(Re)Animated Pasts

What Is Trauma? What Are Ghosts?

I would attest we are all haunted—some more than others. But we all live with ghosts. Ghosts of past selves. Ghosts of past lovers. Ghosts of past relationships. Ghosts of failure. Ghosts of triumph. We are all haunted. I am haunted. In the words of literary author Leslie What (2004), I agree with her that “ghosts are a metaphor for memory and remembrance and metaphorically connect our world to the world we cannot know about” (https://www.sfsite.com/07b/lw132.htm). In doing so, ghosts and haunting confuse and disrupt the time–space–place trinity by allowing the past to constantly live and direct the present, which then affects our future. Furthermore, ghosts and haunting also influence our affective states of being. A prime example of this phenomenon can be observed in the affective quality of trauma. As argued by Cathy Caruth (1995), to be traumatized is to be “possessed by an image or an event” (p. 5) located in the past—much like one can be haunted indefinitely by an anachronistic event (Blanco & Peeren, 2013).

In other words, when we think of ghost stories (traditional ones, at least), it is the haunting of the present by the past that emerges the most insistent narrative. The mode of expression by many scholars use to describe the spectral, then, is similar to, if not fully consonant with, the terms used to describe the affect . . . of trauma. (Blanco & Peeren, 2013, p. 11)

Hence, trauma and haunting become reflections of one another—although not perfect reflections. It is this relationship that temporality becomes distorted, where there are no clear boundaries of time. For instance, those who suffer from posttraumatic stress disorder (PTSD), the trauma often ruptures time, as it lives compulsively in relentless repetition—the past haunting the present and the future. Trauma then becomes the specter, the ghost who engages “in the quest for an answer, an evanescent truth” (Caruth, 1995, p. 5). A ghost that will move from temporal plane to temporal plane in order to produce something to be done (Gordon, 2008). Pilar Blanco and Peeren (2013) argue that

such is the case with ghosts that arrive from the past, seeking to establish an ethical dialogue with the present. Ghosts, in this case, are part of a symptomatology of trauma, as they become both the objects of and metaphors for a wounded historical experience. (p. 12)

It is here that the specter, as defined by Derrida (1994), is both revenant (what was) and arrivant (what will come), signaling to us that present and future are always populated with certain possibilities of the past. Thus, the trauma (re)articulates itself by returning in the real. Ghosts are the kernels of the traumatic that can’t be integrated into the symbolic realm as signifiers. They appear in the real as a void, an absence that is always already signified. The real resists signification, but there they are: the ghosts. They don’t belong in the real, but it is in the real where they return.

So what are ghosts? For me, a ghost is best described by the German Geist. Geist is at once the mind and the spirit. A ghost is a particular type of Geist, however, for it isn’t just any mind and spirit. Ghosts are those things that continue to return in the real to a space that is no longer their home. Thus, to be haunted by something is not thinkable outside of habit (the continued return) and habitat (the home). Etymologically, we know this because the root of haunting is heim, or home. Furthermore, as Hegel asserts, the goal of Geist is freedom. Ghosts seek freedom, but they don’t seek a freedom to do something. Rather, they seek freedom from something. The ghost seeks freedom from being bound by the home that abandons. The ghost returns to the space that is no longer its home not with the pain of nostalgia, but as an inevitability resulting from the abandonment, from being banned—and this is what it means to be abandoned, to exist as banned in the space that one inhabits. Remember, abandoning isn’t exile. It isn’t being forced from a space, but being trapped in a space as that which doesn’t belong. A ghost is homeless in the place of what used to be its home.

To understand ghosts and trauma is one thing, but to engage with them is another. How we recover from these ghosts, these traumatic memories, and to begin the healing process, “consists often in marking the event seem less unreal by draining it of its vividness, its persistence, its haunting details, its color” (Baer, 2013, p. 432). I am now beginning to drain the color. To let go of the vividness. And to let the haunting details of my narrative fade away into the shadows. But to do so, I have to make them visible one last time. To speak of their ghosts. To live with my ghosts.

Longing to Belong

It’s funny what you do and don’t remember as a child.

What events and elements stick out.

My grandfather’s 1970s apartment was small with hideous brown carpet running throughout, including the bathroom. Even as a child, I realized this was a weird design to have in a house. But I did not care. The bathroom served as my favorite room in the house. Maybe because it was the same room that provided safety for when my mother and I escaped from my father. Or maybe it was because it had a red sunlamp that served as a source of entertainment for hours (my poor grandfather’s electricity bill). I use to turn it on, looking at my glowing skin in the mirror. Pretending I was on a space mission on Mars. Staring at myself in the mirror, breathing deeply as I spoke to my NASA “colleagues.” My mother couldn’t understand my fascination. My grandfather thought it was hilarious. While we lived there, I had run of the apartment except my grandfather’s room—that was off-limits at all times. I never questioned this rule. My grandfather’s stern eyes, his dark brown eyes, cutting through my child’s plays as if his words meant life or death. His eyes rarely replicating this seriousness with me. Later as a teen, I learned my grandfather would shoot up in his bedroom. His drug of choice: heroin. Although I never witnessed his direct drug use, I can only imagine his actions: him drawing the needle and inserting it into his flesh. The euphoric feelings rushing through his veins. The temporary relief from life. I imagine him lying on his bed wrapped in his gray Mexican blankets that he bought from the swap meet. The ones that smell of straw, heat, and musk. Today, I buy these same blankets to be close to his ghost. Imaging his ever-protective spirit embracing me when there is no direction in the darkness. I seek these familiar scents when I feel the ground falling underneath my feet—my spiritual security blankets linking me with him. Acting as my drug of choice when I want to escape.

What is most striking about my grandfather is his Mexican pride. Proud to be a brown man. Proud to be Mexican. Proud of his family. Proud to be a Martinez. Pride emanating from every bone in his body.

We sit on the stoop of my great grandmother Maria’s house in Compton, CA. It is during the same years of Tupac, Dr. Dre, Snoop Dogg, and Death Row Records. Gangster rap and West/East coast rivalries are alive and well. The L.A. riots have yet to happen. At six years old I nervously watched the neighborhood. Double-checking if my clothes are the “right” colors. My grandfather silently watches my nervousness. I always was an anxious child. He leans in closer. Not saying a word as he watches me, watching everyone else. We sit there in silence. Finally he speaks. A man of few words, he turns to me. Our eyes meeting. His dark brown eyes surrounded by deep wrinkles. Wisps of brown hair frame his face from under his trucker hat. He begins to speak: Shantel, do not be worried here. This is our home. This is our neighborhood. You are a Martinez. Do not forget this. They know us here. They will never hurt you. Be proud that you are a Martinez.

I listen closely to his words.

My grandfather’s words mark my flesh. They cover my body. They bring me home. They bring me happiness. And yet, it is short lived. The same words that make me proud of myself, my body, and my family, are the same words that tear them apart. Who is that brown girl? Is that actually your daughter? Why doesn’t she have the same last name as you? Why isn’t she a Hewitt? My father’s friends often remarked. Laughing as they surveyed my brown eyes, brown hair, brown skin. Their eyes cascading down my body. This is not the first time their words question my heritage. This is not the first time it is made public that I do not look like either of my parents. This is not the first time that I am made aware of my difference.

I am brown. I am white. I am both and neither at once. What am I? Where do I belong? I look at my grandfather’s skin. Brown skin that radiates with pride. I look at my mother’s skin, the same brown skin like my grandfather’s—skin that she resents. My skin is unlike hers. I look at my father’s skin, white and pale. My skin is unlike his. What am I? Where do I belong? Am I actually an alien from Mars like in my fantasies? Or am I a different monster? One so grotesque that its name cannot dare to be spoken? I watch my grandfather’s mannerisms. Rolling his R’s. Accenting Spanish words. I try to imitate his tongue. But my mother says, “NO.” I am never allowed to speak Spanish at home, even though my grandfather tries to argue differently. “She is never allowed to speak Spanish here. She must speak English perfectly. Look at her skin . . .”

My mother and I are from the same flesh and yet we do not look like it. She is dark. I am light. Her hair is black, thick, curly—often difficult to control. Mine is brown, straight, and fine. Our features are similar. Same eyes. Same smile. But I look more Spanish than Mexican. We are the same flesh. Yet, we have different futures. We have different lives.

My mother is brown who does not want to be it. She surveys my skin—constantly observing my color. But where she is most strict is my tongue. I am only allowed to speak English. I question her rule, but am told, “You will speak such great English, no one will ever ask you where you are from. No one will ever call you a dirty Mexican or a wetback.” Her words pierce through my flesh.

My mother is my story.

She sacrificed for me, allowing me to use the enemy’s tongue.

Perhaps to reverse the process. Perhaps to change the process.

Perhaps so I could survive the process easier than she. (Belin, 1998, p. 51)

I remember the ways they used to look at her. The White men she dated. My mother only dates White men. I remember their eyes exotifying her in each sweeping glance. Their eyes focusing on her hips, breasts, and dark features. I couldn’t understand their fascination. Their lust for their 30 minutes of difference. Yet, the very same men who met her at the door would speak down to her at the grocery store. They would speak to her as if she didn’t understand what they were saying. Slowly and loudly. She understood every word. As a child, I watched as she put her makeup and “date night” clothes—the tight jeans, red lipstick—a caricature of the Latina seductress. But oh, did she know how to perform. Seducing anyone in her path with her come-hither eyes and comforting laugh. I watched as she perfected her performance in the bathroom mirror. Learning how to mimic and smile—even with so much pain behind the mask. I would later perfect this performance. But when the doorbell rang, she would rush out of the house leaving my grandfather as my babysitter. Leaving so quickly as if a glimpse of either of us would turn them to stone. Sometimes she returned home. Sometimes she did not. But mostly she returned alone. I began to wonder why skin color mattered. Why did it equate to intelligence? Why did it equate to respect? Or disrespect? At first, I did not/could not comprehend the complexities of her policing my body. That somehow I was “special”—that I had something that she did not. I began to realize that it was my skin, my light complexion that she protected with all of her might—and the way down to my tongue.

At first, I did not comprehend my mother’s stern discipline of my tongue. I did not understand why my English had to be PERFECT. And then I saw. I saw her continually being mistaken for unintelligent by grocery store clerks, police officers, customers, and random strangers—even before she opened her mouth. I saw her pain and embarrassment. A pain and embarrassment my blonde, blue-eyed father never experienced. Even at age six, I knew and realized bodies mattered. They mattered with regard to who lived and died. To who was watched with suspicion and who could walk around freely. To who could speak and be heard by others. My mother wanted this for me. From her I learned that if I wanted to survive, I had to create my own rules of being. I had to utilize my chameleon skin.

As a child, I know I am different. I know I am out of place. Split between two racial and cultural worlds. Split between two parents. I travel back and forth due to their unofficial parenting plan. I learn to acquiesce and adapt to my environments. Watching my parents for cues to how to perform in their worlds. Listening to my blonde hair blue-eyed father’s jokes—What is Mexican aluminum? Duct tape. Why do Mexicans drive low riders? So they can drive and pick lettuce at the same time. I listen and watch as he and his other White friends uncontrollably laugh while I sit there like a ghost—an honorary guest allowed into the front of house due to my heritage. I watch and listen. Time with my father proved to be quite different than with my mother. He had moved from our old house into a new house in La Quinta, California. A beautiful house with white carpet and black leather furniture. I could not help but think, “Why have white carpet with a child unless that child wasn’t a major part of the decision?” I stayed in the guest room. I never had a room of my own. Again, I wasn’t a part of the decision. I play outside in the Palm Springs heat until I would pass out, but not before my dad inspected me for dirt—the carpets couldn’t get dirty.

My father loves to show his wealth. Always a new car. Always taking me to Sea World, Disneyland, or Knott’s Berry Farm. Always new clothes. I lose count of how many times we have to go belt and shoe shopping—they always have to match. I bask in his lifestyle, as it was a far cry from my mom’s shared small apartment in Cerritos. But it is his lifestyle. Although I am his daughter, I am also a house guest. A temporary fixture for twenty-one days of the year. I adapt around his schedule. During the day, I learn to keep myself busy: refining my skills at poker and blackjack (the card games my dad taught me how to play), watching cartoons and the Price is Right, playing outside in the desert heat, and so on. I long for the times when we get to be together. Whether that is sharing an apple danish from our favorite bakery to betting on horses at the racetrack. During these times, I look for “clues” for our shared ancestry. Are our hands the same? No. Is our laugh the same? No. Clearly, as we do not look the same, I try my best to find other commonalities. Scouring other traits that would link us as father and daughter: handshake, smile, sense of humor, music choice—anything that would prove our shared existence. Other than my nose and toes, my search is exhausted. How could this be? I get half of my DNA from you? And all I have is your mother’s nose and your weird shaped toes? With little evidence, I change my course of action. I think to myself, I don’t look like him then I will act like him. I will laugh like him. I will smile like him. I will listen to the same music as him. Anything. Anything that will link me to my father. I watch and mimic.

Spending time with my father is both exhilarating and exhausting. From watching his every action, performing more of a “daughterly” role (compared with a niece or family friend as many assumed), to just being a six-year-old, I straddle my boundaries and borderlands of identity. But what keeps me most happy when visiting my father is coming back to the water. My grandfather’s apartment didn’t have a pool and my mother never took me to the community pool. Too far she said. And so I would swim. Swim for hours. Getting lost in my own world. Getting lost in my own thoughts. I would swim and perform scenes from the Little Mermaid. Looking for lost treasure that I purposefully threw in the pool to which I could “discover” and repurpose. I would swim for serenity. One of our favorite past times was to sneak into the JW Marriott in Desert Springs to use the pools. The lobby filled with parrots, flamingos, and other tropical birds. Catfish swimming in the lakes surrounding the hotel. My dad, being my dad, had kept an old room key for proof that we were guests there. But we were never asked whether we belonged—his white skin, blonde hair, good looks, and apparent wealth was all that we truly needed to get past the guard. At the pool, I would swim all day. Only stopping to order a virgin strawberry daiquiri for sustenance. I felt special hanging out with the hotel guests. Rubbing elbows with the rich and famous. Meeting football players at the pool and asking for their autographs at my father’s request. But time at the pool also changed my appearance. No longer an olive complexion, my skin turned a golden tan brown. As if the melanin knew it was okay to shed its mask and be seen in the light. This was never allowed with my mother. Constantly hiding my skin from the sun with hats, clothes, and sunscreen. However, my dad did not care that my skin became darker. No, for him the darker my skin, the more “street cred” he received for having a “brown” child. My White heritage blurred by my glowing skin color.

Watching my father’s life seemed so easy for him. People listened and respected his words unlike time with my mother. With his blonde hair and blue eyes. I ask myself again, how could we be related? How could I share his DNA? Contrary to my mother who wanted to hide my difference—who wanted me to blend into the world—my father encouraged my diversity. He would say, “any time you fill out a form, remember that you are a woman and a Latina.” I never questioned his words, but often wondered why. Why did this make a difference? Why did these categories matter?

Living in a land with a rich colonial past where women of Mexican heritage and families were valued based off their land and skin color, I did not realize my place in this story. I did not realize how taking up place and space infuriated others—even if I felt misplaced. Maybe it was their frustrations that lead me to feel dislocated and at a loss in the first place. Or maybe it was the physical violence that I witnessed as a four-year-old embedding itself into my bodily landscape of trauma. Landscapes of dislocations. Landscapes of placelessness. Was I now just seeing the generational hauntings etched into my chameleon skin of miscegenation? A reanimated and living illustration of diasporic longing and belonging? Because I knew something wasn’t right. I just couldn’t name it.

Fragmented Ghosts

All my life, I have watched and mimicked out of survival. Watched my environment. Watched my company. Watched myself and my performance. I did it out of protection. Even as a child, I knew it was necessary to straddle my two backgrounds. My two selves. Two heritages. How to explain my light skin with my dark features. I named it “code switching” (Martinez, 2013) and performed and practiced without truly or fully understanding my actions until now. As a child, I couldn’t name how deeply race, gender, and sexuality affect our perceptions of space. Perceptions of home. Perceptions of belonging and displacement. Perceptions of ourselves. Of myself. But I can name it now. I can use my words. To relive old wounds. And to heal from them. As Audre Lorde (1984) states, “for in order to survive, those of us had to be watchers, to become familiar with the language and manners of the oppressor, even sometimes adopting them for some illusion of protection” (p. 114). I could see the illusion as a child. But I couldn’t reflect upon it. When your only mission is to survive, time for reflection is a privilege.

But I am able to reflect on it now. Reflect on the illusion. Reflect on my actions. Reflect on my testimonio. On the tensions between my bi-racial, ambiguously brown body, and the spaces I inhabit/ed. The spaces of transition, shadow, and memory (Anzaldua, 1987). Spaces of trauma. Spaces of ghosts and specters. And spaces of a homeland that I wish I could be present in. Of a motherland whose lineage I reflected. I reflect on the spaces of assemblages. Spaces of race, gender, and sexuality whose nebulous centers are never clear, but always interconnected and shaping the world around us. Shaping our homes, and what we name as “home.” Knowing and naming that these forces of race, gender, and sexuality are made by society to be compartmentalized and artificially organized into hierarchies so that our bodies and spaces remain fragmented and disrupted—rather than understood and observed as a dynamic, fluid, and collective. Because when we are not “whole,” when we are broken down into categories, broken down into identity politics, the faction lines become too ingrained for the flesh to erase. A flesh that creates theories and guides how we operate in society. Thus, the illusion becomes real. The ghosts are real.

I reflect on this. Re-reading that ending sentence over and over again. Fully aware of the power existing in the words. For too long we have been fragmented. For too long I have been fragmented. Broken down in faction lines of identity and performance. “Am I a writer of color? Woman writer? Or woman of color? Which comes first” (Minh-Ha, 1989, p. 6—italics added)? I must be whole again. I must be fluid again. Like water. Water, of course, can’t be permanently fragmented as it’s fluid and is subject to flows. I must let my identity flow. Let it flow through my veins. Let my past flow into the present. I must let my theory of the flesh flow into existence.

But what of the ghosts? Are the ghosts fragmented? Fragmented to which I piece together through memory and narrative? Or are they whole? Or is the fragmentation what makes them whole—each piece as is its own entity? In some sense, the way in which these questions are posed implies a simplicity that just isn’t there. The ghost is not the fragmentation of the whole, but the wholeness of fragmentation. What does this mean? When we think of fragmentation, we must start with the whole, or that which has not yet been fragmented. Fragmentation is thus an operation performed upon the whole, and once the process is completed, the product is the fragmented. However, this implies that we start from a position of wholeness. What if it’s the case that we start from a position of the fragmented? Being in the position of a woman of color in the academy, this is the very place from which we start. Our being is already split by countervailing demands. All at once, we are to resist structures of normativization, but because our resistance to these structures implies their existence in the first place, our resistance isn’t one of positively creating our own values, but merely reacting to values already in place. And it’s in this way that I say our being is split from the outset. The institution of the academy makes no room for the woman of color to come in with her own values. Those values, those things we hold dear to survive the academy, always reinscribe the normative values of the academy as they are reactions to what is already there and always adversarial. In other words, we do not get to set the agenda, we must always enter into our space of recognition as trying to survive it.

From childhood trauma to present day haunting, I long to belong. But in this longing to belong, it is easy to slip into internal colonialism—the price of the ticket. Yet, I am here. Fighting. Resisting. Forging beyond the fragmentation of diaspora, ghosts, haunting, and trauma. Not to be the victim. Not to be a ghost. Not to be fictionally whole. No. Rather, I acknowledge the broken pieces and from their trauma, I honor my dead. I honor their/my pain. From the testimonio in which I started this essay, my (re)animated pasts of dislocation and diaspora, I present to you my haunted belongings.