This is part one of a long story.
These events took place in June but were written September 15th at 3:13 pm.
(TW: SUICIDE)
When I got to the UK, we were squatters.
Or that was the best-laid plan.
Squatting in the UK is legal, side from the break-in, and there’s a community around it.
A community held together by the desperation of survival, I think, from the outside.
Three days before my flight, Lorenzo called me and cried. My system in shock, asked what’s wrong, urging for answers. One of the squat members killed herself inside the building. Lorenzo wasn’t there but the rest of the crew was, and found her in the basement. Xena was 29 years old but no one knew. She was new to the crew, and they had just asked her to leave the night before. There were signs she wasn’t well, but no one was close enough to her to help. She took her life inside the building she was asked to leave.
Trauma.
Lorenzo has unanswered questions. Xena didn’t leave a note. She didn’t speak to anyone before her final decision. The rest of the crew…is collectively altered by the memory of her fate.
The first day we went to the squat, B was there. Tall, dark, a tight smile, he welcomed us upstairs. The squat was a pub in gritty East London, overtaken by squatters before. The bottom floor was a bar, with ratty furniture, and graffitied windows, promising divine protection. In the back was a small kitchen with working lights, water, and a fridge. Up the stairs were bedrooms, bathrooms, and an open balcony. We sat outside.
The squat was being held down by another crew. White squatters—the original crew was all black, all queer, all anarchist. Built on the premise of taking what’s theirs, and creating a safe space for members of their community. Creating safety. Creating new worlds with new rules is difficult to define.
We sat across B upstairs on the balcony. I was in London for the first time, shy, mute. B was spaced out, worn down. We got into it, or rather, around it very carefully, not to look it in the eye. He recalled, finding solace in the company of the other squat mates because they had found her together. Only they know what they experienced, what they saw. B said, “When I wake up in the morning, I remember, and I think, ‘fuck, I have to get through another day.’” “That sounds like depression,” I said assuringly, he nodded. I tried to speak soothingly, unable to imagine myself in the same position. Lorenzo nodded, perhaps perplexed himself, unsure what our place in the madness is.
B gathered his things and left. We stayed in the squat that night.
Lore vacuumed the rug of the room inside the balcony. Thin, old, red carpet hardly sticking to the floors. An uncovered mattress on the ground. A mantlepiece beside janky little shelves and drawers. A small wooden wardrobe with two hangers hanging inside. Enormous, bright windows, overlooking a flag of a black fist punching to the sky. Not bad, I thought. We covered the mattress with new sheets and cleaned up. Beer cans, cigarette butts, a jar of weed, went downstairs. We hung our coats, stashed our bags, and took a breath. I looked around. Lore’s art was hanging in the next room, recognizable from the book we wrote together.
I couldn’t bring myself to go to her room or down to the basement. Uneasily, we spoke to Jon instead.
Jon is the head of the crew of squatters holding down the building. By holding down I mean, the person who stays inside, while everyone else goes out, to ensure that no one else breaks in, including cops. His crew includes an older gent named Marcus, smoking ciggies, all in salt and pepper grey, a seemingly sweet, younger man called Sweeps, with long black hair, and missing teeth, and a girl, who’s name I can’t remember, but remember her big white hoodie over a little white skirt, and the nod of companionship she gave me as she left the door.
I was scared.
Of ghosts, of strangers, of the grime on every surface. Of the ciggies, of the bolts, chains, and locks, and of the girl who killed herself downstairs.
Lore and I went out and Marcus stayed behind.
We walked deep through East London, looking at canals, his old stomping ground. We ate pizza, wandered markets, looked over the Thames. The East side has an unwelcoming kind of air, blocky, bricky buildings, hard to the edges, and a cast of unapproachable characters. Regular signs of danger lining construction sites are met with ironic and revolting graffiti, the canals are full of algae and grungy boaters, people have a mean look in their eye. I was skeptical of London at the time.
When we returned, I talked to Lore, who decided to ask the other lot to leave. It was our squat first, we want to honor Xena’s memory, we can hold it down, as per B’s request. I dreamt that night of a palace, that looked like my grandmother’s house. It looked like we slithered there through the night, everything dark and dusty, like some forgotten ruin of an opulent past. I dreamt of Xena’s mangled being, but I’d never seen her before and it hurt to imagine her like that. I cooed to her and wished her comfort, felt her sorrow. I woke and somehow felt relief.
But Lore and I didn’t play by the rules when we went out and left the squat bolted with a lock.
He showed me more of London, we took buses and the tube, took me into Central, walked down Oxford Street to Trafalgar Square and Piccadilly Circus, where I felt like a regular tourist, taking in European sensibilities. Smiling, tired, feeling more normal, we had the big building to ourselves. We started cooking platono for breakfast, having sex, and sitting on the balcony in the sunshine to bask in each other’s reunion. I braved the rest of the house. Cried in Xena’s small, dark and empty room. I told Lore I was scared, I don’t know if I can be here. I don’t know what I’m doing. I took a big leap. He reassured me, called me brave, we came here on a mission and we’re in it together. I joked about returning to Mexico. He glanced at me with a glint of disappointment—I didn’t want to hurt him, after coming all this way.
With a lot to think about we returned to Surrey, where his mum had initially welcomed me. Four days went past with calm walks into the forest, outside the city at a slower, peaceful pace.
Confident came the day we decided to go back. The squat is ours, we can live there, why not try and be in London? I packed my only carry on with clothes for a week, my drawing book and computer. We’re diving in, I can push through the discomfort, focus on our book, and make this journey worth it. Maybe I romanticize the struggle, in order to get through it. Close my eyes and wince.
We took a train after dinner, rocking up to the squat. Across the street we see—oh shit, the lights are on. Did we do that? That would be fucking stupid. Closer we see, the gate is busted open, our lock no longer in sight. My heart beats fast, silly carry-on in my hand. Lorenzo bangs a heavy knock at the door. No answer.
I pace along the street glaring hopefully at the window. Is that a shadow? Is someone there? My eyes don’t blink, staring at the lights behind the glass.
“Its not that deep,” Lore downplays in self-preservation. I shoot him a look. He bangs the door again, but there is a dark silence on the other end.
I sit on the sidewalk as my mind rolls over the situation. We don’t have a place to live, someone took our home. I came to this country a week ago, I don’t have a job or the right to work. Lorenzo paces the pavement and stares at the window, the door, calling out to anyone. The sun goes down and we collect our things to turn back. There is silence in defeat.
We take the last train back to Surrey and slip inside at 1 am to sleep. This is the first of many heartbreaks the UK has given me.
While the events in this story are completely true, I mean no disrespect or dishonor to Xena or her loved ones. My condolences for your loss and for any pain possibly caused in the rehashing of these events.
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