Conquer your fucking freedom

I will never forget when someone slipped me at the age of 24 that I didn't fit in with their group of friends because they had "seen a lot of the world" and I hadn't.

Pure stupidity, because the money to be already so traveled in his twenties had been from his parents.

So, getting off the plane from Italy this week, I thought that sometimes youth is not always lived young.

And that now paying my own life, which I could not have, is the greatest symbol of the social lift of the humble at my 30 years.

And that debate is a taboo because some will say that not everyone can become empowered, as a result of precariousness.

Of course, that's why many young people live in Spain in an eternal childhood, as I told about Denmark.

But it would be unfair to cover up the valuable cases in which personal will has prevailed over social determinism.

Friends are tired of hearing that little can be done.

Human hope rises up, refuses to believe that life is already written.

See my friend Julia, accomplice in the adventure through the beautiful Italian Cinque Terre.

She studied Journalism, but she made a living so poorly that she retrained.

She locked herself up to take her exams, returning to her mother's house, with savings from having worked in things that were not her profession.

She has a good job now, but she is waiting to find out if she has made it to the public square.

Her non-resignation, despite so much desperation and vital tumbling, is the metaphor that at 31 years old she has overcome her rabid will.

Serve the 22-year-old boy whom I met on the plane from Pisa to Madrid.

He told me that his roommates lived “through everything”, that he left them on the sofa in the morning and at night they continued almost in the same pose because their parents supported them.

He works from his career as a communicator, and is now studying a specialization.

Sweating his passion, even arriving home at eleven o'clock at night mashed, is another symbol of his vital insurrection.

And this is not about wishing very hard and achieving it.

It goes that there are people, not from the upper class besides, who invest their youth in conquering their freedom.

I will always be accompanied by the feeling that I

my years at University bending my elbows to get good grades, working to be independent, doing very long hours on the bus... Now that youth has begun to return, even if it is no longer Interrail in my twenties, trips to Beijing or Cancun with the family, or innocence and carefree.

However, youth now returns in the form of what is most precious to the humble, which is the possibility of choosing, personal autonomy.

It has cost some of us our innocence and our skin to be able to decide on a destination to go to, a restaurant to eat at or feel the luxury of taking a picture

of Michelangelo's

Other people of my generation will never be able to achieve it or even dream of it.

But the wealthy almost certainly have not had to invest their youth in achieving all that, because it was already given to them.

Consequently, it is hypocrisy to cover up the merit of the humble who bursts the graph of social stratification, while the rich do not assume their vital privilege.

If I wasn't “as traveled as them” it's because my summers were those of the orange Tang in the fridge, paying off the pool voucher with my father, late yes, late too.

When I didn't have a “world” it was because the furthest place we went was to a small apartment rented with my uncles for a week in Salou.

Or, in the best of cases, we would travel a thousand kilometers by car from Igualada to Malaga to visit family.

The problem is that the privileged will never know if their love for traveling was born in the cradle, if their select tastes for culture are standard, or even if they move around the world so well because that information was from their parents.

The wealthy will never discover if they really are that or if they are just the fruit of their rich vital context.

Because they did not have to fight for their autonomy or fight to assert their will.

So they will never understand the immense pleasure, the justice, that supposes feeling once that it is one who has conquered his right to be;

his fucking freedom.

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