When I was asked to take a picture for something that “I rise” for, I had to think about it for a second. What do I rise for? Who do I rise for? What does it mean to “rise?” After reflecting on my own life experiences, I wrote that I rise for reproductive rights.

Reproductive rights are the rights of an individual to reproduce and have reproductive health. My definition of reproductive rights expands to include sexual education and health. Today, not everyone has access to reproductive rights, or even comprehensive sexual education. Personally, I believe that it is extremely important for people to have access and knowledge about the different options that are available. As I was growing up, my family never taught me anything about reproductive or sexual health. When I got my first period, I told my best friend before I told my mom, because I didn’t know how she would react. Even after I told my mom, we had a brief conversation about how to use a pad, and that was it. The only sex ed that I received was the short unit in 5th grade, and a semester of Health Class in high school. When I got my IUD, I didn’t tell anyone except my closest friends and my partner. Why are we, as a society, treating these topics as taboo? Why isn’t it normalized to have discussions about your periods or your sex life or your birth control?

I am privileged enough to have health insurance, and when I decided it was time for me to be on birth control, I was able to have access to a health care provider who assisted me in the process. Not everyone has this privilege to be able to do so, even within the United States. Not everyone has the opportunities to converse with someone who can provide them knowledge. Not everyone has the access to health care providers due to lack of insurance, or insufficient insurance coverage.

I believe that every person should have the ability to make their own choices about their body. I believe that every person should be able to decide whether or not they would like to have children. I believe that every person should have access to services that can assist them in making an informed choice. If that makes me a disagreeable person, then so be it; I would much rather see people receive basic care.

This Critical Social Justice Week, I will be rising for reproductive rights. I will be rising for those who do not have access to birth control. I will be rising for those who do not know about the basics of sex. I will be rising for those who are shamed for having their period. I will be rising for access to health care. I will rise for myself, and for those who cannot.

I Rise for Reproductive Rights.

I Rise for the Validation of Our Identities...

In my sophomore year of high school, I promised myself I would wait until I was in college to explore my gender identity and expression more, presuming that would be a place where I could do so more freely, back then, at my rural, red-county high school, it just wasn’t worth the stress and alienation.

That promise was followed by a series of panic attacks at a gynecology appointment, an impulsive short haircut and upheaval of my wardrobe, and a denouncing of my birth name. My commitment to staying quiet lasted all of two weeks.

That’s not to say that after “coming out” I followed a solid, steady path to self-realization, self-acceptance, enlightenment—whatever you prefer to call it. It’s hard enough trying to define my feelings toward gender to myself some days, much less anyone else. Sometimes I go through the motions of a day in a daze, untethered to the people around me because of an inability to anchor onto a sense of identity within myself. There are still situations, namely family ones, where I choose to keep silent rather than deal with any form of confrontation, places where I have numbed myself to the sound of my birth name for the sake of self-preservation. My identity and presentation thereof is anything but solid; I suppose that’s why I call myself genderfluid.

Throughout high school, I was “in” and “out” of the closet so much it was like I had left my jacket in there. If I didn’t talk about my gender, it felt like I was lying, but it wasn’t as if anyone acknowledged it even when I did. By the end of my senior year, being proudly genderfluid was more exhausting and frustrating than it was worthwhile.

It wasn’t until the last day of classes my senior year that I felt the real impact of my being “out” in the relatively unwelcoming environment of my high school when I was approached by two non-binary identified freshmen who I had recognized from my weekly LGBT Alliance meetings. I had assumed my presidency of said group was relatively inconsequential, that I had served as an obligatory student leader who sat at the head of a circle of gay teenagers having their own unrelated conversations. The two freshmen, though, asked me for a hug and thanked me for the club and the experience they had had that school year. I was blindsided, but swelling with pride; I had never considered that my own self-acknowledgment would mean something to anyone else, or felt that strong an attachment to my non-binary identity beyond just myself.

This Critical Social Justice Week, and every day, I rise for those two freshmen and their ability to stay confident in who they are. I rise for my fifteen-year-old self, and the part of them that knew their identity wasn’t something to be pushed down. I rise for those who can’t speak up about vital parts of themselves, in hope that one day they will be able to.

I Rise For Those Who Are Silenced In Our Society…

What does this mean? Who is actually silenced? Of course, everyone can speak up... right? Not necessarily. Growing up was interesting for me. I was born in the United States (Arlington, Virginia to be exact)  and I definitely pride myself on my nationality... and yes I will still do an internal eye roll whenever I get the question “So, where are you from?” as if my brown skin was somehow not “American”. But don’t get me wrong, I am just as proud about my “Americaness” as much as I am about my Mestizo Salvadoran heritage.

But the funny thing is that I was only given this opportunity to experience this pridefulness because of the hard work and dedication of my parents taking the risk of crossing the border and trying to create a better life for my sister and me. Can you imagine having one decision like this having such a dramatic effect on everything that defines you as a person? The accessibility to a public education, to feel safe while queer, to be anglophone, to have a more solid roof over your head, to even be able to have a small chance of getting a higher ed degree and to not go hungry.

It’s scary to think that if things went just a tad different, I would be a stranger to myself - which makes me have a “Man in the Mirror” moment.

These were some of the things my parents could only dream about when they were children. They were living in an environment where the social infrature was failing them and they had no opportunity whatsoever to experience any socioeconomic mobility where they were living. My parents didn’t meet until they got to the United States but this just shows the prevalence of these social problems in their country of origin. So my parents “added’’the undocumented immigrant identity to their roster of other identities despite them knowing the challenges they may have encountered once entering the United States.

So why did I just share this vulnerable piece about my family’s identity? Well first off, it is a reminder to myself that I should think constantly of where I come from and to not have shame in it! Society somehow socializes us to not share our vulnerability with one another because you don’t want to be perceived as the perpetual victim or even worse; having others blame you for your misfortunes, as if anyone has any real power over when, where and what family they’re born into. As a social scientist NOTHING is concrete, clear or absolute, we must look into all the details! Second, I think we need to become mindful of when we all say blanket statements about groups of people. I will admit, I am triggered when I hear people speaking badly of immigrants, because that is not only where I come from but because I know the amount of hard work my parents have put in every day of their lives to be able to get naturalized. We were fortunate that my sister and I were brought up comfortably enough that they were never concerned about the same issues their parents thought about when they were children.

Although my parents came to the States during the time of war in El Salvador, the country is still healing from the scars the war left on Salvadoran society. Unfortunately, both young and older generations are paying for it. I also know El Salvador is not the only country experiencing this which is why we have people from all over entering this country. Newer immigrants have continuously come into this country and will continue to do so. It is never really a “choice” for anyone to make the difficult decision to leave family without knowing when you will see them again. So to demonize them is a complete dismissal of their stories.

I acknowledge the privilege my parents “gifted” me upon my birth and whenever possible challenge those who have a negative view of the communities where I come from. So I Rise to get voices similar to my parents heard in a place where it's not too common, particularly in higher ed, where Hispanic immigrants make up a minority on a national level due to the various levels of stratification that affect the community. I would like for others to not only listen to my second-hand account of this story, but to sit down and do the uncomfortable research of hearing what stories other immigrants have to share with us. My hope is that through this, immigrants not only feel heard but validated for making the decision to come to this country.

Want to perform during Art Week? We have space available! We are looking for dancers, singers, jugglers, mimes, and more! Show of your passion onstage!

Performances will be on Thursday, November 16th from 11:30am - 1:30pm on Mainstreet, and Friday, November 17th from 5:00pm - 10:00pm in Lower Flat Tuesdays!

Fill out our form and we will be in touch!

Have questions? Please email commonvision@umbc.edu with the subject line "Art Week Performances".