped thinking about the task at hand and the other intern’s hideous graphic design skills, and I began to focus on my stomach, mainly, the orchestra that was playing inside it. An entire wind ensemble letting my brain know it was time to eat. But nobody seemed to care. After all, this was an up-and-coming freakin’ fashion startup and people were supposed to work their asses off with no breaks and no support. I didn’t really care. I just needed to eat. I soon realized there wasn’t much chance of getting a break. Moodboards needed to be arranged, clothes needed to be ironed, photographs needed to be printed. I wanted to scream, “this belly needs to be fed!”
I don't know if it was an accident or what but every single seamstress working in that atelier was latina. It was a blessing. By 1pm a massive delivery of rice and beans arrived. I know, how cliché is that? A group of middle aged hispanic women eating rice and beans while gossiping about their kids’ futures. But what is life if not one big, HD cliché? One of them, Jenny Jaramillo, offered me some food. I think she could tell I was dying because of the look on my face. She fed me and talked to me. I will never forget her. I wasn't particularly thrilled about the rice and beans, just extremely glad there was something in my stomach.
Four hours later, my stomach started making noises again. It felt like a mouse was trying to eat its way out of me. The rice and beans felt like a mirage at this point, a myth. I was standing over a table, trying to cut through a stack of papers. The stack was probably taller than one of those anorexic models that had just arrived for a fitting. And, in my attempt to finish on time, I dropped the pair of scissors and started cutting with an X-Acto. Honestly, if you ask me how the blade wound up in my skin I couldn’t tell you. I didn’t even feel it slice deep into my finger.
Alexandra, who turned out to be a complete trainwreck, which explains the text-on-Photoshop intern, took me to the bathroom, cleaned my wound, and proceeded to wrap it with duct tape…DUCT TAPE! Masking tape would’ve been better, I don’t know, maybe some gauze first? A hug, a simple hug would’ve made a greater impact on my day, and wound, than a piece of fucking duct tape. Let’s just replace all the Duane Reades in town with Home Depots. They have first aid equipment. Let’s do it. By now I was pouring blood and feeling like the world was going to end.
After my duct taping, Alexandra put me back to work. I was so unbelievably hungry I didn’t even have the energy to tell her off. And on I went, finishing the cutting, this time with scissors, the duct tape on my left hand. By 7pm I packed my stuff, left, and never set foot in a fashion design-whatever again. The next day I went to the Brooklyn Hospital Center where different doctors cleaned the wound. When they asked me what happened I just said I was a victim of fashion.
Note from the author (2023)
El espíritu y sentido del humor de este ensayo fue el precursor de mi primer libro, “La Practicante,” en tanto inglés como en castellano porque lo escribí en los dos, aún no recuerdo por qué. Recuerdo haberle compartido la versión en castellano a Steph, mi editora, con miedo de que me alucine una limeñita privilegiada sin tener la fortaleza de admitir que no había nada que alucinar ahí, era la realidad. Una vez que fui capaz de soltar ese complejo y que empecé a entenderlo como herramienta, todo lo demás fluyó como agua pura. Ahora, mirándolo también con ojo técnico de redacción, lo que más me gusta de este ensayo es lo cercana que se siente mi relación con el inglés, sobre todo con el humor gringo. Ya no me creo capaz de escribir así de chistoso en inglés, por más de que todos los días lo uso para trabajar. Recuerdo decir “I am a lot funnier in Spanish” repetidas veces en círculos sociales en Nueva York. Ahora no sé, leo esto y creo sentirme más Tina Fey de lo que me acordaba. You be the judge of that.
