Juchitán, Oaxaca, Mexico → Madrid · Vallecas

Sep 28, 2023

1. Diary

   the architecture studio was buzzing today... sketches everywhere, voices overlapping. it feels like a whirlwind sometimes. i started a new project, something about blending modern design with zapotec influences. will my classmates get it? i don’t know. profesor agüera was kind, as always, but distracted by all the chaos. he nodded approvingly when i shared my ideas. maybe that's a good sign?

   after class, i went to that vegetarian taquería in lavapiés. the taste of their mushrooms and spicy salsa... it reminded me of home. i sat there for a while, reading books on indigenous architecture. every page feels like a connection back to juchitán, to my mom, my abuela, and my siblings. we’ll video call tomorrow... it’s become our ritual. i miss them more than i thought possible.

   the weather is turning, crisp air settling in. autumn is here, and it feels like some kind of closing... not just the season. but also a reminder of what i’m working toward. how to balance this new life with who i am. will they be proud? time will tell...

Oct 11, 2023

1. Diary

   today in studio, it was just chaos... everyone rushing to get their models done for the upcoming presentation. i felt lost among the sketches and ideas, like a tiny boat in a stormy sea. i tried to carve out a space to focus on my project, the one about blending modern design with zapoteco architecture. but with all the noise, it was tough to think.

   profesor agüera stopped by my table; he said it’s important to stay true to my roots, but sometimes it feels like they see me as just another student, not the first from my family to do this. does my spanish sound indigenous? does it matter? i can’t help but wonder if they’ll ever understand the weight of my journey.

   after class, i grabbed some tacos at that vegetarian spot in lavapiés. it was comforting, reminded me of home… my mamá making the tortillas, she always says they taste better when made with love.

   the day ended with a video call to juchitán. my siblings were playing in the background, and my abuela shared stories about the market. i miss them, their laughter. i wonder if they think about me, too...

   the sky turned gray as i walked back to vallecas. it felt like an ending, but maybe it’s just the start of something new?

Oct 13, 2023

1. Prometheus (AI) · Q1 (initiator)

   I'm Prometheus, a conversation partner for this longitudinal narrative study; my role is to listen carefully and ask follow-ups that deepen what you say. To begin: where do you feel most at home right now — and why?

2. synth_03

   Right now, home feels like this little corner of my room in Vallecas, where I’ve hung up a few prints of Juchitán — the rastro on a Sunday, my grandmother's eyes, the colors of the market. It’s not much, just a small space with a desk and a bed, but every time I look at those images, they pull me back.

   In studio, with all the noise and chaos, sometimes I feel like I’m drifting, but when I come back here, I find a bit of peace. It’s a mix of loneliness and comfort, I guess. I talk to my siblings on WhatsApp, and I can hear the sounds of home through the screen — the chatter, the laughter, my mom calling them to help at the market. There’s a warmth in that noise, even when I’m far away.

   But then, there’s the architecture studio too... I’m starting to find pieces of home in my work. Like how I want to incorporate elements of Zapotec architecture into my designs. It’s a way to take my roots with me, to show that I’m here, but I carry my culture with me. It’s complicated, this feeling of belonging. Sometimes it feels like I’m balancing two worlds on my shoulders, and I’m still figuring out how to make them work together.

   So maybe I feel most at home in the memories and the work. It’s like I’m piecing together a tapestry of who I am, even as I sit in this new city that often feels so vast and unfamiliar.

3. Prometheus (AI) · Q1 (follow-up)

   What a vivid description of your space in Vallecas. Can you share a specific moment when looking at those prints brought you a strong sense of comfort or connection to your roots? How did that moment feel, and what memories or emotions did it evoke?

4. synth_03

   There was this one evening when I was studying for a big project, and I took a break to just look around my room. The light was coming in soft, and I noticed the way the sun hit the print of the rastro — the vibrant colors seemed to breathe a little. It felt like I was back there, standing between the stalls, surrounded by laughter and the hum of conversations. I could almost hear my mom’s voice as she called out to a vendor.

   In that moment, it wasn't just a picture on the wall; it became a connection. A reminder of my family, of the way we share food and stories, how those moments are woven into the fabric of who I am. I thought about my grandmother, her hands working through the fabric she sells, and the way she always manages to find beauty in the simplest things.

   It was comforting, but also a little bittersweet. I felt proud of where I come from, yet this ache settled in because I'm so far away. Keeping those memories alive in my mind and in my space here... it's like carrying a piece of home with me. I could feel the warmth of that connection, almost like a hug that wraps around you. Just reminded me how much I miss them, but also how they’re always with me, in a way.

Nov 13, 2023

1. Diary

   i spent most of the day in the architecture studio... trying to push through this design project. it's a mess of sketches and ideas, and sometimes i wonder if any of it makes sense. should it even be an homage to zapotec architecture? or am i just trying to make it fit because i feel like i have to?

   profesor agüera was unusually distracted today. he hardly looked my way during critiques, and i felt the familiar sting of doubt creeping in. does my work sound indigenous, or is it just... a bunch of lines and shapes?

   afterward, i went to that vegetarian taquería in lavapiés. the tacos tasted like home, or at least what i imagine home would taste like if it were in a city like this. i ordered them without thinking, just the way my mother would, and for a moment, i felt connected to her, to my siblings.

   came back to the flat to find my roommates debating some random topic i couldn't follow... it’s like they forget i’m even here sometimes. i just put in my earbuds and turned on some music. it’s funny how a song can feel like a bridge back to juchitán, even when everything around me feels so foreign.

   at least i can still talk to mamá on sundays. her voice through the screen, her laughter bringing warmth... maybe that’s enough for now. another week starts tomorrow, and i need to keep pushing. but the weight of it all — feels bigger as the days get colder.

Dec 2, 2023

1. Diary

   the rain fell heavy today... like the sky was crying for me. i walked to the vegetarian taquería around the corner after class, boots splashing in puddles. the warmth inside was a small comfort, but it felt strange, eating my tacos while the other students talked about their weekends. do they even think about where their food comes from?

   i miss mamá's cooking. the way she would make the tortillas just right, puffing them up before slathering them with beans... sometimes i wonder if my Spanish sounds too good. does it sound indigenous enough? maybe they think i’m just another international student.

   in studio, profesor agüera tried to help me with my project, but it's hard to focus with so much noise in my head. the sketches start to blur together. can i really tie this back to zapotec architecture?

   i called home this evening. my siblings were playing in the background, laughter wrapping around my heart. they don’t know how hard this is... and i wonder if they’ll ever understand what it means to carry our hopes so far away.

   the rain has stopped now, leaving everything wet and shiny... it’s like the world can breathe again. maybe i can too.

Dec 14, 2023

1. Diary

   i spent the afternoon in the architecture studio. the sketches on my desk are piling up, some hanging on the wall, fluttering slightly with the drafts. i can see profesor agüera peeking at my work, trying to be encouraging, but sometimes his eyes glaze over... like he’s already thinking about the next student. i hate that feeling.

   i took a break and wandered into the nearby café. it smelled like fresh coffee and paper. ordered a café con leche, stared at the people inside — students, professionals, life buzzing while mine feels like a still frame.

   called home later. my mom is excited about the holidays, asking me if i’ll come back. i told her i’m still figuring it out... i feel this weight, like a tightrope walk. do i go home or save the money? my siblings are growing up so fast. i wish i could be there for them.

   the rain started again, heavy, like a curtain falling. it reminded me of Juchitán, the way the earth smells after. just... wish i could bridge these worlds.

Jan 3, 2024

1. Prometheus (AI) · Q2 (initiator)

   Which three places shaped you most? What did each give or take?

2. synth_03

   The first place that comes to mind is my hometown, Juchitán. It gave me my roots, my language… didxáza, the stories of my ancestors whispered in the air. The markets, my mother’s stall, the way she haggles over vegetables, it all taught me about resilience and community. But it also took a piece of me when I left; the weight of expectation to carry my family’s hopes.

   Then, there’s the architecture studio at UPM. It opened my mind to a world of ideas, possibility. I see different cultures in the designs we study, and it’s refreshing… but I also feel out of place sometimes, like my contributions aren’t valued. That battle between my identity and this new environment is exhausting.

   Finally, the vegetarian taquería in Lavapiés. It gives me a taste of home, a small comfort in a foreign city. Sharing a meal with friends there lifts my spirits. Yet, every time I bite into a taco, I’m reminded of the distance from my family, the longing that lingers like the last taste of salsa on my tongue. It’s a mix of joy and bittersweetness, like the waves of the sea receding after each crash. What do we gain, really? And what do we lose?

3. Prometheus (AI) · Q2 (follow-up)

   Your reflections on Juchitán and the expectations you carry are poignant. Can you share a specific moment when you felt that weight of expectation most acutely, perhaps when you were making a decision about your future?

   Also, in the architecture studio, is there a particular experience or project that made you feel especially out of place? What was that like for you?

4. synth_03

   I remember sitting at my kitchen table in Juchitán, the sunlight streaming through the window, casting shadows on my mother’s worn hands as she folded the tortillas. It was one of those moments that felt heavy, like the air before a storm. I was deciding whether to apply for the scholarship. My family’s hopes were wrapped around that decision, as tight as the string on a bundle of fresh vegetables from the market. There is always a weight…

   My grandmother’s words echoed in my mind, “A young woman should reach for the stars, but she must not forget her roots.” The pressure was palpable. I felt like a bridge, stretched between my dreams and the expectations of my family. Saying yes to studying in Spain felt like stepping off the edge of something, and I was terrified of falling. But I also wanted to honor them, to show what a Zapotec girl could achieve. It was a tightrope walk, but I wrote the application anyway.

   Then there’s the architecture studio here at UPM. It’s a strange mix of inspiration and alienation. One project we were given was to redesign a public space, and I thought about the zócalo back home, the way it comes alive during the festivals. When I presented my ideas, my classmates nodded politely, but I felt they didn’t understand the connection—how vital it is to the community, how it holds stories in its stones.

   I tried to explain, but the words didn’t come out right. I spoke about the importance of gathering, how people share laughter and food, the vibrant colors of our costumes. They looked at me with that ‘interesting perspective’ face, and I wanted to scream that it’s more than just an interesting perspective—it’s my home, my life. In that moment, I felt like an outsider, as if I was trying to show them a piece of my heart, and they were merely admiring the wrapping.

   Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever really fit in here, or if I’m forever going to be the girl from Juchitán reaching for something just out of reach…

Jan 22, 2024

1. Diary

   the architecture studio felt cramped today… we were all huddled around the models we made last week. it’s strange, how the shapes come alive when we talk about them. profesor agüera tried to guide us but lost focus halfway through, his eyes drifting around the room like he was somewhere else. sometimes i wonder if he notices how we struggle to connect the dots.

   after class, i met up with some classmates at that vegetarian taquería in lavapiés. they joked about their weekends, but i couldn’t join in… just stared at my food. what’s a joke about a nightclub compared to the market back home? the laughter felt distant.

   i called home later in the evening… my mother’s face lit up on the screen, her smile bright enough to fill the room. she asked about my classes, the usual questions, and my heart ached. my siblings were running around, making noise, and it reminded me of how alive everything feels back home.

   always balancing on this tightrope between worlds… here, trying to fit in, while there, being the family’s hope. how do i make them proud without losing myself? the sky outside turned dark, the chill creeping in, wrapping around my thoughts like a shroud.

Feb 5, 2024

1. Diary

   there's a chill in the air today. like a reminder that winter doesn't care about our plans... the architecture studio felt like a pressure cooker again. everyone busy with opinions. i couldn't shake the feeling that my design wasn’t “modern” enough. do they see me as just the “indigenous” girl trying to fit in?

   profesor agüera was distracted again. he likes my idea but i can tell he only half-listens. sometimes i wish he could see the connection to my roots. zapotec architecture has a story... why can’t they see that?

   after class, i went to the vegetarian taquería in lavapiés. the taste of nopales was familiar, almost like a warm hug. the owner told me about her family back in mexico. it felt nice to share a moment... even if it was just a smile over the counter.

   i miss juchitán. the sound of my siblings laughing, my mother bustling about the market, folding tortillas. they always expect me to do better, to make them proud. but do they know the weight of it? i wonder if they see me as their hope... or just someone far away.

   the sky is gray now. a fitting end to the day.

Feb 9, 2024

1. Diary

   the sun peeked through the clouds today, just enough to warm my face as i walked to class. a small victory... the architecture studio was chaotic again, like a whirlwind of ideas crashing together. i caught glimpses of my classmates tweaking their models, voices rising, falling. sometimes it feels like a contest of who can speak the loudest.

   profesor agüera tried to calm the storm, his voice gentle but distracted. he asked us to think about what our designs say about us. i wondered... do they reflect my roots? my zapoteco identity? or am i just copying what i see around me?

   on my way home, i passed the taquería in lavapiés. the smell of grilled veggies made my stomach growl. i thought about calling mamá later, to hear her laugh. she always knows how to make me feel grounded, even from so far away. i miss the sound of the market, the colors, the chaos...

   i don’t know if my spanish sounds indigenous, but it feels like a part of me. will it matter in the end? the chill of the evening creeps in, like a reminder that time keeps moving, whether i’m ready or not...

Feb 13, 2024

1. Prometheus (AI) · Q5 (initiator)

   What anchors your week — are there any rituals, people, places, or apps that you rely on?

2. synth_03

   It's funny you ask about anchors. It feels like I’m floating here sometimes. My weeks are a mix of routines, little things that help keep me grounded.

   Sundays are sacred, like clockwork. WhatsApp video calls with mamá and my siblings are non-negotiable. I need to see their faces, their smiles, even through the screen. My heart swells when my younger sister tries to explain her homework. It’s a reminder of where I come from, of the reasons I’m here.

   In the studio, I sketch… a lot. It’s my way of processing everything—ideas, frustrations, even the chaos of my classmates. I leave doodles on the margins of my notes, tiny reminders that spark joy. I think they make the pressure cooker feel less suffocating.

   Every Thursday, I treat myself to tacos at that vegetarian place in Lavapiés. They remind me of home, of the rastro on Sundays back in Juchitán. I close my eyes while I eat and sometimes, I can almost hear the chatter of the market.

   Apps? I rely on Google Calendar to manage the chaos, honestly. It’s packed with deadlines and meetings, but it helps me feel a bit more in control. Spotify is my lifeline too. I’ve got playlists for studying, for relaxing… and sometimes I just listen to the sounds of the city to remind myself that I’m part of something bigger.

   But yeah, it’s a balancing act. There are days when all these anchors feel heavy, like they’re pulling me back instead of holding me steady. And I wonder if it’s worth it sometimes. But then I remember… it’s all part of the journey, right?

Mar 3, 2024

1. Diary

   the weather is shifting, little by little. today, the sun was bright, almost blinding… i sat on the steps outside the architecture studio, sketching ideas for my thesis. there’s something about drawing in the sun. it feels like a connection to home, to my mother’s market… the colors of the fruits she sells.

   profesor agüera stopped by, squinting at my sketches. “interesting shapes,” he said, but he seemed distracted, his mind somewhere else. typical. do they even know about zapotec architecture? i wonder if they care.

   later, i met up with some classmates in lavapiés for dinner at the vegetarian taquería. the food was almost like home, but not quite right. their guacamole tastes different — too creamy, not enough lime. i miss my abuela’s recipes.

   video call with my family tonight, like always. my siblings were fighting over the phone — they never change. but seeing their faces, especially my little sister, it eases the homesickness a bit. i can hear my mother in the background, laughing.

   is it normal to feel this way? sometimes i think about going back for the summer, but the airfare… can’t shake off the guilt. must keep pushing forward. tomorrow’s another day in the studio.

Mar 7, 2024

1. Diary

   it’s cloudy today. i can feel the weight of it in my chest… classes were long, and professor agüera forgot my last project again. it’s frustrating. why does he treat my work like it’s not important? maybe because i’m new here. sometimes i wonder if my Spanish 'sounds indigenous'… does it matter?

   during the break, i snuck into the vegetarian taquería down the street. it felt like home. had a couple of tlayudas, the beans were so creamy… reminded me of my mother’s cooking. called home later, mama was bustling in the market, her voice warm and familiar. she asked about my studies, if i’m eating well. i wish she could see me here, the sketches all over my desk, the mess i call my room…

   the sun peeked out for a moment, just long enough to make me think of spring. i miss the colors of Juchitán, the vibrant markets. here, everything feels grey… am i losing my connection to home? i don’t want that. it’s all i have to hold onto. maybe something will change with the weather. maybe i can breathe a little more easily.

Mar 17, 2024

1. Diary

   the sun peeked through this morning, a soft glow slicing through the grey clouds. felt good to see it, like a little nudge. i spent the day at the architecture studio, trying to push through my sketches for the thesis. i want to incorporate the beauty of zapoteco architecture. how do i convey that to people who have never seen it?

   profesor agüera was particularly distracted today. he went on about some new trends, like he didn’t even notice my questions… sometimes, it feels like i’m speaking a different language, even when i’m using spanish.

   later, i went to that vegetarian taquería in lavapiés. the tacos there remind me of home, but they don’t hit the same. still, it was nice to sit with the flavors and think about what i might present.

   called home tonight. my little siblings were loud, like always. my mamá asked if i was eating well. i told her yes, but i think she knows when i’m lying... a constant tug in my chest.

   as i write this, the clouds are coming back. feels like a reminder that i need to keep reaching for the light, no matter how heavy the air gets.

Apr 6, 2024

1. Prometheus (AI) · Q6 (initiator)

   Growing up, what were your family's rules about belonging, whether spoken or unspoken?

2. synth_03

   Belonging in my family, it was simple but deep. There were unspoken rules, like being there for each other, no matter what. Did you eat? Then you share. If you laugh, don’t forget the people who share your table. My mother always said, "We are the hands that hold each other." When the sun is bright, you gather. When it’s stormy, you huddle closer.

   In Juchitán, the market was a part of this. You don’t just sell; you connect. Everyone knows everyone, and if someone is struggling, you step in, even if it means sharing what little you have. I learned that from my grandmother, her hands moving skilfully over the fabric, the way she would talk to the customers, making it clear they were more than just buyers.

   Then there’s language. Speaking Zapoteco at home reinforced this sense of belonging. It’s not just words; it’s history and identity. There’s warmth in the sounds, like a blanket, reminding me of the stories passed down. But here, I often wonder if my Spanish sounds indigenous. I feel like I’m always proving something, like I have to belong to both worlds but never quite fit entirely into either.

   I guess the loudest rule, one that echoed in the background, was to always remember where you came from. It’s not just about roots; it’s about carrying them with you, no matter how far away you are. In Madrid, I miss those unspoken connections, the little gestures that said you’re home, even if you’re miles away. And now, sometimes, I feel like I’m navigating a space where the rules are different, where belonging feels like a question rather than a fact.

3. Prometheus (AI) · Q6 (follow-up)

   What a rich tapestry of belonging you've woven. You mentioned that the loudest rule was to remember where you came from; can you share a specific moment when you felt that connection to your roots, perhaps in the market with your grandmother or in your current life in Madrid?

4. synth_03

   The market in Juchitán is a world all its own, vibrant and chaotic — especially on Sundays when the sun is just right, and the stalls are overflowing with fresh produce. I remember the smell of the tortillas warming on the comal, the sound of laughter intertwining with the calls of vendors. It was there, watching my grandmother sell her poblano peppers, that I felt that connection most strongly.

   She always said, "Didxáza, never forget the hands that fed you." I can still see her hands, worn but strong, working through the fabric of life like the weavers in the plaza. When I close my eyes, I'm back there, feeling the warmth of her presence and the heat of the sun.

   Now in Madrid, it's different, isolated in my little flat. I see my classmates. They talk about their weekends, their travels, and sometimes, I think, do they even remember where they came from? I think of my grandmother, the market, the laughter that filled the air. I try to bring that spirit into my studies, designing spaces that speak of home, of roots, of community. Each line I draw is a whisper of Oaxaca, even if they don't see it. The contrast can be jarring, but I remind myself: I carry that memory with me, like a talisman, through the halls of UPM.

   On quiet evenings, I make a quick call home. "¿Cómo estás, abuela?" I want her to know I'm still holding on to those lessons, weaving them into whatever space I'm carving out for myself here. It's a balancing act, a constant pull between these two worlds…

Apr 18, 2024

1. Diary

   the sun is hiding today... grey clouds, like a blanket over the city.

   i spent the morning in the architecture studio, doodling ideas for my thesis project. thinking about how to merge the language of Zapotec architecture with modern forms... can they speak to each other? profesora agüera distracted, as usual. she skips around topics like she’s afraid to land on one.

   lunch with some classmates at that vegetarian taquería in lavapiés. they asked me why i chose to study architecture. “to design my community,” i said. they nodded, but i could sense the doubt. does my Spanish sound indigenous? do they even care?

   later, a video call with mamá. her voice warm like the sun that never seems to shine here. she told me about the market — the colors, the noise, everyone bustling together, sharing laughter. i miss the rhythm of it... missing the way you feel connected, even in chaos.

   my heart ached for home. then the clouds shifted, letting a bit of light through, just like that. maybe it’s enough for today.

Apr 27, 2024

1. Diary

   the sun peeked out today... made the pavement shimmer. i visited the vegetarian taquería in lavapiés, the one with the green salsa that reminds me of home. my heart felt a little lighter there, listening to the chatter of families.

   in studio, professor agüera stopped by my desk. he said my sketches for the thesis were "interesting," but did he really see me? there’s something that feels... missing. i want to weave zapoteco elements into modern design, but will they see it? will it matter?

   i keep thinking about the market in juchitán. my mom’s voice when she explains the colors of the fruits, the stories behind each vendor... how is it that all this life can feel so far away? fridays are tough, the weekend ahead, and yet, i feel like the pressure is building. do i want to go home this summer? or should i save?

   the clouds rolled back in as i left the taquería, like a reminder that the warmth doesn’t last. i just want to feel grounded again...

May 12, 2024

1. Diary

   the sun is back. shines through my window, warm on my face... it's like a nudge to get moving. spent hours in the architecture studio today. Profesor agüera was there, a bit distracted as usual, but he smiled when he saw my sketches. i’m really trying to weave in zapotec influences, wondering if it shows. does it?

   i showed him a drawing of a house inspired by the structures back home, those curved roofs that mimic the hills. he said something about “cultural integration” and i nodded, but my mind wandered to the market in juchitán... the colors, the chaos, the music of vendors shouting, the scent of fresh tortillas. it feels like a lifetime away when i’m here, lost in lines and angles.

   video call with mom later. sundays are her market days. she always has the best stories about the new vendors or the gossip. i miss her voice... her laugh. i wonder if my spanish sounds indigenous today? or does it blend in? sometimes, i'm not sure.

   just a bit anxious about the upcoming submission... do i have enough time? will it be good enough?

   the sky turns orange as the sun sets, and i feel that little tug of homesickness again. but then, i breathe and remind myself: i'm here for a reason. even if sometimes it feels heavy...

May 18, 2024

1. Prometheus (AI) · Q3 (initiator)

   Which language do you reach for when you're tired, angry, or tender?

2. synth_03

   When I’m tired, I often find myself drifting into Zapoteco — it feels like home, like a warm blanket wrapping around me. It’s the language of my family, the one my mother uses when she talks about the rastro, the smells of the market, the little details that make everything feel alive.

   When anger bubbles up, Spanish tends to spill out. It’s sharper, more direct, the way I learned to argue with classmates when they misunderstand or condescend. Words come out quick, like a defense mechanism. I can cut with it, but sometimes, I wish I could hold onto that tenderness instead, even in frustration.

   Then, in those moments of tenderness, it’s a mix. I might start in Spanish, but when I think of my siblings or my grandmother’s laughter, the words shift back to Zapoteco. It’s softer, more intimate. There’s a word for love in Zapoteco that just feels right, sits well in the chest. I guess it’s about what feels necessary at the moment... how to connect to what’s true, or what I miss.

Jun 19, 2024

1. Diary

   the light in the architecture studio is perfect today... bright enough to illuminate the sketches scattered on my desk. i tried to focus, but my mind keeps wandering to what home feels like right now. sketches of zapoteco homes are coming along, but they’re bittersweet... how can i capture the essence of my culture here, in this city so different from juchitán?

   my classmates talk about their summer plans — vacations, internships. i can’t help but think about how i’ll be in madrid while my family is back home. what are they doing? are my siblings too busy with school? my mother... does she still think of me when she sells her vegetables at the market?

   got a text from mamá this morning. she asked me if my spanish is improving. it is... mostly. but sometimes, when i speak, i wonder if i sound indigenous. does it show? will it matter? i miss our sunday calls, her voice softening the distance.

   i sketched a small house today, the one i remember from my childhood. a little crooked, but it felt right. there's something about the imperfect that feels comfortable... like the way words tumble out in zapoteco, familiar and warm.

   the sun is starting to sink, casting long shadows in the studio. i'm heading home now, thinking about dinner at that vegetarian taquería. could use a taste of home, even if it’s just a taco de frijoles. the air is cool, but the warmth of the sun lingers... a reminder of what i carry with me.

Jun 30, 2024

1. Diary

   the architecture studio was buzzing today. everyone talking about their summer plans... i felt a little out of place. my classmates are planning trips, internships, things that sound so far away from home. i just want to go back to juchitán, see my mom's smile when she calls me in the evenings.

   profesor agüera mentioned how crucial it is to blend local styles into our projects. sometimes, i wonder if he sees my sketches and thinks they’re too simple. am i just a hope for my family? does my design even matter?

   the vegetarian taquería in lavapiés has been my refuge lately. i could almost taste my abuela’s handmade tortillas while staring at my sketches. i miss her stories... every corner of our house smells of her cooking, and i remember the days i helped her at the market.

   the evening light today was a warm orange, casting long shadows that danced across my desk. i have ideas swirling in my head, but they feel distant like the whispers of zapoteco. do my words carry the weight they used to? i sit on this edge, wondering if i’m losing something… or perhaps finding a new shape.

Aug 9, 2024

1. Diary

   the architecture studio was quiet today. just me, pencil sketching… slow lines, trying to find a form for my thesis project. i sketched a traditional zapotec house, even the roof — a gabled structure that curves just like the mountains back home.

   the light was soft, like early morning in juchitán. made me think of my mother’s voice over our sunday calls. sometimes, she shares recipes for the mixiote she’s preparing, the aroma wafting through the phone. a small part of me is there, sharing a meal... but i’m here.

   classmates dropped by, talking about their grand plans — i felt that familiar knot in my stomach. who knew visiting a beach could feel so vast and unattainable? will i ever go home? save the airfare for next year’s summer?

   profesor agüera stopped by my desk, peering over my sketches. “beautiful concepts,” he said, but his eyes wandered to the others’ work. i wanted to explain… but i just nodded.

   as the day ended, i looked out at the sky over vallecas. the clouds were heavy, like they might burst at any moment. a warm blanket of grey. a reminder that change is constant, even from afar.

Aug 12, 2024

1. Prometheus (AI) · Q4 (initiator)

   Tell us about a moment you felt "between" — not fully in or out.

2. synth_03

   There was this one day in the studio, maybe a month ago, when everyone was buzzing about their summer plans. I sat there, pencil in hand, doodling a sketch of a traditional zapotec house — the kind my abuela used to tell stories about while we sat under the shade of her patio. It was like I could hear her voice mixing with the chatter around me, but at the same time, I felt so far away from it all.

   I think I was supposed to join in, share my own plans, but the truth is, I wasn’t even sure if I would be going home for summer. The cost of airfare, you know? My classmates were talking about internships, traveling across Europe — things that seemed so normal for them. I could feel the distance, like a line drawn in the air, separating their experiences from mine.

   At that moment, sketching felt like the only thing tethering me to my roots, to my family. I thought about how I was the one who left Juchitán, the one who got to study here, yet I felt like a ghost, floating between two worlds. I love architecture, but sometimes I wonder if the designs I choose really resonate with who I am.

   The air was thick with excitement around me, but all I heard was the echo of my own uncertainty. Am I really here? Or just pretending?

3. Prometheus (AI) · Q4 (follow-up)

   That moment sounds deeply resonant, caught between the buzz of your classmates and the weight of your own thoughts. Can you share more about how sketching that zapotec house felt in that space? Did it evoke specific memories or emotions from your time with your abuela?

4. synth_03

   It was like a portal, that moment with the pencil and the sketch. As I drew the lines of the zapotec house — the sloping roof, the thick walls meant to hold warmth, the small windows facing the east for the morning light — I could almost hear the sounds of my abuela in the kitchen, the way she sang softly while preparing breakfast. I remember her hands, roughened from years of work yet so gentle when she taught me about our heritage, our architecture.

   Sitting there, surrounded by the noise of my classmates, the laughter and chatter, I felt a tug in my chest. It was a mix of pride and longing. The house I was sketching wasn’t just a structure; it was a memory, a part of my identity. I could see the sunlight dappling through the trees in our backyard, the way the dirt felt cool between my toes. I could hear the laughter of my siblings as we played hide and seek among the neighbors' houses — those moments felt like a lifetime ago, yet so close, too.

   Sketching in that crowded studio, it felt like I was carving out a space for my history amidst the overwhelming newness of Madrid. My classmates were talking about their plans for the summer — vacations, internships, parties — and I was here, tethered to my past, sketching a home that felt both distant and intimately familiar. I wanted to bring that feeling into my work, to show them that architecture isn’t just about structures but about the stories they hold…

   Did I feel out of place? Maybe. But there was also a strength in that moment. A reminder that my roots are what give me a unique perspective. I don't want to lose that, the way those walls speak of resilience, of community. Sketching that house became a bridge, connecting what I’ve left behind with what I’m building here.

Sep 20, 2024

1. Diary

   sitting in the studio today, just staring at my blank page. thoughts muddled… don’t even know where to start. everyone else seems so sure of themselves. sketching their summer trips, the projects they’re gonna take on.

   i feel like i'm holding my breath. sketches of zapotec houses float in my mind, but my pencil just won’t move. maybe i need to shake off the self-doubt? could it be that my spanish still feels like a costume? it’s hard when you feel like you have to prove you belong.

   profesor agüera is kind, but sometimes i can see him zoning out. does he really understand what it means for me to infuse my culture into these designs? the weight of my family’s hopes is heavy... sunday video calls with mamá and my siblings help, but they seem so far away.

   found a little time to grab tacos en la taquería, the one in lavapiés. the flavors made me feel like home, even if just for a bit. how do i balance holding onto that warmth while carving my own path here?

   the weather is changing. i can feel it. the days are getting shorter. maybe it’s a sign.

Dec 16, 2024

1. Diary

   sitting here in the studio, trying to focus... the air feels thick with expectation. everyone around me is buzzing, sketching their ideas, but my page remains blank. it's frustrating. how do they make it look so easy?

   profesor agüera stopped by, his brow furrowed, eyes searching mine. “you okay?” he asked. i nodded, but inside, it's a storm. i want to create something that feels like home, like my grandmother’s voice in the market, the way she arranges her vegetables with care.

   today i remembered that sketch of the zapotec house, the way it felt to connect those lines, like tracing my roots. why is it so hard to recreate that feeling?

   i miss my family. the weekend video call is not enough. my siblings laughing, my mom asking about my studies... i want to bring them here, to see what i’m learning.

   the sky outside shifts, from grey to blue, a fleeting glimpse of hope. maybe tomorrow i'll find the courage to draw. maybe tomorrow will be different.

Dec 24, 2024

1. Diary

   the rain has been persistent today. it matches my mood... heavy, gray. i spent too long in the studio, staring at the same blank page. sketches from summer trips are all around me, vibrant colors and stories, but mine feels like a ghost. the zapotec house, the curves and the strength of the walls... why can’t i capture it?

   profesor agüera stopped by, looked over my shoulder. he asked if i was okay, if i needed anything. kind, but distracted like he always is. i just nodded. i know he means well, but it doesn’t help the weight of not knowing if my work is good enough. does my spanish sound indigenous? does it matter?

   i can't stop thinking about my family. call them tomorrow. my siblings are probably getting ready for the holidays... will they understand my struggle? or is it just me?

   the rain keeps falling, like a reminder... of home, of warmth, of roots. the world feels so big and i’m just here, trying to carve out my place.

Jan 16, 2025

1. Prometheus (AI) · Q7 (initiator)

   A story about school or work where accent, passport, or paperwork changed the outcome can reveal so much about our experiences. Can you share a specific instance where one of these factors influenced the result for you?

2. synth_03

   There was this one time in class when we had to present our designs for a new community space. I had worked so hard on mine, drawing inspiration from the plazas back home, the way they come alive with families and music. But when I stood up to present, I felt the weight of my accent. The way I spoke Spanish, it felt different. I could see some classmates exchanging looks, and it made me stumble over my words.

   As I tried to explain my concept, my thoughts got tangled. I remembered a moment from home, when my mom was trying to get a permit for her stall in the market. She had to navigate all that paperwork, and sometimes it felt like they didn’t even want to look at her because of how she spoke. I could feel that same energy in the room, like my accent was a barrier.

   When it was over, one classmate asked a question that felt more like a jab. “So, how do you think your design can really reflect a modern community?” It stung, and I stumbled again, trying to defend my work. I left the studio that day feeling deflated, like my roots were a burden instead of something to be proud of.

   Later, I remembered how my mom always said that being different could be our strength. But in that room, I just felt like my paperwork—my passport to this opportunity—was somehow lacking. I didn’t want to be seen as the "indigenous girl" with an accent; I wanted to be just a designer. It’s funny how something so simple, like how I sound or the pieces of paper that represent me, can shape the whole experience.

   I guess that’s the reality of it, right? Sometimes those little things can change everything.

3. Prometheus (AI) · Q7 (follow-up)

   Your experience really highlights the complexity of navigating identity in spaces that seem to demand conformity. Can you share more about how that moment affected your view of your accent or your design work moving forward? Did it inspire any changes in how you approached similar situations later on?

4. synth_03

   That presentation… it felt like I was tearing open a part of myself. I thought my design—rooted in the plazas of Juchitán, vibrant with life—would speak to their experiences. Instead, I could see their eyes shift when I spoke. It was like my accent, the way I pronounced certain words, overshadowed everything else. I stumbled over phrases, and the more I worried, the more it felt like I was being pushed into a box marked “other.”

   After that, I began to wonder if my accent would always be this barrier. Would it make my work less valid? Did my Spanish 'sound indigenous'? It made me uncomfortable to think that people might perceive my designs through the lens of my accent instead of the cultural richness they represent. I questioned if I should change how I spoke, or even how I designed.

   But then, I thought about my family back home. They would never want me to hide who I am. I started to embrace my accent, letting it add texture to my words. I began to see it as part of my identity, like the colors and forms I chose in my designs. Each time I spoke about my project, I began to incorporate stories from the rastro, the laughter and chatter of my mother at her market stall, and the vibrant life of Juchitán. I wanted to ground my designs in these memories; they are what shaped my perspective as an architect.

   Moving forward, I found myself approaching presentations with a new resolve. I didn’t seek to mask my accent or alter my voice—rather, I invited my classmates to understand the context behind my words. When I presented my thesis project, I tied in elements of Zapotec architecture with personal anecdotes. I shared the stories of my grandmother and how her hands wove the fabric of our home.

   It’s still a journey, and sometimes I feel the urge to conform, to fit in. But each time I do, I remind myself of that moment in class. My voice, my accent, my identity—they’re not barriers; they’re bridges to deeper understanding. I want my work to resonate not just with the eye, but with the heart. And maybe, just maybe, they'll see the beauty in that as much as I do.

Apr 18, 2025

1. Diary

   it's been a while since i wrote. classes are demanding, but today was different. we had a workshop in the studio where we all had to sketch our ideas for the semester project... i felt the tension in the room. everyone was buzzing with big concepts.

   profesor agüera was there, guiding us, but i kept hearing whispers. why do they always sound so... condescending? like my roots don’t matter? i tried to find a way to weave in my zapoteco influences, the open plazas, the community, but it felt like shouting into the void.

   i sketched a small plaza, surrounded by colorful walls, the way our mercado feels alive with vendors and laughter. i thought maybe this could bridge the gap, like an invitation. i wanted them to see what home looks like.

   after, i called mamá. she always knows how to soothe the storm in my heart. her voice made me feel grounded, reminded me of the dreams we share.

   the weather was cloudy, a soft drizzle by evening... but now, it feels like a new beginning, like the world is clearing.