Two Hemispheres

Memories of summer 2023.

South-North

It’s my first time at a conference this big. The conference is very lively and nice. I feel a passion for philosophy I almost never feel lately. Far from any gossip from my department, far from ridiculous exchange of emails, far from a twitter hunt. Philosophy is this. Starting at 9 AM, I go from one conference to another. I meet a lot of people, all of them with something interesting to say. I feel like a kid in a candy shop. Everywhere I look is amazing and I want to try it all.Sometimes it still awesomes me that there are people that find so much joy in philosophy. I remember being amazed during my first days at college, discovering how many people were passionate about it. I could get lost in conversations about ‘nothing useful’ for hours, and those were the best hours of my day. Now, I run from that philosophy. I associate it with certain kinds of people. I tell myself that such a philosophy is not for me. I tell myself there are other things to think about, more urgent ones. But being here reminds me that I also have the right to enjoy thinking for the sake of thinking. To enjoy exploring, getting lost, trying again. And that if I do what I do, it is because I believe in it, not because it is what is left for those ‘like me’.I’m presenting work I’m really interested in and proud of. I try to put into dialogue philosophy of science and decolonial philosophy by analyzing arguments against taxonomies; more specifically, arguments that hold taxonomies are oppressive. I’m intrigued by the urge to classify things and persons. We all need to group things together to navigate the world, to simplify it and to understand it. Taxonomies are essential for science and for knowledge. But at the same time, things resist those classifications. They belong to different and contradictory groups, they behave in a way that is not standard, and they escape from our control. We also want to escape from classifications. We want to be more than members of a category, or instances of a kind. We want to be seen as individuals, in all our complexity and particularity. Furthermore, for many of us, being classified means to be seen through the vision of someone else. And, even more, we are at risk of buying that vision.It’s also my first time in Toronto. But in contrast to other travels, I have no interest in exploring the city. Toronto looks like Montreal—but more boring—, and being in Toronto is just like being in New York—except for the rats. But I experience it in a completely different way. I don’t feel alone. I feel protected, because I feel understood. There is a giant community of Mexicans here and, although I haven’t met them before, we become close quickly. It starts with the comfort of speaking in Spanish, and it goes on with a strange sense of freedom, a sense of play. It is easy to be noted when Mexican, but I have experienced it in the last months as a sin. Being in a group is different. Here, although we are the outsiders, we are at least in companionship. We need to go through others’ scrutiny, but we don’t have to struggle with internal terrorism, with being the subjects of our own interrogation. Seeing the people I admire with the same sense of joy, a joy that colinds with irreverence, gives me comfort.Maybe with too much confidence, or with too much fear, I give my talk. I fear. I fear that they do not know that I do not owe them anything. I fear that they don’t focus on what I say to focus on what I am. I fear their classifications. And my reaction to that is sometimes to conform to them, sometimes to resist them, sometimes to rebel. All the options are wrong, but I believe in all of them. I also feel confident. I believe in my research and I trust my presentation skills. I remember saying ‘sorry for my English’ every time I introduced myself. Since then, I have not only improved but also, I know I don’t have to do it. Being in a mythical place helps to demystify it. Now, I know we do not only do as good philosophy as they do, but that we do it with everything against us. I have nothing to apologize for.Although I feel nostalgic, I realized how important it is to be in NY. I realized how much I have learnt academically and how much I have grown personally. I realized the value of the perspective that being outside of my context gives me, to look at myself through other eyes, from another world. My place is still in New York, I think.

BorderI come back to NY for a few days. I take off all my summer clothes and pack the winter ones. I have to write, read, work out. But I mainly sleep. It’s like I’m dreaming, even more when I’m awake. Few days ago, I was in Toronto. Now, I’m in New York. Tomorrow, I’ll be in Mexico. And the day after, I’ll be in Argentina. Mexico again, New York again. For some reason, I feel a sort of vertigo. I can’t figure out why, but thinking about it exhausts me. I fall asleep again. Next day, I wake up in Mexico. I lose sense of time. It’s night. I go to one of my favorite places and I get to see some good friends. One of them tells me: you have so many people who love you. I think about that while I fall asleep again. Next day, I’ll wake up in Argentina.

North-South

Finally in Latin America, first time in Argentina. This time, I’m in my land with a white friend. Does that change the color of my skin? I feel both at home and as an intruder.I feel like an intruder. Atmosphere here is different. It’s winter, and the days are gray and cloudy. It’s cold and everyone wears dark clothes. But there is something else. I feel confused. We are in Latin America, but architecture is European. It’s night, but I feel safe. We speak in Spanish, but people are white. We are in a fancy neighborhood, but everything is cheap. I give a talk on the inadequacy of taxonomies and, still, cannot understand it. I feel that everyone looks different than me. White, old men. Serious scholars. Hardcore philosophers. But I need to remind myself that it is because I focus my attention on those that are actually different from me. Many others are not. I’m in the South but I’m scared of the North.I feel at home. Yes, it is difficult to understand. But why do we think it as a failure of us to speak their world instead of a failure of them to understand ours? I wonder while seeing so many people confused. This time, they are not confused about me, about us. This time, they are confused about something I understand. I watch from the corner but not to analyze how they behave so I can do the same. I observe as if I was watching a movie, from a distance, in silence. I think about what it means to do philosophy in Latin America. I don’t think about the big things. We all know about them: different funding, different prestige, different focuses, different history, different social conditions. I think about the little ones. Many times, I have wanted to explain this to my classmates, my professors, or at least to my friends. The little things are somewhat important, but there are so many urgent matters that we never get to speak about them: a bathroom without soap, doors that don’t close, elevators that don’t work, electricity malfunctioning, panic bottoms in case you are raped. I think about the dissonance of reading Descartes in the library while your classmates are being attacked outside, the need to be on time for class while reading on twitter that someone was shot there, deep and passionate philosophical discussion with the panic buttons sounding in the back. I write this and I laugh. I laugh because, when writing this in English it sounds so extraordinary, so savage, so tragic. But when thinking about it in Spanish, that perspective seems ridiculous, exaggerated, out of place. All those things happen, but they are ordinary. Next day. We’ll just go to class again.This is the first time the conference is held in the Global South. Still in the corner, I reflect on how much that means. It does not only allow marginalized people to attend it, but centralized people to experience all those things that we cannot explain. It makes speaking in broken English the rule instead of the exception. It allows us to not feel ashamed, to feel comfortable, and to go outside and continue the conversation on our terms. It allows them to see the absurdity of having to speak a language that is not ours, when only one person among several does not speak Spanish. It allows us to have the opportunity to decide if we want to start a dialogue, if we want to make accommodations, if we want to embrace them in our wor(l)d. That is, it gives us agency. It also allows our worries to be seen as urgent, instead of irreverent: we want them to see that our philosophy exists, that it is valid, that it is big, that it already has a place, and that is as good as theirs; we want to be the ones that integrate them, not the ones that are integrated; we want to work together, but we do not want to be the ones making the sacrifice to leave our community and learn their wor(l)d. We want all of that, but we do not want to be colonized again. We do not want them to come with American CVs and take the only jobs for which we are qualified under their standards. But maybe the worry should not be that they come here with a Princeton title, but that we think it is enough. Some will come, some won’t. Like this time some didn’t come because it was ‘too far’. We understand it, because we have always been there. We are, in any geography, too far from anywhere and especially from them. But the important thing, I think, is to never be too far from us.The truth is that I’m both at home and an intruder. I have already gained many of the privileges that being in the Global North implies. I think about the responsibilities that it puts on me. But I have to suspend the thought. Paisa, que se hace al rato? Esos weyes quieren salir en la noche, jalas? Being peripheral in academia does not mean being peripheral in la fiesta. Wherever there are other latinxs, one cannot stay in the corner for too long, or at least, not alone. We become compas quickly. Actually, we are already close to each other.

South

Two years away. I come back. This time, coming back is not that hard, I think. Being away for a year and half made coming back really difficult. A peculiar dirt in the walls, little things that don’t work, a shower with no water, the moho in the ceiling. And fear. What is happening to me? Am I a gringo now? Remember I wondered. I was ashamed of being afraid. I used to take public transportation every day, to walk in the streets every day, to go to places alone. And then, suddenly, I felt paralyzed. I looked back constantly and I couldn’t stay longer than a few minutes alone. Being robbed, being abducted, being raped, being killed, took turns in my mind. After some weeks, I remembered how to live.But this time is easier, I think while walking towards my friends. They are sitting on the grass, in a cute picnic in the park. The day is sunny and there are many kids playing around. Sitting with them, there is a third man. I say hi to everyone, I’m happy to see them. But my friends look at me in a strange way. Go back to the car, say one of them. I don’t even have a car. Is everything ok? I ask. Go back to the car, says my friend again. I see that he’s taking the chip out of his cellphone, something common when you get robbed and the thief is nice enough. But there is no way that it is happening. I don’t move. Now, the third guy looks at me. I realized he’s older than I thought. Yes, better you go back to the car, he says. I have no clue what is happening, but I put my hand in my pocket, unconsciously grab my knife, and walk away.I sit in a crowded place, but suddenly I feel I’m being observed. Some people actually look at me. Are they afraid of me or do they notice I’m afraid of them? A text interrupts my meditation. “We’re being robbed”. Nothing makes sense. If they are being robbed, how are they able to send me a text? Why wasn’t I asked to give my things too? “It’s over now.” I feel lost. I ask them if they want me to call the police, and immediately I feel ashamed. Last time I was mugged, I was in a subway crossing East New York. A young man took my phone away from my hand and ran. I ran after him but lost him soon. In a desperate act, I called the police, expecting them not to come. But they came. Few days later, they told me they had identified him. They wanted me to identify him too so they could incarcerate him. I felt terribly ashamed. My intention was never to put a kid in jail. I had a stupid paternalistic desire to meet the guy just to ask him if he needed something. But I took my white desire away and instead never called the police back. I swore to never put someone vulnerable at risk. But this time, who should I protect?With no time for morals, I walk to the police office. But obviously, this time nobody is there. So I walk towards the place my friends were in. I notice a man has a surveillance stance and is communicating discreetly. I walk faster but my friends are not there anymore. The man is looking at me and my heart beats faster. After a few minutes, my friends come to me and we run away together. Although my heart beats violently, I’m strangely calm. They tell me that the guy threatened them with an ice pick. They tell me he just wanted some cash, but they didn’t have enough so he asked for a cellphone. Only one. I hear from a distance. In my mind, I go from ‘I should have taken my knife out’ to ‘I should have called the police sooner’; from a desire to hunt him to understanding. I try to process that my friends could have been stabbed in front of me. Usually, I visualize myself bleeding; this time, I imagine them. But while I see those images, I’m strangely calm, like the fear inside me. I recognize the fear. It is one that is always there, but that doesn’t consume you. It is there, quedito, almost peaceful. I feel proud. This time, after six months away, I didn’t stop normalizing violence. I learnt to be half there, half here. I’m safe. We are. Maybe we will never go through this again, maybe tomorrow we will. Normalizing is making peace with that.

North

“El que se va no vuelve aunque regrese.” I remember feeling exiled myself since I was a kid, always missing a land that I know now does not exist. As soon as I land, I have to unpack again. This time, I have to take things off my mind. I take the fear away, the gore images in my mind, I put away all the possibilities I didn’t take by coming here, the chance to love someone there, the mornings with my dog, the smile of my mom. I need to do all this while commuting, but I need to be careful of not losing anything while running. I save everything in a box, so I can find it next time I need it. It’s the birthday of a friend of mine, and I don’t want to come with the wrong outfit, as I have done so many times. The wrong conversation, the wrong standards, the wrong humor. I cannot afford that here, where I don’t make a new friend just by saying compa.A friend tells me that every time he leaves NY, he regrets coming back. I try to convince him that I have so much to get from here; I try to remind myself that being here is a privilege and also a dream. But I feel terribly lonely. You have friends here, he reminds me, ‘we heart you!’ I smile. It is true, and I love them too.What is a place if not the people we love? What is the point of going from one place to another if it’s not for those with who we are there? I think about how many friends I have lost this year. The incredible ones I have gained. I also think of my friends in Mexico. The ones that left. The ones that came back. The ones that are leaving. The ones that are staying. One day, I will be the one who leaves, the one who comes back. But meanwhile, I’m the one that is always leaving, that is always coming. But I don’t want to become someone that only knows how to be present by being away. Maybe this time, I don’t have to be there nor here, not mita and mita, not only partially. Maybe this time I can exist fully in both places. The land does not exist because it has always been me, and I’m not only one.