Centro Cultural de España, Lazaro Valiente show. Sometime in May or June.
I was wearing a pair of high heels my friend Lorena gave me when she was cleaning out her closet. They had been reasonably comfortable when I put them on earlier in the evening, but by the time we got to the Centro, my feet were killing me.
At the show, the space of which is also a restaurant, I wanted to take them off. I did, for about 20 minutes, but I put them back on because I didn’t want a member of staff to have to tell me to.
I was averse to this confrontation not because I didn’t want a confrontation per se. It was more because I know that whatever unlucky member of staff it was, by virtue of coming from Mexican culture, would probably be embarrassed to have to say it to me. I didn’t want to put him in an awkward position.
Club Social Rhodesia, 6Blocc show, August or September.
I was wearing a scarf my mom made me. A really luxurious wool scarf that she knitted. Being a dubstep show, I was dancing my butt off. And sweating. I didn’t want to mess up the scarf.
A member of staff caught me jumping up in the air trying to hang it on a hook. He shook his head at me and suggested I put it on a speaker with a bunch of other discarded clothing accessories.
“Es que no quiero ponerla alla… no quiero que [it gets messed it up or stolen]. Este… es que me la hizo mi mamá.”
With that last phrase, his attitude vaulted from jaded to concerned. La hizo mi mamá. He told me it was in more danger hanging on the hook and offered to watch it for me himself.