Open to Interpretation

Is an open book really open? An Introduction.

I’ve never introduced myself or explained who I am in a typical introductory post. Is it necessary? Well, of course it is. I started reading Some Prefer Nettles by Junichiro Tanizaki, a Japanese author. Because I am limited to Spanish and English, I’m reading an English translation of the novel by Edward G. Seidensticker. I’ve read many Japanese novels but none by Tanizaki. Seidensticker’s introduction in the version I’m reading is the catalyst for this very introduction to myself and my writing.

“Do not try to be too clear; leave some gaps in the meaning. The modern writer seems to be too kind to his reader,” he says, and again: “We Japanese scorn the bald fact, and we consider it good form to keep a thin sheet of paper between the fact or the object and the words that give expression to it.” Once, when he was criticized for not exploring the inner life of one of his characters, he retorted: “But why should I discuss his psychology? Can’t the reader guess from what I’ve already told him?”

— Edward G. Seidensticker

To you, I am a character and the author. I will be straightforward while also leaving my writing open to interpretation. Isn’t that what everything we do is anyway? Any action, anything we say, is up to the receiver’s decision to interpret the meaning behind said actions or words. Are we then in control of what we mean? I believe it is our responsibility to be as clear as possible to communicate what we mean, but once things are said and done, there’s not much to do other than await an answer or a reaction. I find this endless cycle of communication a mystery. If we are an intelligent species, then why so often are things misinterpreted, misunderstood, and miscommunicated? In all of these misses lie wars, trials, deaths, and divorces. At the same time, great writing, great art, and great architecture can speak to anyone and have countless meanings. This is the beauty of “open to interpretation” and why we must take his advice and use it in our writing. Is an open book ever really an open book? The one true meaning it has is the one meant by the author, but a great author knows that their story will be understood by many if there is less information given.

In my elementary school in New Jersey, I was the only Latina. When I moved to Maracaibo, Venezuela, I spoke Spanish with an American accent among kids who could barely speak English. I liked to read and draw during recess. Eventually, I had no accent in Spanish and by middle school had friends that continued to be close until I left for college in Los Angeles. I knew no one on the West Coast nor had I visited since 2008. There were two Venezuelan guys who I befriended initially because they felt like home. My Mexican, Guatemalan, Costa Rican, Panamanian, and Colombian friends taught me how we are the same but different. Same religion, same language, same education… but my, what a country under an oppressive dictatorship can do to you without you even noticing. I graduated from The University of Southern California School of Architecture without employment, packed my bags, went to Maracaibo, and applied, applied, applied. One lucky July afternoon, I heard from an architecture and construction company that they wanted to interview me. I did. I got hired. I moved to Brooklyn in September with two girls I had never met before and started working in Manhattan as a project manager. And this brings me to the comfort of my room on a Spring Friday night.

What I really want to tell you is that I’ve always struggled with my identity. I am a woman, daughter, older sister, creative, architect, American, Venezuelan. But… I didn’t fully grow up in the U.S., nor in Venezuela. My dad was raised by Colombian immigrants in Venezuela, and my mother by European immigrants in Venezuela. My parents’ parents were raised by Germans and Spaniards in a war-torn Europe. We don’t know much as a family about where they came from. Can you imagine? Fleeing France with children, unable to speak Spanish, barely 20 years old, on the cheapest vessel to… Venezuela??? Sure, why not. I’d never speak about my past either if I’m committing to such a bold move. Yet this is the story of many who fled to South America, and I am here to say that being an immigrant, coming from a family where everyone has been an immigrant in the past three generations, is both a blessing and a curse. 

My roots are cut short everywhere “I’m from.” I’m American because I was born here, but the convenience of the American lifestyle was cut short for me growing up. In 2008, when I moved to Maracaibo, it was almost like I came late to society. There was family, and friends of family, but I never stopped feeling like an outsider because I came from New Jersey. At one point, I felt accepted and all was fine and well. I hit the reset button in college when I had to explain to other Latino friends that yes, I went to an international school, yes, I traveled, yes, I was born in the U.S and had always planned to study there, yes, my family lives in Venezuela and doesn't plan to leave, yes, we are ok, but it is NOT ok. There are shortages of every kind, crime has become so creative it almost deserves recognition, inflation reshapes prices by the hour, Long blackouts are part of the routine, very few countries fly to Venezuela now—and the U.S. isn’t one of them, free speech feels more like a memory than a right, hezbollah’s base in the Americas is here. There’s more. I do not have a home. I am trying to make New York my home because the home I have in my mind no longer exists. None of my friends from Maracaibo live there. Life has sprinkled us across the globe. Few, if any, have an intention to move back. The ones I’m closest with definitely do not and are doing their best to find a place to root in. When I go back to Maracaibo, I do not think about how beautiful it is and how much I’d like to move back. The only thing I miss is not a thing, but my family—people. When I see them outside of Maracaibo, I feel just as satiated as I do when I see them there. I wish it wasn’t like this, but I’ve lied to myself for too long about wanting to settle in a place that does not exist. I am blessed that I get to choose where my roots will begin, but it seems to be in my DNA that wherever that place is, the roots will be short anyway.

In all of this, I am happy. For I have been blessed with an outstanding education—a tool absolutely no one can take away from me. Another thing that can’t be taken away from me are my memories. Whether they are reliable or not is open for discussion—but they are mine, and by writing them in short stories, I am making them everlasting. I hope we can all find a home in someone, in ourselves, in writing.

I was 15 when this photo was taken. I remember seeing it for the first time and thought Wow, that’s how I feel. Like there’s two of me that never align. I still feel this way with the exception that I like that these two don’t align, but rather, are in conversation.