Génesis RC

Tag: Resistance

  • Are You Patriotic?

    Are You Patriotic?

    I was a happy Puerto Rican — until I moved to Chicago. There, I became a proud, patriotic Puerto Rican.

    There’s a difference. A big one. And it took me leaving to understand it.

    Summer 2014. My second time visiting Chicago. I’m with my mom, tía, and tío; in Pilsen, a Mexican neighborhood on the southwest side. And there they are.

    Puerto Rican flags. Everywhere.

    My first thought, I swear, was just: “Que cool, banderas de PR, con el azul que es.”

    That was it. That was the whole reaction. Happy. Innocent. Not yet anything deeper than that. I just thought it was cool that someone put up our flag in this Mexican neighborhood. I noticed the blue — the specific blue, azul clarito, the original — and I smiled and kept walking.

    I had no idea what I was looking at.

    Growing up in Puerto Rico, I was lucky. My high school history teacher was J. Costa — and because of her, I knew more than most. She’s the reason I learned to be curious about history, to travel, to read critically, to question what’s not in the textbook. She taught me that Puerto Ricans were once prohibited from displaying their own flag. That it was illegal. That people went to prison for it.

    I knew it. I just didn’t feel it yet.

    That’s the thing about learning history in the place where it happened — it can still feel abstract. Distant. Like something that was, not something that is. Puerto Rico surrounded me so completely that I never had to think about what it meant to be Puerto Rican. It was just oxygen. You don’t think about oxygen until you’re somewhere that doesn’t have enough of it.

    After I moved to Chicago, I started doing what Janina taught me — asking questions, digging deeper. And I really learned. Not the clean version. La historia de Puerto Rico que no está en los libros de historia.

    The Gag Law. Law 53 of 1948. You could go to prison for owning a Puerto Rican flag. For singing a patriotic song. For speaking about independence in public. In your own country. Your own home.

    And suddenly those flags in Pilsen — in a Mexican neighborhood, thousands of miles from the island — made complete sense. That community wasn’t decorating. They were remembering. They were refusing. They were saying you tried to erase this and here it is, azul clarito, on every corner, and we’re not asking permission.

    I didn’t move to Chicago and find my identity. I moved to Chicago and finally understood what it cost.

    That’s when happy became proud. And proud is heavier. Proud has history in it. Proud means you know what you’re carrying.

    “La Patria es valor y sacrificio.” — Pedro Albizu Campos

    Don Pedro didn’t say the homeland is the place you were born. He didn’t say it’s the food or the music or the flag on your wall. He said it’s courage. It’s sacrifice. It’s something you choose, actively, even when — especially when — it costs you something.

    I understood that for the first time not in Puerto Rico. But on a street in a Mexican neighborhood in Chicago, on a summer afternoon, looking at a flag I’d seen my whole life and finally, truly seeing it.

    Now I live between two places and I don’t know where I belong — or if belonging is even the right word anymore. Chicago gave me my pride. Puerto Rico gave me my roots. And every few months I’m on a plane asking myself the same question I still don’t have an answer to:

    Where do I go?

    I don’t know. What I do know is that wherever I land, I’m Puerto Rican out loud. Not because it’s easy or automatic or ambient the way it used to be — but because I know now what it means. What it cost. What it’s worth.

    Azul clarito. Siempre. 🩵  

    Gracias por leerme 😽

    Génesis🍒

  • Why Did I Come Back to the Cold?

    Why Did I Come Back to the Cold?

    Or: What happens when you’re Puerto Rican, professional, and realizing you chose the hard mode

    I keep asking myself the same question lately: Why the hell did I come back to Chicago?

    It’s February. It’s cold. I’m wearing three layers just to go for a morning walk. And every morning I wake up to news that makes me want to throw my phone across the room and go back to sleep until 2028.

    Meanwhile, Puerto Rico is 82 degrees and sunny. My people are making coffee on the balcony, talking shit with the neighbors, figuring out how to make community work even when the government won’t.

    So yeah. Why did I come back to this?

    The Professional Calculus (Or: The Lie We Tell Ourselves)

    Here’s what I told myself when I return back dfrom xmas vacations: The opportunities are here. The clients are here. You built something in Chicago, you can’t just walk away from it.

    And that’s true. I did build something. Over a decade of consulting work, events that brought people together, programs that actually mattered. I created a career here as a Puerto Rican woman in spaces that weren’t designed for me. That counts for something.

    But let’s be honest about what’s happening right now.

    I’m watching organizations I worked with—organizations that claimed to care about “diversity” and “inclusion” and all those words they loved putting in their mission statements—suddenly go real quiet. DEI initiatives getting cut. “Budget constraints,” they say. “Shifting priorities.”

    Meanwhile, the new administration is making it very clear what they think about people who look like me, sound like me, come from where I come from.

    And I’m sitting here with my carefully crafted resume and my polished cover letters, trying to convince people to hire me while wondering if they’re even reading past my name.

    Génesis Rivera Candelaria.

    Yeah, that’s gonna be a “culture fit,” I’m sure.

    The Personal Reality (Or: I’m Scared and I’m Tired of Pretending I’m Not)

    I’m afraid.

    There. I said it.

    I’m afraid of what’s coming. I’m afraid of policies that treat my people like problems to be solved instead of human beings. I’m afraid of rhetoric that emboldens the worst people to say the quiet parts out loud. I’m afraid that everything I worked for—the credibility, the relationships, the reputation—can get erased because someone decided that people like me are suddenly “too political” just by existing.

    I’m afraid that I made the wrong choice coming back here.

    In Puerto Rico, shit’s hard. The government is a disaster. The infrastructure is falling apart. The debt crisis is real. But you know what we have? Each other.

    Porque si hay algo que distingue a los boricuas es que aunque no sabemos votar por políticos que sí quieren lo mejor para el país, nosotros los boricuas sabemos hacer comunidad. Sabemos estar ahí para nuestros vecinos. Sabemos que cuando el gobierno nos falla—y siempre nos falla—nos tenemos el uno al otro.

    We know how to show up.

    And I’m here in Chicago, in the cold, watching community get dismantled from the top down, and wondering if I should’ve just stayed where people understand that survival is a collective effort, not an individual achievement.

    The Cultural Truth (Or: What They Don’t Teach You About Being “Professional”)

    Here’s what they don’t tell you about being a Latina professional in the United States: you’re always translating.

    Not just language—though yeah, I do that too. I mean translating yourself. Your experience. Your value. Your worth.

    You learn to code-switch so seamlessly that sometimes you forget which version of yourself is the “real” one. You learn to make your accomplishments sound impressive without sounding “aggressive.” You learn to be warm but not “too emotional.” You learn to have opinions but not be “difficult.”

    You learn to be Puerto Rican enough to be “interesting” but not so Puerto Rican that you make people “uncomfortable.”

    And the exhausting part? You do all of this while watching the rules change in real time.

    Yesterday’s “we value diverse perspectives” is today’s “we’re refocusing on merit-based hiring” (as if we weren’t qualified). Yesterday’s “bring your whole self to work” is today’s “let’s keep politics out of the workplace” (as if our existence isn’t political to them).

    It’s whiplash. And it’s by design.

    The Question I Can’t Answer (Or: What Do We Do Now?)

    So what do I do with all this?

    Do I keep applying to jobs that might not want me? Do I keep pitching to clients who might ghost me? Do I keep building in a country that’s actively hostile to people like me?

    Or do I go back to Puerto Rico, accept that the money won’t be the same, the opportunities won’t be the same, but at least I won’t be cold and I won’t be alone?

    I don’t have the answer yet.

    What I do know is this: I’m tired of pretending that “professionalism” means swallowing my reality. I’m tired of performing gratitude for spaces that were never designed to include me in the first place. I’m tired of watching my community get scapegoated while I’m supposed to smile and network and “add value.”

    And I know I’m not the only one feeling this way.

    The Thing About Community (Or: Why I’m Writing This)

    I’m writing this because I know there are other people out there—other Latinx professionals, other immigrants, other people with names that don’t fit neatly on corporate org charts—who are asking themselves the same questions right now.

    Why did I come here?
    Why did I stay?
    What was it all for?

    And I want you to know: I don’t have answers, but you’re not alone in asking.

    We’re all trying to figure out how to survive this. How to keep our dignity while keeping our rent paid. How to stay true to who we are while navigating systems that want us to be smaller, quieter, more grateful.

    Maybe the answer isn’t in Chicago or Puerto Rico. Maybe it’s in remembering what we already know how to do: make community. Show up for each other. Build the tables we want to sit at instead of waiting for invitations that might never come.

    Because if there’s one thing I learned from being Puerto Rican, it’s that we don’t wait for systems to save us. We save each other.

    Even when it’s cold.
    Even when we’re scared.
    Even when we don’t know if we made the right choice.

    We show up anyway.

    So here I am. Still in Chicago. Still cold. Still afraid. Still showing up.

    Let’s see what happens next.

    Graciasss por leerme.

    Besitos 

    Génesis 

    Génesis Rivera Candelaria is a freelance logistics and program operations consultant who spends too much time wondering if she should’ve stayed in Puerto Rico and not enough time actually booking a flight back. She’s currently accepting consulting opportunities, existential advice, and recommendations for good coffee that might make the Midwest winter bearable. Reach her at grcandela@gmail.com.

  • Unapologetically Still Standing

    Unapologetically Still Standing

    Because This Year Tried Me, and I Said ‘Not Today, Satan.’

    Dear Mini Génesis,

    It’s that time again—the annual existential crisis disguised as a birthday reflection. I know, I know, you probably thought we’d have it all figured out by now. Pero mira, joke’s on us porque este año? Este año se tiró un season completo of 365 Days of Goodbyes, Bad Hellos, and WTF Moments – I didn’t see that coming.

    This year felt like a 365-day challenge to who I was, and honestly, it tested me in ways I never expected. It wasn’t always kind, and it sure as hell wasn’t easy. But even through the rough patches, it kept pushing me forward, teaching me that sometimes life’s hardest lessons are also the ones that carve us into who we’re meant to be. I’m grateful for all the forces that guide my way. Those I can see. And those I cannot.

    Let’s be real—2024 wasn’t just un año cabrón; it was un torbellino emocional con aftershocks. Goodbyes came at us faster than a speeding carrito de piragüaaa en verano, and the hellos? Ay, mija, they were más awkward que un abrazo de funeral. But Mini Génesis, you’ve always been the OG fighter—the scrappy one who doesn’t flinch, even when life’s throwing shit after 💩 your way.

    Circa 1997? 98? 🤔

    And as a proud Sagittarius (y tú lo sabes), let me remind you: we don’t sugarcoat nada. No nos hacemos pequeñas pa’ que otros se sientan cómodos, and we sure as hell don’t live for anyone else’s expectations. We live loud, messy, and unapologetically in our truth. So, if this year did one thing right, it was reminding us to stay true to what our heart calls for—even when life gets un poquito loud and complicated.

    Grateful for this year of life just completed. And hopeful for this year to come. May I live up to whatever crosses my path, even if it’s just a speeding chancleta. Sure, we’re a little bruised (pero vv cute), but every scar reminds us we’re tougher than we think. Porque let’s be honest: Sagittarians might bend, pero jamás nos rompemos.

    So, as we kick off this next season of chaos (and maybe a little magic), let’s keep it real. Let’s live for the things that set our hearts on fire and leave behind anything that dims us. May we face whatever comes next with courage, sass, and un buen Funky playlist para el camino y pa’l corazoncito.

    Here’s to us, Mini Génesis: the dreamer, the fighter, and la cabrona que nunca se rinde. Live loud, live BOLD, live proud, and keep ordering takeout when shit gets heavy—life’s too short to do it any other way.

    Feliz 31 inviernos to me ❤️‍🔥

    😽

    Génesis ❣️

    ✨The mythic goddess of the feast, embodying abundance and celebration ❤️‍🔥🌝
  • 104 horas en Puerto Rico

    104 horas en Puerto Rico

    Una mirada funky y honesta a cómo el jangueo boricua pasó de ser épico a una misión imposible, con nostalgia, humor y sabor boricua.

    Imagina esto: llegas a Puerto Rico con la mentalidad de “¡La calle me llamaaa y la garganta me pica!” porque, claro, el boricua en la diáspora vive con la ilusión de que el jangueo aquí sigue siendo tan épico como lo era antes del 2017. Spoiler alert: no lo es. Pero, si buscas un jangueo decente, un shoutout a Bar 0.2 por mantener viva la esperanza de buena música, buenos tragos y esa vibra que nos recuerda que todavía queda algo del viejo Puerto Rico.

    Ahora, si eres trentón y quieres caminar un poquito más, el jangueo empieza en la primera parte de La Cerra y sigue hasta llegar a ALAS 🪽😉 — el que sabe, sabe —

    El night life está en coma, y no es por culpa de la inflación ni del reguetón de TikTok. Fue María quien dio el primer puño al hígado y Miguel Romero con su dichoso código municipal quien lo enterró seis pies bajo tierra. Porque claro, ¿qué mejor manera de revivir la economía que matando los negocios nocturnos con multas ridículas y regulaciones absurdas?

    ¿Y qué hay de la comida late-night? Antes, era normal encontrarte un pincho a cualquier hora, pero ahora, después de las 9:30 p.m., la vida culinaria es un chiste malo. ¿Quieres un buen late night snack? Amigo, NO, tienes que ser madrugador porque, al parecer, comer después de las 10:00 p.m. es un crimen federal en esta isla. Si te da hambre después del jangueo, las opciones confiables son contadas, como el BK de la 18* o un clásico de clásicos: Los Pinos, el lugar donde las conversaciones filosóficas y el arroz con habichuelas a las 2:00 a.m. van de la mano.

    Extraño ver el sol salir en Aqua (again, el que sabe, sabe). Ni hablar de los lunes de salsa en La Factoría con Héctor Tempo y Roberto Roena (que en la luz estén descansando).

    Estas 104 horas en Puerto Rico me han hecho reflexionar seriamente sobre el jangueo boricua que alguna vez conocí y amé. ¿Dónde quedó esa vibra de chinchorrear hasta que salga el sol? Entre apagones, regulaciones municipales, y la falta de buena comida nocturna, siento que el espíritu del jangueo murió, y ni el ron más barato lo puede resucitar.

    Pero, ¿sabes qué? Aunque estemos jangueando con linternas y comiendo tostones fríos en el carro,

    ser boricua es eso: hacer magia con lo que hay.

    Porque aunque nos quiten la noche, el día siempre llega con sabor a café y revolú. ¿El problema? Nos quitaron el jangueo pero nunca el espíritu indomable.

    Graciasss por leer mi rant 🤭

    Besiss 😽

    Génesis ❣️

  • Crossroads, Resistance, and the Path Forward

    Crossroads, Resistance, and the Path Forward

    My therapist threw two prompts my way this week, and they hit a little too close to home. You know, the kind that makes you pause mid-session and think, “Oh no, we’re really going there, aren’t we?”

    Prompt 1: Your character reaches a tough crossroads and needs to come to a decision.

    Okay, not too bad—until I realized my character is basically me, standing at a literal and metaphorical crossroads between two places that mean everything: Puerto Rico and Chicago.

    The Crossroads

    The decision between Puerto Rico and Chicago has been looming over me for a while now. Both places hold pieces of my heart, my identity, my history. In Puerto Rico, there’s family, lifelong friends, and the warmth of my grandfather’s wisdom. It’s home in every sense of the word, yet there’s this underlying fear—what if I go back and get stuck? Stuck in the ay bendito culture, the kind that sometimes feels like a slow wave of “just be grateful for what you have,” even when I know there’s more I want to chase.

    But then there’s Chicago—the city where I have security. Sure, it’s not perfect, but it’s a place where I can breathe, where I’m anonymous enough to build, to grow without the pressure of everyone knowing who I am. The infrastructure works, and I wouldn’t have to worry about power outages or losing touch with the modern world. Yet, it comes with its own kind of loneliness. I’m a social butterfly, and here I’m missing my people—the ones who make me feel grounded, known. My closest friends, the ones who’ve been with me since day one, are still back on the island. I’d have my mom, my uncle, my aunt, and a few family friends who’ve practically become family, but it’s not the same.

    So here I am, standing at the crossroads, with my heart being pulled in two directions. Puerto Rico, where comfort lives but maybe stagnation, too? Or Chicago, where I could thrive but risk feeling disconnected from the people who matter most?

    Prompt 2: Write about a time you recognized resistance and reflect on the outcome you experienced.

    Oof. Now this one digs deep. Resistance? Yeah, I’ve had plenty of that. Especially when it came to the decision between Puerto Rico and Chicago. But instead of making the decision myself, life kinda…made it for me.

    Resistance and Outcomes

    A few years ago, I was at a different kind of crossroads—deciding whether to stay in Puerto Rico or come back to Chicago full-time. The resistance was real. It wasn’t just about logistics; it was about the pull between comfort and growth, between the familiar and the unknown.

    Staying in Puerto Rico would have meant embracing a sense of safety and the continuity of tradition, but it also felt like a risk—of losing myself or becoming too comfortable. Meanwhile, Chicago promised anonymity and a chance to start fresh, but I knew it came with a kind of loneliness, a distance from the people and warmth that have shaped me.

    In the end, I didn’t make a bold decision. Life made it for me. Circumstances—the pull of new opportunities, the state of the island—pushed me in one direction. And maybe the hardest part was realizing that sometimes, the biggest decision isn’t a choice we make on our own. Sometimes, life sweeps us into the current.

    And the outcome? I’m still figuring it out. Some days, I miss Puerto Rico—the sun, the laughter of my friends, the familiarity of people who’ve known me my whole life. Other days, I feel at ease in Chicago, where things work and where I can move without feeling the weight of expectations. But maybe it’s not about choosing one over the other; it’s about finding peace in the in-between, even when it feels like I’m constantly reaching.

    For now, I guess I’ll have to settle for the comfort—and yes, the loneliness—that Chicago brings. The road ahead is still unfolding, and I’m learning to embrace the unknown, the resistance, and whatever outcome comes next.

    So, what did these prompts teach me?

    Life is full of crossroads and resistance. And while we all want to be the ones in control, making the tough decisions, sometimes we don’t get to be the hero of our own story. But maybe that’s okay. The journey is still unfolding, and whether it’s Puerto Rico or Chicago—or somewhere in between—I’m learning to embrace the unknown, the resistance, and whatever outcome comes next.

    Besitos🥰
    Génesis     ❤️‍🔥