School
It was French class. At the school I attended, we had two mandatory foreign languages: English and French. I must have been in third or fourth grade — around eight years old. In Peru, primary school lasts six years.
Our uniform went from the feet up: black shoes, dark gray socks, dark gray pants, a black leather belt, a white short-sleeved shirt with a golden metal emblem sewn on the pocket, and a dark blue wool sweater with the same emblem embroidered on the chest, V-neck. Boys had to get a buzz cut every month.
The classroom held around forty students. The desks — individual chairs — were made of metal and wood, painted dark blue, like our sweaters. The teacher’s desk was dark brown, raised on a small step like an altar, at the opposite end of the only door.
I’d been needing to pee for a while, so I raised my hand — as the rules dictated — to ask permission to go to the bathroom.
After several denied attempts, I bravely raised my hand again. There were maybe ten or fifteen minutes left before the end of the school day. The teacher refused, again and again.
Well, you can imagine what happened next. My pants got wet, and the urine spread across that big blue desk-chair and dripped onto the gray floor.
I try to remember how I felt — a mix of shame and frustration. I also remember worrying about going outside with wet pants, waiting for my mother to pick me up. The waiting, and her reaction.
That’s where the memory ends. I don’t remember anything else.
Adulthood and “Holding It In”
This year, unlike others, I’ve become more aware of the situations in which I’ve had no space to meet my own needs — in different areas of my life.
In what areas? If we’re close, we can talk about it in person or over the phone.
Over time, I’ve noticed the frustration of asking for permission to meet those needs — for validation of my work, for professional support, for friendship, or simply as a citizen participating in the society that hosts me.
That frustration built up until I abandoned my physical and mental self-care.
And then I’ve felt that warm liquid leave my body and run down my legs — a mix of relief, shame, anxiety, and anguish.
The Relief and the Choice
This year I’ve lived that experience in several areas of my life. I’ve stood up afterward feeling shame, anguish, sometimes even sadness — but also relief.
Relief that it’s over.
Knowing that if I find myself in a distressing situation, unlike at school, this time I have a voice and the capacity to choose.
Unlike school, I don’t have to go back the next day to the same place, carrying the frustration of a system that neither understands nor meets my basic needs.
Unlike school, as an adult, I don’t need to raise my hand and ask permission to meet the needs that keep me functioning as a human being.
Don’t get me wrong — I believe systems and rules are necessary. But I also believe they’re imperfect and can be improved. Sometimes we have to speak up and take action so that we are respected and seen.
Thank you for reading.
Ave Migratoria 