Waking Up From the Social Matrix, Forever
By Ingrid Muñoz
I’m sure there have been plenty of times before when I have woken up from the social matrix we all find ourselves in, but none feel quite as important as this last time because this time…. I might actually be able to stay awake. The truth is I am still waking up. I am realizing more and more, with each passing day, that while I have been asleep, I have always been there, in between the lines of code. I have not been rewritten.
I’ve always known to some degree who I wanted to be. When most little girls wanted to be princesses, I wanted to be a ninja. I wanted to help other people, to serve others. My middle name is Alexandra, which means defender of mankind. Protector, that’s how I’ve always seen myself. This is the name I grew up with, since my first name was also my mother’s name (Ingrid). Alexandra is what my family calls me. That was the name I have strived to live up to. I had not realized it until just recently, but this self-perception and self-idealization did not express itself in ways that anyone, not even myself, saw coming.
For so long I thought I was nothing but a performer, an entertainer, a storyteller, an embodied artist. Growing up, I invariably sought out ways to perform in some type of way. I involved myself in school choirs, bands, and orchestras. I submitted stories to writing competitions and recited them on stage. It was hardly a surprise when I decided to take drama classes in high school. The moment I realized people could act for a living, I knew what I wanted to do. However, my parents, my youth minister, and my own drama teacher had diametrically opposed opinions. For years, I heard things like:
“Quit trying to take the easy way out.”
“When are you going to stop wasting your time.”
“Why can’t you pick something more worthwhile, more practical.”
“Grow up and be realistic.”
Even among threats from my mother, I persisted. Then one day, I heard one of my sisters telling my parents that she might want to try directing one day, to which they responded with, “Absolutely not, are you kidding me? We don’t need another drama kid in this house.” For the next several years, I became the black sheep of the family. The perfect example of what not to do if my siblings wanted to be successful – to be someone.
In my parents’ defense, they had rough childhoods. They grew up one of many children, in extreme poverty, often having to begin working at just 7 years old to help feed their families. The life they lived was so difficult, they eventually risked their lives crossing borders for the chance to give their own children a better one. “I wanted to make sure you guys had the opportunities we didn’t have,” my mother always said. I understood that they were afraid I would end up on the streets chasing an impossible dream. The systems in our country had led them to sacrifice so much for me, how could they not have high expectations? My siblings, still too young to understand that, were beginning to lose all respect for me, despite being a third (sometimes second) parent to them. They loved me, I knew that, and I wanted nothing more than to make them proud.
So after finally getting my first lead role in a play, I suddenly decided to quit acting. I relinquished my 3-year-long reign as president of the Theatre club at my community college. I focused on getting a ‘real’ degree. Somehow, I found myself pursuing Anthropology. The study of humans, I thought, seems like something I can get behind. Suffice it to say that perhaps the reason why this institution granted me access was because I told them I was ready to sacrifice being there for my family if that’s what it took. If that doesn’t show the sacrifice required by the monster, what does?
Getting acceptance letters back from some of the top public universities in California, I could finally see the pride in my parents’ faces. No one thought I would be able to, not even me. Nothing could have stopped me from pursuing a higher education. I lost boyfriends to the prospect of it. I didn’t mind. I lost precious time with my family and friends to make sure I could get straight A’s. And it paid off, because there I was, attending my first class at UCSD, class of ‘24.
The excitement did not last long at all. The distance from my family, from my friends, from my home hit me all at once. It wasn’t what I had expected. Imposter syndrome set in quickly, and my grades began to plummet. My chronic depression, which I had been able to manage sans medication for 3 years, crept in and I struggled to get out of bed most days. For the first time in my life, I felt lost without hope. I no longer recognized myself. I couldn’t make friends. I couldn't make any important decisions for my future. I felt like a failure and a waste of space. I doubted my worth and my accomplishments. I questioned every decision I had ever made, everything that led me to where I was. I was overwhelmed by the sense that I had failed myself, my siblings, and most of all my parents, who had sacrificed so much for me.
I came so close to quitting it all. But something told me to keep going. Next thing I know, I found myself in this class. My professor created a space for us to feel less alone, as most of us were facing the same struggles. He helped us recognize who was truly to blame. With each class, he guided me, encouraged me to find my own voice again. The time I spent in pursuit of Anthropology had not been a waste, it was just another way for me to express my innate devotion to helping humanity. I was still there, even when I failed to see it.
I had specifically applied to Earl Warren College because of its motto, “A Life In Balance.” I believed in that ideal since I had to help my sister overcome her academic insecurities. She had chosen to sacrifice her longing to play basketball in order to compete with her peers. She was taking so many AP and honors classes, and was involved in other extracurriculars, such as Robotics. She often came to me, in tears (rare for her), because she kept comparing her academic progress to those around her. Seeing all the extra effort she put in, the endless hours of studying she spent, while still lagging behind a few others had plummeted her into a depression. I finally told her that some of those students had no life outside of school - no friends, no hobbies. I emphasized that while there might be some people who claim to like things better that way and who don’t enjoy spending time with friends, she was not one of those people, and that’s okay too. I told her that just meant she was destined for different jobs than they were, one where she could have that balance. I reminded her that she was doing amazing, and that if she was going to compare herself to the so few ahead of her, that she should also compare herself to the many others who wished to be in her shoes. This was how I protected her. It is how I will continue to protect myself.
So now that I have finally, after nearly 28 years, awakened to my own value and power, separate from the social matrix, what do I do? This is a question I am still in the process of answering, but a few things are certain. I will persevere in my own faulty humanity. I will aim to testify to love even more than I have in the past. I will no longer let the machine talk me into feeling ashamed for not being perfect. I will insist on finding my own shape, my own form in the world, rather than fit myself into an un-human mold. It might mean I will have days where I will be hungry, or lonely, or feel betrayed. But I will soon remember those are lies perpetuated by the monster to weaken me, to bend me to its will. I will find ways to sustain the essence of the person I aspire to be: a modern-day shaman, a healer of the mind and of the will. I will take whatever form necessary to attain these ideals. If I cannot find them, I will do my best to create them. I will never again let anyone persuade me to forget who I am.