Omar Moreno
The words of Lincoln in a letter
to a mother in Boston, heartbroken
over her lost sons is what I think of
When the projects have their latest casualty.
I say this as if this were Iraq or Afghanistan,
a lonely field in Gettysburg,
in defense of democracy, but no.
I have lived here, a place like this,
for my whole life. To me,
a shooting should be a shooting,
nothing akin to the Revolutionary War,
(no fanciful calligraphy telling King George,
thanks but no thanks) but a massacre.
You see, I jump into books a great deal,
A literary ostrich and the helicopters
are from a world that is not my own.
The boy is shot running from the
Police. His wounds exit from his visage.
I know his little sister, whose heart
Was empty before her brother left,
Who knew that mine was empty as well.
She asked me to dance at a Valentine's Party.
The people from the projects,
the neighborhood, march to say
this occupation is enough.
Their way of saying Thanks but No thanks
to the bed of nails, the different King Georges
across the country. I like their lack of Metaphor,
how a shower of Rose petals is not
the real way a person dies.
My perch on a stack of books
is how I see the world.
Trying to describe a death
and assuage the eventual grief of
People I know. Words Lincoln deemed fruitless.
A leaf against a wave
of water is who I am.
Leaves against a wave of stones
is how his family feels.
Showing posts with label Sol y Canto. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Sol y Canto. Show all posts
Monday, May 4, 2009
An Appalling Charm
Fernando Romero
The killing streets took another victim one July night almost eight years ago. We lived on a small, second-fl oor apartment on Seventh Street and Lime Avenue. This is a part of Long Beach ridden with all the idiosyncrasies of society; violence, drug activity, prostitution, racial hatred, crime, alcoholism and poverty. There also exists a morbid sense of magical realism that can sometimes be attributed to this place; a dichotomy that fuses the ugliness of life with that of the human spirit. Almost like a sign of hope and a testament to the will of instinct. There is something about this place that speaks of an appalling charm. It is a place where the angels starve. Where children will play soccer out in the street with the carcass of a dead rat like my brothers and I once did. Where you could tie a string to the legs of a June bug and fl y it like a kite. Perhaps, it is the way a loved one’s shoes will hang from power lines like a eulogy. Or maybe it is simply the way gun shots sound like the clap of a hand echoed off in the distance. And how you sometimes feel envious when you see people fall asleep under the bright light of day.
Published on July 10, 2001, Press-Telegram (Long Beach, CA)
“Yeah, I think there’s a phone call for you,” she said.
She did that for a while. I’m sure her body gave her signs, but she has always been stronger than anybody I know.
The killing streets took another victim one July night almost eight years ago. We lived on a small, second-fl oor apartment on Seventh Street and Lime Avenue. This is a part of Long Beach ridden with all the idiosyncrasies of society; violence, drug activity, prostitution, racial hatred, crime, alcoholism and poverty. There also exists a morbid sense of magical realism that can sometimes be attributed to this place; a dichotomy that fuses the ugliness of life with that of the human spirit. Almost like a sign of hope and a testament to the will of instinct. There is something about this place that speaks of an appalling charm. It is a place where the angels starve. Where children will play soccer out in the street with the carcass of a dead rat like my brothers and I once did. Where you could tie a string to the legs of a June bug and fl y it like a kite. Perhaps, it is the way a loved one’s shoes will hang from power lines like a eulogy. Or maybe it is simply the way gun shots sound like the clap of a hand echoed off in the distance. And how you sometimes feel envious when you see people fall asleep under the bright light of day.
Published on July 10, 2001, Press-Telegram (Long Beach, CA)
A single mother with seven children was shot to death outside her home and her neighbor was wounded when a gunman opened fi re on them Sunday night. “I don’t know why this happened,’“ said the neighbor, who was sitting outside in the 700 block of East Seventh Street with Graciela Zavala and two teen-age boys at about 11:15 p.m. when someone walked out of a nearby alley and opened fi re. “We were just sitting out here, just talking and laughing.” Ms. Zavala was reportedly sitting on the front porch of her apartment with neighbors when an unknown assailant walked up and fi red multiple shots into the group.
I saw the front page of the Press-Telegram the following Tuesday. I read the story of the slain woman. Her name was Graciela; she was 39, a single mother of seven and of working-class background. Maybe it was a sense of guilt and fear that I felt that grabbed and tore at me, but I waited for the twilight of the setting sun before I walked over to the street corner where she had fallen two days earlier. On the steps of the porch, there was a candlelight vigil in honor of this woman whose life had come to a deafening end. I passed by. I saw candles alight bearing the vibrant image of the Jesus Sacred Heart crowded by fl owers, cards and pictures of the departed. I saw a photograph of her that stood pressed against a candle. She had a round face, high cheek bones and small brown eyes coupled with long, fl owing black hair. She was wearing a black a dress and in her left hand she was holding a rosary. She had a picaresque smile, probably reminiscent of her younger days.
The vigil had a gathering of about a dozen people. I assumed most were relatives and close friends, and like me, people just came and went. I wasn’t there more than ten minutes. I didn’t know any of the people that were gathered so I stood there almost with a sense of indifference. Albeit, it was my neighborhood, the resistance for a sense of community and the need for isolation had dictated everyone’s life until a tragedy struck, the same way we made new neighbors late one nigth in January 1994 when the Northridge earthquake shook the world and reminded us, all of us, of our existance and what binds us.
I saw the people there; I saw their eyes and they were sad like a defeated race. I could sense death. I crossed myself and left in the selfi sh hope that such a tragedy should never hit close to home. It was one of those Summer nights I felt the most cold, but also felt a little more closer to this strange thing; this humanity.
Across the porch where the candlelight vigil stood, was a Catholic gift shop and down the street on Olive Avenue, St. Anthony’s Church, where we attended Mass on Sunday mornings. Down Seventh Street toward Los Alamitos Avenue, was St. Francis, where we would go with my mother, when we my brothers and I were all young, family struggling for money and still new to this place. There, we received donations of canned fruit, canned food, and other food stuffs and as restless as we were, my brothers and I would help my mother carry these home. No car, no transportation, nothing, just the six of us walking with fortitude without any lament, like mother goose leading her ducklings to a pond somewhere over a green pasture buried amidst this inner-city jungle.
About two weeks later, I sat inside the front offices at Millikan High School. For the summer session, I had a graphic arts class for first period and was a student aide to the front office of the school for second period. I was talking to my friend Helen when a girl, also a student aide, came to me.
“Hey, is your name Fernando?” she asked.
I nodded.
“Yeah, I think there’s a phone call for you,” she said.
I was perplexed, but followed her.
She handed me the phone.
“Hello,” I said into the phone.
“Hey, it’s me. It’s Paula,” I recognized my sister-in-law’s voice immediately and by the tone of it, I knew that something was wrong.
“Your mom’s in the hospital. She fell down the stairs this morning. She’s hurt pretty bad.”
I cringed. I felt kicked in the stomach.
“Is she gonna be okay?” I asked calmly sensing the room and this girl who still had her eyes locked on me.
“Well, kind of… She’s at St. Mary’s. Everyone’s is already here or on their way,” Paula said.
“Okay…I’m on my way.”
I hung up. I rushed back to where Helen sat to grab my stuff.
“Is everything alright?” Helen asked with her eyes widened.
“No, I have to go,” I responded. “My mom’s in the hospital.”
Helen gasped as I ran out the office and out of the school in a frantic dash to catch the first bus headed Downtown. While on the bus, my thoughts were on my mother’s welfare. I fashioned my own prayer asking for my mother to never die. I thought about my father and my brothers and wondered what they were thinking at that exact moment. I thought about the woman who had ceased to exist two weeks prior; and of the similarities of one mother to the other. I thought about life and death and concluded that time was never on our side.
I arrived at St. Mary’s within an hour. I was the last one there. My brothers and my father were gathered in the lobby. It was a sight to see; seven males huddled together with an expression of fear not unlike the dangers of warfare. As the last one, it was my turn to see my mother. I didn’t want to see her at all; not like this at least.
We waited about anxiously until I was ushered in to see my mother at around noon. Her room was in one of the upper floors of the medical center. Inside the hospital room, my mother was in a cast up to her neck. I could see her face and eyes only. Her eyes looked weary and the hazel in her iris gave off a grey reflection. It took me a while to recognize her. She seemed to have aged decades in only one day. It was obvious she was numbed with a lot pain medication. The medical staff had said she wouldn’t be able to talk much and that each visit would be better if it were short.
I stood against the side of the hospital bed. She looked up at me and gave me a concerned look. In her eyes, she saw me as if though I were still a child. In a way, we were all still kids. My youngest brother was seven and the oldest was 22. I felt helpless. I didn’t know what to do; I didn’t know what to say. She was in a full body cast and the questions such as; how are you doing, or are you okay? They all seemed redundant. But I still felt like the worst son in the world. Because there, underneath the body cast and the bandages was the woman who had birthed and raised six boys, the woman who’d given me life and I couldn’t utter a word of encouragement.
“Hi mom,” I finally said.
She forced a smile and with a raspy voice she said in Spanish, “I’m so glad you could make it. I didn’t see you when everyone else came in. Did you talk to your dad and your brothers?”
“Yeah.”
“Everything is going to be okay, she reassured me. “The doctors said I will be here for about a week. Then, they’ll probably send me home in a cast.”
“That’s good,” I said.
Then, I just stood there. Her left hand was free from cast. I held her hand until my time ran out. I kissed her on the forehead and left.
Visiting hours were over. There was nothing else to do, but to go home. So we did. “Can we go back tomorrow?” my seven year old brother Eduardo asked indiscriminately to the platoon of men that marched out of St. Mary’s.
“Yeah,” my father said. “We’ll come back tomorrow.”
I was seventeen at the time, aged in between Gonzalo and Valentin who were two years younger and older than me respectively. Ezequiel was the oldest and David had just turned 21.
It was quiet. No one said anything on the way home. We got home, ate and idled about the afternoon until my father went off to work.
That night, my brothers, my father and I were swallowed by an immense solitude. In the midst of the binge and purge of the expression of loneliness, there was a sense of guilt among us, as if though we could have prevented this.
“So what happened?” I asked. “Why’d she fall?”
“I think she was just tired and slipped and fell,” Valentin said.
“She was probably sleepy too,” Gonzalo said.
At the hospital, my mother had told Ezequiel, the oldest, what had happened.
“She said she was getting out of bed to move the car,” Ezequiel said.
It was street sweeping day and my mother was called out of bed by my father to move one of my brothers’ car.
“Why didn’t my dad wake you up instead of her?” David said. “You should have moved the car.
We all know she barely gets any sleep.”
Everyone’s face became dim.
In those days, both my parents worked late-night shifts. My mother worked in the oil refi neries in Wilmington and my father worked in a factory in West Long Beach. They would leave at around four in the afternoon, the same time we came from school. Sometimes the week would pass by without even seeing my parents. I only saw them early in the morning while getting ready for school.
My mother would come from work around two in the morning. Then, she would get up at seven in the morning, make breakfast for all of us, drive my little brother to school, come home, sleep for a couple of more hours, wake up and go to work again.
She did that for a while. I’m sure her body gave her signs, but she has always been stronger than anybody I know.
During vacation time from school or even on Friday nights, I would sometimes stay up watching Late Night With Conan O’Brien. My mother would come home from work and she would tell me about her day. Some nights she would let it all out and tell me all about her day. If I asked her to fi x me a hot plate; she would. Sometimes, I would lie awake in my bed, pretending to be asleep in the hopes she would nudge at me. She would stand at the door and while I played dead. I wanted to her to nudge me, but she didn’t. I don’t know why acted like that.
She does not remember the day she fell from a fl ight of stairs of the apartment building we lived in. Her mind was lost. She said she simply remembers waking up, walking out the door, grabbing hold of the banister and then being wheeled on a stretcher surrounded by paramedics. She lost her footing on the top of the stairs and fell heavy without rolling like a body bag made of cement. She was unconscious before she reached the bottom steps. No scream, no cries; nothing.
There is a picture buried deep inside one of our photo albums. In it, we are all kids, infants even. I’m wearing a Ghostbusters t-shirt, sporting a really bad haircut, surrounded by four of my brothers as we stand, towered over by my mother. It was 1985, my father wasn’t with us when we went to this family portrait photo shoot. He had gone to other side, el norte style, to help out the family. Back then, my mother, would generate income by selling bed sheets and pillow cases she sewed herself inside the house. She would embroider bed sheets and pillow cases with the Virgin Mary of Guadalupe emblazoned on them. I don’t remember those days, but I’ve heard the will of instinct and perseverance when my parents retell the stories of those moments of hardship.
My mother was released in due time from the hospital and she recovered eventually. But it was those moments in that hospital bed, with the pervasive futility of life which triggered feelings of isolation. She had always been there and one assumed she always would be. She had always been as ever-present as the sun and as free as the eagle; almost unbendable. But nowadays when I see her, I try to be as expressive of how much she has meant to me; to all of us. To not do so would be a sacrilege; an unforgivable sin. ¶
Celina, esto es para ti. Muchas gracias...
Monday, March 23, 2009
Our Form of Expression
Geronimo Souza Valdivieso
There are many forms of expression; I just chose one to relieve
Some tension, my poems are an extension of a mind out of body
Experience. Give perfect execution like hanging someone
Without breaking their neck and letting ‘em suffocate, and if you
Think that’s sick… you better check how we do nothing, but love
To watch other people suffering… And I can be equal to my
Surroundings, but once I flip on the television, I get a high interest
In negligence and feel a need to resort to violence, to run on my
High emotions, in a world packed with self-glorification instead
Of self-determination, and you really ain’t nothing, being the
Survivor on Big Brother, doesn’t constitute you as the American Idol,
You chanting we are the champions and winning a championship,
Is fictitious and irrelevant and prevalent to ignorance. The way you
Define yourself, puts you in a bit of a predicament…
You call yourself African, after the Roman General Scipio Africanus,
And you call yourself Latino or Hispanic after the Roman Language,
This not an influence, it’s been forced on to us, down our throats,
Living from Pax Romana down on to Pax Americana, still getting
Your brain washed by the Nazi Propaganda… You’re becoming one
Hell of a pasta, a stereotypical Scarface, Godfather, Mafia,
It’s like the T.V. defines the living room, like a gun defines our youth…
This country is based on bondage, I guess we like getting beat
And punished, and let it be video taped and shown to an audience,
That seems to have a fetish for a history of violence… and so…
You don’t have to be on death row in order to be a dead man walking,
Little by little you’re dying, as you take in the stench of failure,
It’s intolerable; you can’t cover up a drug war scandal, making
Money off the barrios, going from Iran Contra to martial law,
How is it a person goes from looking for work to being a criminal???
The light is starting to beacon, like deception under a lie detector,
So I can’t hold it in, so it’s not my balls that are turning blue,
It’s my tonsils, ‘cause I had enough of people not having a clue,
How they’re getting used, and how society looks down on you, with
A sick perverted mind, lookin’ you up and down, undressing you, and
While you speak, hearing you moan and groan like if it was sex phone…
I guess in this society you got to constantly wear a condom, ‘cause if
You don’t constantly protect yourself, it’s like playing an extreme sport,
With no protection, ending up with broken bones and barely left with
Life, on life support, dealing with the political storms that you can’t even
Control, your cognitive dissonance makes you think you can relate to
The world behind close doors in a studio…
Hate and tolerance shouldn’t have a place here, ‘cause they can break
At any given point, ‘cause how long can you tolerate being slapped
In the face, being harassed by the police, innocent but still losing
The case, and all you achieved lost in a blaze, marching peacefully
And still getting pepper sprayed and maced, watching others succeed
From the other side of the gate???
My brothers and sisters, you got nothing to debate, you been giving
Chase, but you can’t play catch up in a maze; you need to put down
The blunt and get out of the blaze, let the fresh air touch your face,
Look and gaze at yourself and reflect, in a constant mental conflict,
Gather strength, and put your thoughts into context, and you’re
Bound to make mistakes and errors, that’s why pencils have erasers…
But take it one step at a time, like reading a book together, we got to
Be on the same page, ‘cause one wrong step and we’ll be looking
Like Juan Gabriel, falling off stage, but the world is not a stage,
Because actors are the best liars, and those who read from a script,
Can’t really think for themselves, so when the going gets tough,
They’re the first ones yelling: Everyone for themselves!!!
And no matter how hard they try to squeeze their grasp, the sand will
Still slip from their hand, while we get it together our hand will form
A fist, the legist is a test in a mess, where people think less of
Themselves, so they’re like agents and scouts, making wealth off the
Disenfranchised, to capitalize, to create a franchise, built on lies,
Like drug ties… So a word to the wise… Like my sister Michiboo, put it:
You can’t put the words wise and dumb together to make the word wisdom!!!
That’s one hell of an oxymoron, like giving to charity and asking for a tax
Deduction refund… And so we need to quit falling for the images, the way
Society depicts women as frigid, off pseudo-doctors opinions, ‘cause it’s the
Man whose impotent… that’s why the man needs a medicine to give him a lift…
But this ain’t no free ride, like winning a fake ass election by a landslide…
In life you got to cut thru the grime, like 409… There’s always a beginning
And an end, and life is the in between, but life ain’t about getting cream,
And dying ‘cause of all the beef on the street, get off that level of being
The dirt lying beneath the pebbles, and get out of the rubble, or else you’ll
Be as self-conscious as freshmen conversations in college…
Never able to understand… our form of expression…
There are many forms of expression; I just chose one to relieve
Some tension, my poems are an extension of a mind out of body
Experience. Give perfect execution like hanging someone
Without breaking their neck and letting ‘em suffocate, and if you
Think that’s sick… you better check how we do nothing, but love
To watch other people suffering… And I can be equal to my
Surroundings, but once I flip on the television, I get a high interest
In negligence and feel a need to resort to violence, to run on my
High emotions, in a world packed with self-glorification instead
Of self-determination, and you really ain’t nothing, being the
Survivor on Big Brother, doesn’t constitute you as the American Idol,
You chanting we are the champions and winning a championship,
Is fictitious and irrelevant and prevalent to ignorance. The way you
Define yourself, puts you in a bit of a predicament…
You call yourself African, after the Roman General Scipio Africanus,
And you call yourself Latino or Hispanic after the Roman Language,
This not an influence, it’s been forced on to us, down our throats,
Living from Pax Romana down on to Pax Americana, still getting
Your brain washed by the Nazi Propaganda… You’re becoming one
Hell of a pasta, a stereotypical Scarface, Godfather, Mafia,
It’s like the T.V. defines the living room, like a gun defines our youth…
This country is based on bondage, I guess we like getting beat
And punished, and let it be video taped and shown to an audience,
That seems to have a fetish for a history of violence… and so…
You don’t have to be on death row in order to be a dead man walking,
Little by little you’re dying, as you take in the stench of failure,
It’s intolerable; you can’t cover up a drug war scandal, making
Money off the barrios, going from Iran Contra to martial law,
How is it a person goes from looking for work to being a criminal???
The light is starting to beacon, like deception under a lie detector,
So I can’t hold it in, so it’s not my balls that are turning blue,
It’s my tonsils, ‘cause I had enough of people not having a clue,
How they’re getting used, and how society looks down on you, with
A sick perverted mind, lookin’ you up and down, undressing you, and
While you speak, hearing you moan and groan like if it was sex phone…
I guess in this society you got to constantly wear a condom, ‘cause if
You don’t constantly protect yourself, it’s like playing an extreme sport,
With no protection, ending up with broken bones and barely left with
Life, on life support, dealing with the political storms that you can’t even
Control, your cognitive dissonance makes you think you can relate to
The world behind close doors in a studio…
Hate and tolerance shouldn’t have a place here, ‘cause they can break
At any given point, ‘cause how long can you tolerate being slapped
In the face, being harassed by the police, innocent but still losing
The case, and all you achieved lost in a blaze, marching peacefully
And still getting pepper sprayed and maced, watching others succeed
From the other side of the gate???
My brothers and sisters, you got nothing to debate, you been giving
Chase, but you can’t play catch up in a maze; you need to put down
The blunt and get out of the blaze, let the fresh air touch your face,
Look and gaze at yourself and reflect, in a constant mental conflict,
Gather strength, and put your thoughts into context, and you’re
Bound to make mistakes and errors, that’s why pencils have erasers…
But take it one step at a time, like reading a book together, we got to
Be on the same page, ‘cause one wrong step and we’ll be looking
Like Juan Gabriel, falling off stage, but the world is not a stage,
Because actors are the best liars, and those who read from a script,
Can’t really think for themselves, so when the going gets tough,
They’re the first ones yelling: Everyone for themselves!!!
And no matter how hard they try to squeeze their grasp, the sand will
Still slip from their hand, while we get it together our hand will form
A fist, the legist is a test in a mess, where people think less of
Themselves, so they’re like agents and scouts, making wealth off the
Disenfranchised, to capitalize, to create a franchise, built on lies,
Like drug ties… So a word to the wise… Like my sister Michiboo, put it:
You can’t put the words wise and dumb together to make the word wisdom!!!
That’s one hell of an oxymoron, like giving to charity and asking for a tax
Deduction refund… And so we need to quit falling for the images, the way
Society depicts women as frigid, off pseudo-doctors opinions, ‘cause it’s the
Man whose impotent… that’s why the man needs a medicine to give him a lift…
But this ain’t no free ride, like winning a fake ass election by a landslide…
In life you got to cut thru the grime, like 409… There’s always a beginning
And an end, and life is the in between, but life ain’t about getting cream,
And dying ‘cause of all the beef on the street, get off that level of being
The dirt lying beneath the pebbles, and get out of the rubble, or else you’ll
Be as self-conscious as freshmen conversations in college…
Never able to understand… our form of expression…
Who Am I?
Jesus Cortez
Who am I?
Well my name would not
answer that question.
To think such a thing could
define someone as me
would mean that a prisoner
is no more than a number,
so you might wonder
and ponder on why my name;
I did not choose it, first or last.
You might cross yourself
as I walk by in mockery,
or ask if I spell it with an "s"
or a "z" – what difference does
it make, if I ache from the pain
of not knowing my true name?
In another time, I might have
been Mexica, now I am "indio",
"mestizo" with a brand on my body,
not my hand or my back.
I’m no savior, I’m no "conquistador",
my name is as meaningless as
words made up by colonizers
to excuse their crimes.
I am more than my name may say--
as "nice" as it may be.
So I inherited the name of my "father’s"
father and probably someone else’s
father, and someone’s slave and someone’s
master. Oh what disaster to think
I am who I am, when I’m not who
they say. I like my other names much
more; as a boy even an insult sounded
much better than my name.
Torturous sounds of a teacher’s
pronunciation, and my indignation –
it’s not Gee-zus, it’s JESUS,
it’s not Cor-tayz, it’s Cortez; and me
foolishly telling them it was in Spanish,
when how "Spanish" am I really.
I am more than my name, a name
that confines me to be a half-breed.
I am the son of the colonized and the bastard
of the colonizer, branded with fire
upon my brain, to think I am who
I have been told I am –
Jesus Cortez
Who am I?
Well my name would not
answer that question.
To think such a thing could
define someone as me
would mean that a prisoner
is no more than a number,
so you might wonder
and ponder on why my name;
I did not choose it, first or last.
You might cross yourself
as I walk by in mockery,
or ask if I spell it with an "s"
or a "z" – what difference does
it make, if I ache from the pain
of not knowing my true name?
In another time, I might have
been Mexica, now I am "indio",
"mestizo" with a brand on my body,
not my hand or my back.
I’m no savior, I’m no "conquistador",
my name is as meaningless as
words made up by colonizers
to excuse their crimes.
I am more than my name may say--
as "nice" as it may be.
So I inherited the name of my "father’s"
father and probably someone else’s
father, and someone’s slave and someone’s
master. Oh what disaster to think
I am who I am, when I’m not who
they say. I like my other names much
more; as a boy even an insult sounded
much better than my name.
Torturous sounds of a teacher’s
pronunciation, and my indignation –
it’s not Gee-zus, it’s JESUS,
it’s not Cor-tayz, it’s Cortez; and me
foolishly telling them it was in Spanish,
when how "Spanish" am I really.
I am more than my name, a name
that confines me to be a half-breed.
I am the son of the colonized and the bastard
of the colonizer, branded with fire
upon my brain, to think I am who
I have been told I am –
Jesus Cortez
Poema de amor
Roque Dalton
Los que ampliaron el Canal de Panamá
(y fueron clasificados como "silver roll" y no como "gold roll"),
los que repararon la flota del Pacifico
en las bases de California,
los que se pudrieron en las cárceles de Guatemala,
México, Honduras, Nicaragua,
por ladrones, por contrabandistas, por estafadores,
por hambrientos,
los siempre sospechosos de todo
("me permito remitirle al interfecto
por esquinero sospechoso
y con el agravante de ser salvadoreño"),
las que llenaron los bares y burdeles
de todos los puertos y capitales de la zona
("La gruta azul", "El Calzoncito", "Happyland"),
los sembradores de maíz en plena selva extranjera,
los reyes de la pagina roja,
los que nunca sabe nadie de donde son,
los mejores artesanos del mundo,
los que fueron cosidos a balazos al cruzar la frontera,
los que murieron de paludismo
o de las picadas del escorpión a la barba amarilla
en el infierno de las bananeras,
los que lloraron borrachos por el himno nacional
bajo el ciclón del Pacifico o la nieve del norte,
los arrimados, los mendigos, los marihuaneros,
los guanacos hijos de la gran puta,
los que apenitas pudieron regresar,
los que tuvieron un poco mas de suerte,
los eternos indocumentados,
los hacelotodo, los vendelotodo, los comelotodo,
los primeros en sacar el cuchillo,
los tristes mas tristes del mundo,
mis compatriotas,
mis hermanos.
Roque Dalton was a Salvadoran revolutionary poet.
Los que ampliaron el Canal de Panamá
(y fueron clasificados como "silver roll" y no como "gold roll"),
los que repararon la flota del Pacifico
en las bases de California,
los que se pudrieron en las cárceles de Guatemala,
México, Honduras, Nicaragua,
por ladrones, por contrabandistas, por estafadores,
por hambrientos,
los siempre sospechosos de todo
("me permito remitirle al interfecto
por esquinero sospechoso
y con el agravante de ser salvadoreño"),
las que llenaron los bares y burdeles
de todos los puertos y capitales de la zona
("La gruta azul", "El Calzoncito", "Happyland"),
los sembradores de maíz en plena selva extranjera,
los reyes de la pagina roja,
los que nunca sabe nadie de donde son,
los mejores artesanos del mundo,
los que fueron cosidos a balazos al cruzar la frontera,
los que murieron de paludismo
o de las picadas del escorpión a la barba amarilla
en el infierno de las bananeras,
los que lloraron borrachos por el himno nacional
bajo el ciclón del Pacifico o la nieve del norte,
los arrimados, los mendigos, los marihuaneros,
los guanacos hijos de la gran puta,
los que apenitas pudieron regresar,
los que tuvieron un poco mas de suerte,
los eternos indocumentados,
los hacelotodo, los vendelotodo, los comelotodo,
los primeros en sacar el cuchillo,
los tristes mas tristes del mundo,
mis compatriotas,
mis hermanos.
Roque Dalton was a Salvadoran revolutionary poet.
At The Bottom: Desperate Measures
Jesus Cortez
"Damn, it’s already noon, and nothing…" remarked Bruno.
"Is okei my fren, tomorro," responded an older man in broken English.
Bruno wondered why his education had not paid off yet, but this made him understand the stories he had heard once at the same corner: he had met ex-rebels from El Salvador, teachers from Mexico, doctors from Guatemala— all waiting for someone, anyone to pick them up and give them work for the day.
As he arrived at his apartment complex, he read the graffiti on the walls; some names he still recognized, others were new to him. He thought about the days when he would roam the streets with his friends and his then-girlfriend— at that time his pockets were full and he felt invincible. He walked past the young men with baggy pants, white t-shirts and tattoos. As he approached his apartment door, he could hear Etta James’ song "Fool That I Am", and his daughter’s laughter—he could also smell the scent of beans. Before he could open the door completely, his daughter ran to his arms.
"Daddy!" she said, as his mother turned with a smile. She always smiled.
"Any luck today, son?" she asked with a grin.
"No Momma, not a damn thing" he said frustrated, as he rubbed his bald head. His brown eyes began to water, but before he could cry, his mother gave him a stern look.
"Don’t you dare cry, Bruno Gonzalez," she finally said.
"Okay, okay. Not in front of my baby" he said, and he picked up his three-year-old daughter.
Later that night, after tucking his daughter in, he had a conversation with his mother.
"How much money do we have, Mom?" he asked with a worried look on his face.
"Damn, if that stupid woman had not taken all our savings, we would be alright!" A tear fell from his eye and rolled down his cheek and onto his mustache—he wiped it off. Bruno missed her more than he hated her for leaving him for his cousin. His mother turned on the radio and they listened to a few more songs by Etta James—"At Last" and "I’d Rather Go Blind"—then they were both silent.
"It’s gonna be alright mi’jo, don’t worry" she said soothingly, as she stroked his wet cheek.
The next morning, he got up early, got dressed in the same clothes, and drank his coffee—he was ready to keep searching for work. He trusted his mother, and if she said things would be okay, he had no reason to doubt her words.
As he stepped out of his apartment, he heard a voice call out "Psycho!" At first he thought it was the chilling wind blowing, or maybe he was just hearing things, but soon after, another young man appeared near the gate to the apartment complex.
"What, you can’t recognize an old friend or what, punk?" said the young man as he approached Bruno. Bruno had not recognized his old friend Andy. As soon as they were close enough, they shook hands and embraced.
"Take a ride with me," Andy said as he wrapped his arm around Bruno’s neck.
"Nah man, I have to look for work. I’m almost out of money, my kid needs food and the rent has to get paid," responded Bruno.
Andy insisted; he had just purchased a 1965 black Chevy Impala in mint condition and he wanted to take Bruno out for a ride. Andy knew that Bruno had been going through a rough situation lately, and he wanted to help. In the car, Bruno saw Daniel, his other close friend, and smiled.
"What’s up foo’, aren’t you gonna say wassup, or what?" Bruno said as Daniel stepped out of the car. Daniel was a giant in height compared to Bruno who was only 5’2 tall. When he got out of the car Bruno had to step back to make room. He greeted Bruno as he did in the old days—by play fighting.
Finally the three got in the car; Bruno sat in the backseat. They drove around the city for a couple of hours, listening to funk, Hip Hop and oldies, while Bruno looked out the window, thinking about his daughter and the things he should be doing. Bruno told Andy to turn up the volume when they played Tupac and Scarface’s song, "Smile". Bruno especially liked the introduction,
There’s gonna be some stuff you gonna see that’s gonna make it hard to smile in the future, but through whatever you see, through all the rain and the pain, you gotta keep your sense of humor, you gotta be able to smile through all this bullshit.
They made a stop at their favorite taco shop. Bruno had not tasted tacos in weeks, not since his daughter’s mother had left him. After a few hours of eating and talking, they got in the car again and drove around some more. In the evening, they took Bruno to their favorite bar.
There, they met up with another old friend who had just been released from prison after two years.
"Damn, when did you get out, foo’?" asked Bruno in disbelief.
"Last week," responded his friend. He had been drinking for a few hours, so he was already a bit drunk. "I hear you have some financial problems, ese."
"I’ll be alright Stranger, don’t even trip. It’s good to see you foo’. It’s been a while," responded Bruno.
"So, how’s college, you still going or what, eh?" asked Stranger.
"Nah, I had to quit for this semester… gotta take care of my little girl and my momma you know," responded Bruno as he took a sip of a beer his friends had bought him. He was only 19, but he had been going into bars since 17—his thick mustache made him look older than he was.
"I might be able to help you out, ese," said Stranger, as he sat on a stool stroking his thick mustache and beard, "but let’s go play pool and we’ll talk about it".
Bruno worried; the last time Stranger had tried to help, he ended up leaving the state for a few months, Daniel had gotten shot, Andy had left to Mexico and Stranger had ended up in prison serving two years in Susanville State Penitentiary. But they went ahead and played pool, as Andy and Daniel watched and cracked jokes. They talked about old times, when all it took was the four of them to control the neighborhood.
"Hey foo’, remember when we messed up that foo’ Robert?" asked Andy, as they laughed noisily.
After a few minutes of jokes and laughter, Stranger said "I might have a way for all of us to get paid".
They all knew this might be a bad idea, especially Bruno, but he was desperate for money. He had done some terrible things in his life, and did not want to go back to that lifestyle.
"I’ve seen you on the corner with the day laborers, foo’. You shouldn’t have to struggle that much, man. I’m telling you, just listen to my idea," said a drunken Stranger. "Okay, let’s hear it," said a not-so-convinced Bruno.
Stranger’s idea was to break into the neighborhood’s drug connection and rob it. Bruno thought Stranger was crazy. He knew who was in control of the drug connection, and though he was not afraid, he thought it a bad idea. They argued for a few minutes, but Bruno’s desperation was incredible. He finally agreed—he imagined himself driving around in a nicer car, not his mother’s beat up Monte Carlo, and imagined buying some nice clothes for his daughter, and paying the rent for a few months.
"Alright, I’m down" he finally said. "When and who else is rollin’?" he added. "Just us four, like the old days. We got everything ready, and a sawed-off shotgun, especially for you—like the old days," said Stranger. Everything was prepared for the robbery, because the job had to be done that same night. It was the end of the month, and they knew that the connection had taken advantage of pay day in the neighborhood.
"Go home, change, and meet us in front of your apartments, in 20 minutes" Stranger commanded.
Bruno went home, but said nothing to his mother. He ran into his room and changed into his black pants, black hooded sweater, black Nike Cortez; he put a black bandana in his pocket. He kissed his daughter, with a tear in his eye, but hoping his actions would lead to a better life. His mother questioned him. She asked him what his hurry was.
All he said was, "Nothing Momma, it’s gonna be alright," and left.
When he arrived at the front of his apartment, his friends were already there in Andy’s car.
They sped off and soon were on the same street where the drug connection was. "It’s that house." Stranger pointed across the street from where they were parked. As they sat in the car, they downed 40oz of beer, Stranger snorted cocaine, and Andy and Daniel smoked marijuana—Bruno just drank, and held the shotgun close to his chest. Many thoughts went through his mind, especially how long it had been since he had last used it. He thought about his mother, how disappointed she would be and about his daughter, but he decided to think about his ex and his cousin to get mad and more willing to go through with the robbery.
"Are you foos’ ready, or what?" questioned Stranger.
"Simón," was the automatic response from everyone.
They stepped out of the car quietly. They could hear Spanish music coming from the house, but no one was outside. They thought this would make the job easier. They walked quietly across the street: Bruno with the shotgun, Andy with a nine millimeter automatic revolver, Stranger with an AK-47, and Manuel with a Smith and Wesson .380.
They knocked on the door, and when it opened, a drunken man appeared. Stranger pointed the rifle to his chest and told him not to make a sound. They all walked in with their bandanas covering their faces and pointing their guns in different directions.
As they walked in, they looked around and saw bags of money, and drugs. They didn’t care for the drugs, but they were overwhelmed by the amount of money. Three women came from the kitchen and were told to stay quiet. Two men came from the bathroom and were hit with Bruno’s shotgun on their heads.
"Get the money foo’, hurry up!" said Stranger as Bruno grabbed the bags of money.
"Where’s the rest?" asked Daniel as he pistol-whipped a man who had white dust on his nose. He finally told him where the rest of the money was. Soon, they had three bags full of money all together.
"Tie them up," Andy said to Stranger.
They had the money and all the dealers were tied up.
"You go first and turn the car around," said Stranger calmly.
Andy walked out the door, started the car and brought it around. Bruno, Stranger and Daniel ran out of the house with the money and jumped into the car. They sped off and got lost in the foggy night and city lights.
As they sped off, a young man had been peaking through his window, a friend of the drug dealers—he had seen all of their faces. ¶
He stood on the corner, with the same workers he had advocated for at one point— now he was one of them.
"Damn, it’s already noon, and nothing…" remarked Bruno.
"Is okei my fren, tomorro," responded an older man in broken English.
Bruno wondered why his education had not paid off yet, but this made him understand the stories he had heard once at the same corner: he had met ex-rebels from El Salvador, teachers from Mexico, doctors from Guatemala— all waiting for someone, anyone to pick them up and give them work for the day.
"I should head on home, there’s no way I’m getting work for today" he thought to himself as he placed his hands in the empty pockets of his khaki pants. The afternoon had turned cold, and he felt it through his worn-out white shoes and his thin grey sweatshirt.
As he arrived at his apartment complex, he read the graffiti on the walls; some names he still recognized, others were new to him. He thought about the days when he would roam the streets with his friends and his then-girlfriend— at that time his pockets were full and he felt invincible. He walked past the young men with baggy pants, white t-shirts and tattoos. As he approached his apartment door, he could hear Etta James’ song "Fool That I Am", and his daughter’s laughter—he could also smell the scent of beans. Before he could open the door completely, his daughter ran to his arms.
"Daddy!" she said, as his mother turned with a smile. She always smiled.
"Any luck today, son?" she asked with a grin.
"No Momma, not a damn thing" he said frustrated, as he rubbed his bald head. His brown eyes began to water, but before he could cry, his mother gave him a stern look.
"Don’t you dare cry, Bruno Gonzalez," she finally said.
"Okay, okay. Not in front of my baby" he said, and he picked up his three-year-old daughter.
"So, what did you do today little Xochitl?" he asked her. She responded and kept talking for hours; that was his favorite part of the day and the only thing that brought Bruno peace of mind.
Later that night, after tucking his daughter in, he had a conversation with his mother.
"How much money do we have, Mom?" he asked with a worried look on his face.
"Not much. Maybe for another week, but after that we still gotta pay the rent," she responded, as she ran her finger down a list.
"Damn, if that stupid woman had not taken all our savings, we would be alright!" A tear fell from his eye and rolled down his cheek and onto his mustache—he wiped it off. Bruno missed her more than he hated her for leaving him for his cousin. His mother turned on the radio and they listened to a few more songs by Etta James—"At Last" and "I’d Rather Go Blind"—then they were both silent.
"It’s gonna be alright mi’jo, don’t worry" she said soothingly, as she stroked his wet cheek.
The next morning, he got up early, got dressed in the same clothes, and drank his coffee—he was ready to keep searching for work. He trusted his mother, and if she said things would be okay, he had no reason to doubt her words.
As he stepped out of his apartment, he heard a voice call out "Psycho!" At first he thought it was the chilling wind blowing, or maybe he was just hearing things, but soon after, another young man appeared near the gate to the apartment complex.
"What, you can’t recognize an old friend or what, punk?" said the young man as he approached Bruno. Bruno had not recognized his old friend Andy. As soon as they were close enough, they shook hands and embraced.
"Take a ride with me," Andy said as he wrapped his arm around Bruno’s neck.
"Nah man, I have to look for work. I’m almost out of money, my kid needs food and the rent has to get paid," responded Bruno.
Andy insisted; he had just purchased a 1965 black Chevy Impala in mint condition and he wanted to take Bruno out for a ride. Andy knew that Bruno had been going through a rough situation lately, and he wanted to help. In the car, Bruno saw Daniel, his other close friend, and smiled.
"What’s up foo’, aren’t you gonna say wassup, or what?" Bruno said as Daniel stepped out of the car. Daniel was a giant in height compared to Bruno who was only 5’2 tall. When he got out of the car Bruno had to step back to make room. He greeted Bruno as he did in the old days—by play fighting.
Finally the three got in the car; Bruno sat in the backseat. They drove around the city for a couple of hours, listening to funk, Hip Hop and oldies, while Bruno looked out the window, thinking about his daughter and the things he should be doing. Bruno told Andy to turn up the volume when they played Tupac and Scarface’s song, "Smile". Bruno especially liked the introduction,
There’s gonna be some stuff you gonna see that’s gonna make it hard to smile in the future, but through whatever you see, through all the rain and the pain, you gotta keep your sense of humor, you gotta be able to smile through all this bullshit.
They made a stop at their favorite taco shop. Bruno had not tasted tacos in weeks, not since his daughter’s mother had left him. After a few hours of eating and talking, they got in the car again and drove around some more. In the evening, they took Bruno to their favorite bar.
There, they met up with another old friend who had just been released from prison after two years.
"Damn, when did you get out, foo’?" asked Bruno in disbelief.
"Last week," responded his friend. He had been drinking for a few hours, so he was already a bit drunk. "I hear you have some financial problems, ese."
"I’ll be alright Stranger, don’t even trip. It’s good to see you foo’. It’s been a while," responded Bruno.
"So, how’s college, you still going or what, eh?" asked Stranger.
"Nah, I had to quit for this semester… gotta take care of my little girl and my momma you know," responded Bruno as he took a sip of a beer his friends had bought him. He was only 19, but he had been going into bars since 17—his thick mustache made him look older than he was.
"I might be able to help you out, ese," said Stranger, as he sat on a stool stroking his thick mustache and beard, "but let’s go play pool and we’ll talk about it".
Bruno worried; the last time Stranger had tried to help, he ended up leaving the state for a few months, Daniel had gotten shot, Andy had left to Mexico and Stranger had ended up in prison serving two years in Susanville State Penitentiary. But they went ahead and played pool, as Andy and Daniel watched and cracked jokes. They talked about old times, when all it took was the four of them to control the neighborhood.
"Hey foo’, remember when we messed up that foo’ Robert?" asked Andy, as they laughed noisily.
After a few minutes of jokes and laughter, Stranger said "I might have a way for all of us to get paid".
They all knew this might be a bad idea, especially Bruno, but he was desperate for money. He had done some terrible things in his life, and did not want to go back to that lifestyle.
"I’ve seen you on the corner with the day laborers, foo’. You shouldn’t have to struggle that much, man. I’m telling you, just listen to my idea," said a drunken Stranger. "Okay, let’s hear it," said a not-so-convinced Bruno.
Stranger’s idea was to break into the neighborhood’s drug connection and rob it. Bruno thought Stranger was crazy. He knew who was in control of the drug connection, and though he was not afraid, he thought it a bad idea. They argued for a few minutes, but Bruno’s desperation was incredible. He finally agreed—he imagined himself driving around in a nicer car, not his mother’s beat up Monte Carlo, and imagined buying some nice clothes for his daughter, and paying the rent for a few months.
"Alright, I’m down" he finally said. "When and who else is rollin’?" he added. "Just us four, like the old days. We got everything ready, and a sawed-off shotgun, especially for you—like the old days," said Stranger. Everything was prepared for the robbery, because the job had to be done that same night. It was the end of the month, and they knew that the connection had taken advantage of pay day in the neighborhood.
"Go home, change, and meet us in front of your apartments, in 20 minutes" Stranger commanded.
Bruno went home, but said nothing to his mother. He ran into his room and changed into his black pants, black hooded sweater, black Nike Cortez; he put a black bandana in his pocket. He kissed his daughter, with a tear in his eye, but hoping his actions would lead to a better life. His mother questioned him. She asked him what his hurry was.
All he said was, "Nothing Momma, it’s gonna be alright," and left.
When he arrived at the front of his apartment, his friends were already there in Andy’s car.
They sped off and soon were on the same street where the drug connection was. "It’s that house." Stranger pointed across the street from where they were parked. As they sat in the car, they downed 40oz of beer, Stranger snorted cocaine, and Andy and Daniel smoked marijuana—Bruno just drank, and held the shotgun close to his chest. Many thoughts went through his mind, especially how long it had been since he had last used it. He thought about his mother, how disappointed she would be and about his daughter, but he decided to think about his ex and his cousin to get mad and more willing to go through with the robbery.
"Are you foos’ ready, or what?" questioned Stranger.
"Simón," was the automatic response from everyone.
They stepped out of the car quietly. They could hear Spanish music coming from the house, but no one was outside. They thought this would make the job easier. They walked quietly across the street: Bruno with the shotgun, Andy with a nine millimeter automatic revolver, Stranger with an AK-47, and Manuel with a Smith and Wesson .380.
They knocked on the door, and when it opened, a drunken man appeared. Stranger pointed the rifle to his chest and told him not to make a sound. They all walked in with their bandanas covering their faces and pointing their guns in different directions.
"Nobody make a damn move!" they all said.
As they walked in, they looked around and saw bags of money, and drugs. They didn’t care for the drugs, but they were overwhelmed by the amount of money. Three women came from the kitchen and were told to stay quiet. Two men came from the bathroom and were hit with Bruno’s shotgun on their heads.
"Get the money foo’, hurry up!" said Stranger as Bruno grabbed the bags of money.
"Where’s the rest?" asked Daniel as he pistol-whipped a man who had white dust on his nose. He finally told him where the rest of the money was. Soon, they had three bags full of money all together.
"Tie them up," Andy said to Stranger.
They had the money and all the dealers were tied up.
"You go first and turn the car around," said Stranger calmly.
Andy walked out the door, started the car and brought it around. Bruno, Stranger and Daniel ran out of the house with the money and jumped into the car. They sped off and got lost in the foggy night and city lights.
As they sped off, a young man had been peaking through his window, a friend of the drug dealers—he had seen all of their faces. ¶
Monday, February 23, 2009
A Story in My Mind
Alejandra Villalobos
A story echoes in my mind
And as it does it leaves a legend behind
It slowly cradles in my mouth
And as soon as it begins to come out
My mouth trembles in and out
And as it touches my lips
It disappears into the sky like the rain
into the sea
A story echoes in my mind
And as it does it leaves a legend behind
It slowly cradles in my mouth
And as soon as it begins to come out
My mouth trembles in and out
And as it touches my lips
It disappears into the sky like the rain
into the sea
Ellos
Daniel Romo
I was in third grade when my mom bought me
A pair of denim pants the color of throw up.
And I told her they looked like throw up.
And she told me that’s what "they" are wearing.
Though she never did say who "they" were.
But I’ve grown up Mom,
And I finally know who "they" are.
— They are young Latino mothers
Who drag their children ‘cross town
From garage sale to garage sale
And then on to Sears
Every Saturday morning,
And push Graco strollers every Halloween
-Sans costumes-
With those Sears bags tied to them
Unabashedly expecting candy
For six month old babies.
And maybe it is for their six month old babies,
And their costumes are simply
Young Latino mothers.
— They are awkward poets,
In the good awkward way,
Quirky educated hipsters who think too much
Ands sport Melton wool caps
Spending hours in bookstores
Talking to themselves under their breaths
In dialects only other good awkward people
Appreciate and understand,
Who take occasional breaks reading published peers
Properly reshelving those peers despite knowing
They’re more accomplished,
Just less connected.
—They are silly girls
Who dress silly, and act silly, and kiss silly,
And smile silly,
Who like serious things
Like good film, good literature, good music,
And good men,
And listen to R.E.M. when they can’t sleep
Contemplating nightswimming
In his too honest not honest enough eyes
And surmise sometimes incorrectly,
They are silly girls who left me.
They are overworked inner city teachers
Going and making the proverbial distance
And difference.
They are suburban white boys nodding
Trust fund heads up and down to Tupac
Who think they have a free pass
To use the "n" word in their wannabe existence.
They are devoted Target consumers.
They are stronger people for being
Victims of unfounded rumors.
They are tenement single mothers.
They are medal of valor brothers,
Crude casualties of mistaken identity.
They are nomadic spirits who spend
Christmas Eve in fast food joints
Fading into Santa Ana sunsets
Like buffalo nickels in wishing wells.
They are Rwandan rebels just growing
Pubic hair unaware that Call of Duty
Is just a video game.
They are biracial presidents.
They are legal and illegal residents.
They are sad stories put to pretty music.
They are the Indians and the Calvary.
They are whoever you want them to be.
They are so fuckin’ stupid.
They are so fuckin’ beautiful.
They are the ones who finally did
Grow up.
And Mom,
They did look like throw up.
I was in third grade when my mom bought me
A pair of denim pants the color of throw up.
And I told her they looked like throw up.
And she told me that’s what "they" are wearing.
Though she never did say who "they" were.
But I’ve grown up Mom,
And I finally know who "they" are.
— They are young Latino mothers
Who drag their children ‘cross town
From garage sale to garage sale
And then on to Sears
Every Saturday morning,
And push Graco strollers every Halloween
-Sans costumes-
With those Sears bags tied to them
Unabashedly expecting candy
For six month old babies.
And maybe it is for their six month old babies,
And their costumes are simply
Young Latino mothers.
— They are awkward poets,
In the good awkward way,
Quirky educated hipsters who think too much
Ands sport Melton wool caps
Spending hours in bookstores
Talking to themselves under their breaths
In dialects only other good awkward people
Appreciate and understand,
Who take occasional breaks reading published peers
Properly reshelving those peers despite knowing
They’re more accomplished,
Just less connected.
—They are silly girls
Who dress silly, and act silly, and kiss silly,
And smile silly,
Who like serious things
Like good film, good literature, good music,
And good men,
And listen to R.E.M. when they can’t sleep
Contemplating nightswimming
In his too honest not honest enough eyes
And surmise sometimes incorrectly,
They are silly girls who left me.
They are overworked inner city teachers
Going and making the proverbial distance
And difference.
They are suburban white boys nodding
Trust fund heads up and down to Tupac
Who think they have a free pass
To use the "n" word in their wannabe existence.
They are devoted Target consumers.
They are stronger people for being
Victims of unfounded rumors.
They are tenement single mothers.
They are medal of valor brothers,
Crude casualties of mistaken identity.
They are nomadic spirits who spend
Christmas Eve in fast food joints
Fading into Santa Ana sunsets
Like buffalo nickels in wishing wells.
They are Rwandan rebels just growing
Pubic hair unaware that Call of Duty
Is just a video game.
They are biracial presidents.
They are legal and illegal residents.
They are sad stories put to pretty music.
They are the Indians and the Calvary.
They are whoever you want them to be.
They are so fuckin’ stupid.
They are so fuckin’ beautiful.
They are the ones who finally did
Grow up.
And Mom,
They did look like throw up.
Chorizo and Eggs
Daniel Romo
Surrounded by people of pigmentation
Predominantly lighter than mine,
It’s a must my cultural preservation,
The Latino way I dine.
It’s what keeps me grounded
Like an Incan Fortress
Cemented to my roots.
Deep with heritage
Glowing with pride
A fact I can’t refute.
And despite the quiche and espresso walls
And the variety for which Vanillaland begs,
I prefer to forgo Spinach soufflés,
Opting for my chorizo
And eggs.
Surrounded by people of pigmentation
Predominantly lighter than mine,
It’s a must my cultural preservation,
The Latino way I dine.
It’s what keeps me grounded
Like an Incan Fortress
Cemented to my roots.
Deep with heritage
Glowing with pride
A fact I can’t refute.
And despite the quiche and espresso walls
And the variety for which Vanillaland begs,
I prefer to forgo Spinach soufflés,
Opting for my chorizo
And eggs.
Like an Ambulance Chaser
Daniel Romo
I merge on to light speed boulevards
And become intimate with busy streets.
Stealing stories and collecting one-liners
That repeat without permission.
Listen to what they say,
Day to day existence inside a white picket fence
Or black security bars on windows
Both make for a majestic muse.
Not to be confused with envy.
I do long to stroll on sidewalks
In front of the large houses whose lawns
My immigrant grandfather used to mow,
And look through their renovated bay windows
To see what their dreams are made of
But I’ll never know,
Because my mother taught me,
Sunsets over treetops look the same,
And the grass only looks greener,
Because we’re the ones who watered it.
Free to see and be,
A simple nomad I am.
I merge on to light speed boulevards
And become intimate with busy streets.
Stealing stories and collecting one-liners
That repeat without permission.
Listen to what they say,
Day to day existence inside a white picket fence
Or black security bars on windows
Both make for a majestic muse.
Not to be confused with envy.
I do long to stroll on sidewalks
In front of the large houses whose lawns
My immigrant grandfather used to mow,
And look through their renovated bay windows
To see what their dreams are made of
But I’ll never know,
Because my mother taught me,
Sunsets over treetops look the same,
And the grass only looks greener,
Because we’re the ones who watered it.
Free to see and be,
A simple nomad I am.
Renaissance Man
Daniel Romo
I’m a Renaissance man.
A modern day beatnik who finds
Romance in grey skies
And bewilderment
In why the suicide rate
Stays so high
In Seattle.
Who shuns laptops
And text messaging,
Preferring to write
With wooden pencils
Confessing
They keep me closer to
Nirvana.
Product of an early 90’s
Northwest revolution
Dressed in apathy
Bathed in flannel.
I’ve not watched Vh-1 in years
And changed the channel long ago
Only to become obsessed
With reality TV,
Watching top, anorexic, wannabe models
Flaunt their sexuality,
And fallen hip-hop heroes
Diminished to the depths
Of actually
Dating
Their groupies.
Who YouTubes
"Kimbo Slice" and "backyard fights"
And Googles
"Saul Williams" and "Open Mic readings"
Transforming proper nouns to verbs
Seeing
Through the superficiality,
And vicarious reality—
It is written and spoken word
That keeps me honest.
For I decode
Keenly folded dreams
Written in shorthand
On the second floor of bookstores
Ignoring
And bucking the system
That comes with
Being a male poet.
My proud pectorals protruding,
Alluding
To the fact
My manhood’s intact,
And I’m sensitive enough
To feel.
I reject coffee houses
And commercialism,
Yet wonder if it’s a contradiction
To be a devoted
Target consumer.
It’s no coincidence
I’m slow to dispel the rumor—
I find flaws in rainbows
Keeping quiet
Letting Mother Nature know
I can keep a secret.
In a perfect world,
There’d be no secrets.
There’d be no secrets,
No stereotypes
Misogyny,
Pollution
Book burning
Poverty,
High gas prices
American Idol
Dog fighting
Communism
Eating disorders
Rosie O’ Donnell
And WAR.
Isn’t that what artists
Strive for?
And while I’m on the subject,
I’ll add cutting funding for the arts
In high schools to the list,
Because billions of dollars spent
On space exploration
Fueled by egos and speculation
Is
Bullsssssshhhhh…..
I’m a Renaissance man.
A modern day beatnik
Who simply wants to
Be,
One step closer,
To a more forgiving world…
I’m a Renaissance man.
A modern day beatnik who finds
Romance in grey skies
And bewilderment
In why the suicide rate
Stays so high
In Seattle.
Who shuns laptops
And text messaging,
Preferring to write
With wooden pencils
Confessing
They keep me closer to
Nirvana.
Product of an early 90’s
Northwest revolution
Dressed in apathy
Bathed in flannel.
I’ve not watched Vh-1 in years
And changed the channel long ago
Only to become obsessed
With reality TV,
Watching top, anorexic, wannabe models
Flaunt their sexuality,
And fallen hip-hop heroes
Diminished to the depths
Of actually
Dating
Their groupies.
Who YouTubes
"Kimbo Slice" and "backyard fights"
And Googles
"Saul Williams" and "Open Mic readings"
Transforming proper nouns to verbs
Seeing
Through the superficiality,
And vicarious reality—
It is written and spoken word
That keeps me honest.
For I decode
Keenly folded dreams
Written in shorthand
On the second floor of bookstores
Ignoring
And bucking the system
That comes with
Being a male poet.
My proud pectorals protruding,
Alluding
To the fact
My manhood’s intact,
And I’m sensitive enough
To feel.
I reject coffee houses
And commercialism,
Yet wonder if it’s a contradiction
To be a devoted
Target consumer.
It’s no coincidence
I’m slow to dispel the rumor—
I find flaws in rainbows
Keeping quiet
Letting Mother Nature know
I can keep a secret.
In a perfect world,
There’d be no secrets.
There’d be no secrets,
No stereotypes
Misogyny,
Pollution
Book burning
Poverty,
High gas prices
American Idol
Dog fighting
Communism
Eating disorders
Rosie O’ Donnell
And WAR.
Isn’t that what artists
Strive for?
And while I’m on the subject,
I’ll add cutting funding for the arts
In high schools to the list,
Because billions of dollars spent
On space exploration
Fueled by egos and speculation
Is
Bullsssssshhhhh…..
I’m a Renaissance man.
A modern day beatnik
Who simply wants to
Be,
One step closer,
To a more forgiving world…
The Itch
Yadira Arroyo
i got an itch
on my lower back
on my neck
come scratch it
like i have no soul
fuck it
my nipples tingle
and my eyes narrow,
lock on to a moving target
i am blind and forget
that i am me -
i glide to your throat
with unstoppable
momentum -
i slide to your feet
pushed to feather ice
melting at the mercy of
the steaming flesh
soaring through
accelerated air
i land
so you can
rather easily
bend over
and scratch.
i got an itch
on my lower back
on my neck
come scratch it
like i have no soul
fuck it
my nipples tingle
and my eyes narrow,
lock on to a moving target
i am blind and forget
that i am me -
i glide to your throat
with unstoppable
momentum -
i slide to your feet
pushed to feather ice
melting at the mercy of
the steaming flesh
soaring through
accelerated air
i land
so you can
rather easily
bend over
and scratch.
Monday, January 26, 2009
Circumstance
Yadira Arroyo
It’s just another morning at the corporate coffee shop where I work. I can see the golden rays of our L.A.-faithful sun kicking it on the sidewalk. I shift my attention to my job and systemically scan the lobby for tables that need busing or things that need arranging, but find everything impeccable; I’ve done my job well. I lean against the counter behind the register, and take a self-allotted break from nothing. My mind momentarily lingers on the thought of getting paid as the clock ticks. The prospect of one more dollar is unexciting though, so I am forced to thrill myself otherwise.
I drag my eyes slowly towards the undeserving Ripple TV screen and catch the horoscope frame. Intrigued, I walk closer to the bait and can see the first four: Aries, Taurus, Gemini and Cancer. Filled with mystic anticipation, I wait for the screen to change so that the next four are revealed.
"Don’t fret about circumstances. Your boundless energy is perfect for making life a bit easier to live," reads the Virgo horoscope.
I gush at the liveliness compliment. Why, thank you, Mr. Ripple.
My circumstances sure are dire.
I walk sluggishly back to the counter and place my hands in my apron pocket. I wait for customers who find nothing interesting happening in Downtown L.A.’s business district on a sunny Sunday morning.
I look around and see that my supervisor is in the back room. Good. I round my painted lips, bend my tongue inside my mouth and start to whistle the Star-Spangled Banner. Suddenly, I see myself marching in a patriot parade, red-white-and-blue glitter bikini and all. My hair is yellow and my eyes are blue and well, it’s just not me. I snort to stop myself from laughing.
I look through the glass doors and finally see someone approaching. Even from inside the store, I can see that his jean jacket is faded and that his dirty blonde hair is, well, dirty. He reaches for the door handle and I straighten myself up.
"Hi!" I greet him.
"Hello there," he smiles. "Refill."
At that moment he presents his cup, and I cock a mental eyebrow. The paper cup is tattered and filthy; I keep a pleasant front.
"I always wanted to be a barista," he starts.
There is a sneaky quality to his tone, as if he was cunningly flirting with the spoken word, but I relate nonetheless. At one point, I too had believed that this was the dream job.
"I am the only one in my family who has not been a barista," he continues.
I fake a chuckle now, not because I am snobbish, but because his simple comment just turned into a customer story.
Taking the sad excuse for a liquid-holding container in my hand, what I should be doing is demanding to see some proof of purchase.
"Dark or mild?" I ask him.
"Dark," he chooses. "I’ve applied to work here before, but you know what always gets me?"
"What?" I ask him.
"Those damn questions! You know, the ones that are really obvious but that try to catch you in a lie."
"Yeah," I say, my attention on the cup. I try in vain to lock the lid on its worn-out rim. Doesn’t he know I could burn him?
"They’re so obvious though," he repeats.
"Yeah," I say.
***
A week later, during a weekday-morning shift, my coworker begins to tell me.
"There was this man who came in yesterday," she says. "He pulled out a dirty, old cup and when I didn’t give him the refill, he started yelling at me."
"Was he blond?" I ask her.
"Yeah!"
"Well, what did he say?"
She rolls her eyes.
"He said, ‘Go to hell, you fucking wetback!"
I snort. ¶
It’s just another morning at the corporate coffee shop where I work. I can see the golden rays of our L.A.-faithful sun kicking it on the sidewalk. I shift my attention to my job and systemically scan the lobby for tables that need busing or things that need arranging, but find everything impeccable; I’ve done my job well. I lean against the counter behind the register, and take a self-allotted break from nothing. My mind momentarily lingers on the thought of getting paid as the clock ticks. The prospect of one more dollar is unexciting though, so I am forced to thrill myself otherwise.I drag my eyes slowly towards the undeserving Ripple TV screen and catch the horoscope frame. Intrigued, I walk closer to the bait and can see the first four: Aries, Taurus, Gemini and Cancer. Filled with mystic anticipation, I wait for the screen to change so that the next four are revealed.
"Don’t fret about circumstances. Your boundless energy is perfect for making life a bit easier to live," reads the Virgo horoscope.
I gush at the liveliness compliment. Why, thank you, Mr. Ripple.
My circumstances sure are dire.
I walk sluggishly back to the counter and place my hands in my apron pocket. I wait for customers who find nothing interesting happening in Downtown L.A.’s business district on a sunny Sunday morning.
I look around and see that my supervisor is in the back room. Good. I round my painted lips, bend my tongue inside my mouth and start to whistle the Star-Spangled Banner. Suddenly, I see myself marching in a patriot parade, red-white-and-blue glitter bikini and all. My hair is yellow and my eyes are blue and well, it’s just not me. I snort to stop myself from laughing.
I look through the glass doors and finally see someone approaching. Even from inside the store, I can see that his jean jacket is faded and that his dirty blonde hair is, well, dirty. He reaches for the door handle and I straighten myself up.
"Hi!" I greet him.
"Hello there," he smiles. "Refill."
At that moment he presents his cup, and I cock a mental eyebrow. The paper cup is tattered and filthy; I keep a pleasant front.
"I always wanted to be a barista," he starts.
There is a sneaky quality to his tone, as if he was cunningly flirting with the spoken word, but I relate nonetheless. At one point, I too had believed that this was the dream job.
"I am the only one in my family who has not been a barista," he continues.
I fake a chuckle now, not because I am snobbish, but because his simple comment just turned into a customer story.
Taking the sad excuse for a liquid-holding container in my hand, what I should be doing is demanding to see some proof of purchase.
"Dark or mild?" I ask him.
"Dark," he chooses. "I’ve applied to work here before, but you know what always gets me?"
"What?" I ask him.
"Those damn questions! You know, the ones that are really obvious but that try to catch you in a lie."
"Yeah," I say, my attention on the cup. I try in vain to lock the lid on its worn-out rim. Doesn’t he know I could burn him?
"They’re so obvious though," he repeats.
"Yeah," I say.
***
A week later, during a weekday-morning shift, my coworker begins to tell me.
"There was this man who came in yesterday," she says. "He pulled out a dirty, old cup and when I didn’t give him the refill, he started yelling at me."
"Was he blond?" I ask her.
"Yeah!"
"Well, what did he say?"
She rolls her eyes.
"He said, ‘Go to hell, you fucking wetback!"
I snort. ¶
Monday, December 1, 2008
Those Bloody Days
Yadira Arroyo
i bled
in chunks
and rivers
my vulva
all soaked
stained panties
seven pads
in seven hours
expensive
when i sat
on toilet
it flowed
and my lips
they pulsed
throbbing
aching vulva
bleeding hole
coincides with --
i don't bleed
so bad
anymore
one pad
in four hours
not stressful
a spot
here and there
at ease
at ease
my mind
and my wounded
vagina.
i bled
in chunks
and rivers
my vulva
all soaked
stained panties
seven pads
in seven hours
expensive
when i sat
on toilet
it flowed
and my lips
they pulsed
throbbing
aching vulva
bleeding hole
coincides with --
i don't bleed
so bad
anymore
one pad
in four hours
not stressful
a spot
here and there
at ease
at ease
my mind
and my wounded
vagina.
Untitled: Natural Beauty
Monsus
WE ARE PEOPLE OF THE LAND
OUR BODIES SQUARE AND THICK
FLAT AND BROAD
CLOSE TO THE DIRT WE WALK
BECOMING MORE LIKE IT,
DARK, DARKER, DIRT
ONLY NATURAL BEAUTY
WE ARE PEOPLE OF THE LAND
OUR BODIES SQUARE AND THICK
FLAT AND BROAD
CLOSE TO THE DIRT WE WALK
BECOMING MORE LIKE IT,
DARK, DARKER, DIRT
ONLY NATURAL BEAUTY
The "I" Word
Lorena Romero
Among ourselves we are anything but Indian,
Among ourselves we understand the allure de
ser "mestizo."
Among ourselves we know not to utter our
heritage aloud,
Among ourselves we recognize the shame but do not speak of it.
Among ourselves we have quietly rewritten history,
Among ourselves we pray that no one will find out.
Among ourselves we hate one another for making it difficult to blend in.
Among ourselves we are desperate for affirmation,
Among ourselves we long for pride of that suppressed history.
And among ourselves we hope that being Indian will someday be acceptable.
Among ourselves we are anything but Indian,
Among ourselves we understand the allure de
ser "mestizo."
Among ourselves we know not to utter our
heritage aloud,
Among ourselves we recognize the shame but do not speak of it.
Among ourselves we have quietly rewritten history,
Among ourselves we pray that no one will find out.
Among ourselves we hate one another for making it difficult to blend in.
Among ourselves we are desperate for affirmation,
Among ourselves we long for pride of that suppressed history.
And among ourselves we hope that being Indian will someday be acceptable.
Monday, November 3, 2008
Pan dulce duro
A quien le corresponde,Tu eres como pan dulce duro, the worst and most disappointing type of thing. Tú eres el veneno de mi paz, y el tormento de mis sueños. Vienes por unos momentos de placer, con mentiras tú me haces creer que sientes algo por mí. You touched my skin with the softness of your skin, and then of course you touched la de tú novia. You left me marked up, and yet you expect me to hide everything shamefully. Dame otra mordida y a ver qué te pasa. El valor que tienes de verme entre las piernas, hold me tightly all night, and do the same thing to your partner the next morning. I’m not going to mend your ego, to tell you you were great at it or worth it. No te entiendo, tienes todo y todavía quieres más.
¡Si no vas a respetar a tu pareja, respétame a mí!
No soy tuya,
La Miranda Moon
XV
Yadira Arroyo
This past weekend was my cousin Erika’s quinceañera. The whole family came out to celebrate her presentation to the “adult” world. My father told me earlier that day that he was not going to drink. At the statement, my mom felt his forehead for a fever and I smirked. In the middle of the party, I reminded him of his proclamation.
“¿Esta no es boda?” he asked with a feigned look of surprise. “Me malentendiste. Dije que solo si era boda.” We all had our fun.
As I stood in the background through the entire day’s events, I could not help but think of my own quinceañera a few years back. I thought about it when we were in the two-quinceañeras-for-one mass (efficiency!), when we went to the East LA park for the princess photo shoot, and later on when I was inebriated and calling forth my otherwise-shunned Jalisco roots by zapateando clumsily. Except of course, that I didn’t really have a quince, in the spectacular sense of the word.
There were several reasons, but perhaps the most controversial was the following: la misa. Although, I was only 14 at the time, I had been a staunch atheist since I was 12.
“¿Cómo vas a tener una quinceañera sin misa?” would ask my mother, puzzled.
“Pues fácil,” I would reply. “Sin misa.”
Or, there was always the more engaging:
“Yadira, ¿qué te cuesta sentarte en una silla por una pinche hora?”
“¡Pero yo no creo en eso! ¿Y si me empiezo a reír?”
Variants of this conversation would continue for a few months prior to the weekend of my fifteenth birthday. Teenage angst took its toll; how I hated religion! The thought of going through with the ceremony seemed hypocritical on far too many levels.
Either way, my mother wouldn’t have it and I wouldn’t have it and so, the potential guests didn’t have it.
Oh yes, the guests. As their only daughter and eldest child, my parents certainly fancied the idea of presenting me to the world, a proper and primp señorita. Herein lays another problem: I was nothing of the sort. I was, at best, awkward at 15 and having been raised in a very private home setting, I kept only a handful of friends. I was almost emotionally indifferent to mere acquaintances, and the thought of hosting these strangers at my big day not only seemed superficial, but quite frankly, annoying. That and I sure as hell did not want to do it in a pink dress, which at the time, my mom believed was the way to go.
And so, unwilling to compromise what were then my super revolutionary ideals, my mind knew that a quinceañera was not for me. Nevertheless, standing in the midst of a barrio upbringing, with its high school amigas, Spanish-language commercial signage and early-morning tamaleros ambulantes in the year 2001, my heart ached for acceptance as a daughter who could be presentable and whom my parents would be proud of.
One week prior to my birthday, my parents caved. As they were sitting on the back doorstep and I was walking from my room to the kitchen, I heard them murmur in all their regret. Months had passed by and not a single proactive move to plan mi fiesta was made; never mind that ideologically, it could not have been. They looked up at me as I walked back to my room and my mother called my name. I looked down to where they sat and they looked back and forth at each other, a bit nervously. One of them finally spoke. With my approval, I was to have a party con DJ and a lavender dress the following weekend.
I know that by speaking my mind and being una niña especial, it will always be difficult to gain effortless acceptance from the eldest bearers of my culture, namely my parents. This fact has been quite painful, but I’ve also always wanted things far greater than the grasp of any social confine could offer. Thankfully, my parents have stood by me, through reluctance and relajo.
While I respect and yes, broodingly envy other muchachitas who have bailado el vals and greeted their guests merrily, having a quinceañera could never be for this “loca”, as my mom so kindly puts it. If being mexicana means being una “buena” hija, or falling neatly into the role of a beautiful, altruistic, obedient and domestic daughter, then my identity is inevitably threatened . But, if it in the context of progress, it also calls on a history of pride and resistance, then I reckon I’ll be just fine.
This past weekend was my cousin Erika’s quinceañera. The whole family came out to celebrate her presentation to the “adult” world. My father told me earlier that day that he was not going to drink. At the statement, my mom felt his forehead for a fever and I smirked. In the middle of the party, I reminded him of his proclamation.“¿Esta no es boda?” he asked with a feigned look of surprise. “Me malentendiste. Dije que solo si era boda.” We all had our fun.
As I stood in the background through the entire day’s events, I could not help but think of my own quinceañera a few years back. I thought about it when we were in the two-quinceañeras-for-one mass (efficiency!), when we went to the East LA park for the princess photo shoot, and later on when I was inebriated and calling forth my otherwise-shunned Jalisco roots by zapateando clumsily. Except of course, that I didn’t really have a quince, in the spectacular sense of the word.
There were several reasons, but perhaps the most controversial was the following: la misa. Although, I was only 14 at the time, I had been a staunch atheist since I was 12.
“¿Cómo vas a tener una quinceañera sin misa?” would ask my mother, puzzled.
“Pues fácil,” I would reply. “Sin misa.”
Or, there was always the more engaging:
“Yadira, ¿qué te cuesta sentarte en una silla por una pinche hora?”
“¡Pero yo no creo en eso! ¿Y si me empiezo a reír?”
Variants of this conversation would continue for a few months prior to the weekend of my fifteenth birthday. Teenage angst took its toll; how I hated religion! The thought of going through with the ceremony seemed hypocritical on far too many levels.
Either way, my mother wouldn’t have it and I wouldn’t have it and so, the potential guests didn’t have it.
Oh yes, the guests. As their only daughter and eldest child, my parents certainly fancied the idea of presenting me to the world, a proper and primp señorita. Herein lays another problem: I was nothing of the sort. I was, at best, awkward at 15 and having been raised in a very private home setting, I kept only a handful of friends. I was almost emotionally indifferent to mere acquaintances, and the thought of hosting these strangers at my big day not only seemed superficial, but quite frankly, annoying. That and I sure as hell did not want to do it in a pink dress, which at the time, my mom believed was the way to go.
And so, unwilling to compromise what were then my super revolutionary ideals, my mind knew that a quinceañera was not for me. Nevertheless, standing in the midst of a barrio upbringing, with its high school amigas, Spanish-language commercial signage and early-morning tamaleros ambulantes in the year 2001, my heart ached for acceptance as a daughter who could be presentable and whom my parents would be proud of.
One week prior to my birthday, my parents caved. As they were sitting on the back doorstep and I was walking from my room to the kitchen, I heard them murmur in all their regret. Months had passed by and not a single proactive move to plan mi fiesta was made; never mind that ideologically, it could not have been. They looked up at me as I walked back to my room and my mother called my name. I looked down to where they sat and they looked back and forth at each other, a bit nervously. One of them finally spoke. With my approval, I was to have a party con DJ and a lavender dress the following weekend.
I know that by speaking my mind and being una niña especial, it will always be difficult to gain effortless acceptance from the eldest bearers of my culture, namely my parents. This fact has been quite painful, but I’ve also always wanted things far greater than the grasp of any social confine could offer. Thankfully, my parents have stood by me, through reluctance and relajo.
While I respect and yes, broodingly envy other muchachitas who have bailado el vals and greeted their guests merrily, having a quinceañera could never be for this “loca”, as my mom so kindly puts it. If being mexicana means being una “buena” hija, or falling neatly into the role of a beautiful, altruistic, obedient and domestic daughter, then my identity is inevitably threatened . But, if it in the context of progress, it also calls on a history of pride and resistance, then I reckon I’ll be just fine.
Monday, October 6, 2008
Para mi "peor-es-nada"
Anonymous
Yeah, it’s me again. ¿Quién mas esperabas? ¿La sancha, o qué? Haha, foo’, calm down; no te voy a reclamar nada.
Solo queria decirte que that other night, when you dropped me off, cuando ni siquiera te volteaste a ver si entre bien a mi apartment ‘cause you just drove off? Pues it got me thinking see, it stung in here once more; made me realize que en tus ojos, maybe I’m just some stupid whore. Que en los ultimos meses you lied to and cunningly deceived, pero que dices que me quieres, ay papí lo prometes, que soy la unica pa’ ti.Yet, you don’t kiss me right. Siempre usas mucha lengua. Y cuando te la muerdo en broma, well, let’s not even go there – me dejas en vergüenza.
I always thought I liked you. I guess I really just might. Pero papí, why can’t you just tell me if you’re in a bad mood? You don’t even have to explain it, or talk about it si no quieres.
I just wish you didn’t scream at me and curse that I’m pathetic. Que soy mensa y aburrida, ni tan flaca y mal hablada. Que I won’t put out fast enough por mis tonterias de no quedar embarazada. Que soy confusa e incrédula, yeah, but I believe everything you say. That’s ‘cause I love you baby. I’m true to you, always & forever. You know, like the song says.
People are always talking shit, diciendo que you’re a good-for-nothing porque dejastes el estudio and you don’t support me in MY studies. Dices que I’m just wasting time, what’s the point, si I’m gonna marry you? "Girl, drop that schoolbag," you like to tell me. Like yeah, who am I trying to fool, right?
Anywho, I just had to get this off my chest.
Mis ojos are rojos and my lips are swollen y mi hair’s a mess. I’ll understand if this letter nunca la lees. I know you’re busy and occupied, but when you lose your temper and I’m not here to answer, don’t say I didn’t try.
It’s kind of hard having to live on edge and pretend nobody is listening. Nobody notices when your senses are twisted and your breath is caught short ‘cause you can’t form the words.
In the struggle to be sensible, shy, tu novia querida grapples the trifled language, the painfully extracted sappy phrase:
Yeah, it’s me again. ¿Quién mas esperabas? ¿La sancha, o qué? Haha, foo’, calm down; no te voy a reclamar nada.
Solo queria decirte que that other night, when you dropped me off, cuando ni siquiera te volteaste a ver si entre bien a mi apartment ‘cause you just drove off? Pues it got me thinking see, it stung in here once more; made me realize que en tus ojos, maybe I’m just some stupid whore. Que en los ultimos meses you lied to and cunningly deceived, pero que dices que me quieres, ay papí lo prometes, que soy la unica pa’ ti.Yet, you don’t kiss me right. Siempre usas mucha lengua. Y cuando te la muerdo en broma, well, let’s not even go there – me dejas en vergüenza.
I always thought I liked you. I guess I really just might. Pero papí, why can’t you just tell me if you’re in a bad mood? You don’t even have to explain it, or talk about it si no quieres.
I just wish you didn’t scream at me and curse that I’m pathetic. Que soy mensa y aburrida, ni tan flaca y mal hablada. Que I won’t put out fast enough por mis tonterias de no quedar embarazada. Que soy confusa e incrédula, yeah, but I believe everything you say. That’s ‘cause I love you baby. I’m true to you, always & forever. You know, like the song says.
People are always talking shit, diciendo que you’re a good-for-nothing porque dejastes el estudio and you don’t support me in MY studies. Dices que I’m just wasting time, what’s the point, si I’m gonna marry you? "Girl, drop that schoolbag," you like to tell me. Like yeah, who am I trying to fool, right?
Anywho, I just had to get this off my chest.
Mis ojos are rojos and my lips are swollen y mi hair’s a mess. I’ll understand if this letter nunca la lees. I know you’re busy and occupied, but when you lose your temper and I’m not here to answer, don’t say I didn’t try.
It’s kind of hard having to live on edge and pretend nobody is listening. Nobody notices when your senses are twisted and your breath is caught short ‘cause you can’t form the words.
In the struggle to be sensible, shy, tu novia querida grapples the trifled language, the painfully extracted sappy phrase:
"I’m fine."
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
Mirrored
Yadira Arroyo
I wake up at the sound of the alarm’s buzz, buzz, buzz. The time is 11:30 a.m. on a completely free day. Free from work, free from school, free from friends and maybe even free from family. I hit the snooze button. About ten minutes later, I am grabbing my towel for a much anticipated, summer-morning shower.
In the bathroom, I pull the hair elastics from my slept-in, lopsided pigtails, scrunch my hair with my hands and then lazily undress. When all my clothes and hair accessories are piled on the toilet seat cover to be taken to my personal hamper after I am done, I grab my toothbrush and toothpaste and place them on the dry ledge of the bathtub. I look into the large mirror opposite the shower, as I always do, and think that it may not be a bad day to skip makeup. I run my hands over my face and then look at the rest of my body, not unsatisfied. I squeeze my breasts because they ache ridiculously, then notice that I need to shave my legs and underarms. I grab a razor from the compartment behind the sink mirror to put beside the toothbrush, but as I close the small door, I squint my eyes to get a better look at what I hadn’t noticed before. It’s there on my upper right arm, ugly and evident.
I turn to the long mirror again and look into my eyes; they begin to flicker in every direction as my body plunges bluntly into accelerated thought. Maybe it was an accident, races my mind. I step up closer to the mirror and examine it. The mark’s shape is so easily distinguishable that there is no mistaking how it got there. There are flashbacks from the previous night. I place my left hand over it and squeeze it gently; I feel the bruised pain at each of its perfectly-arranged four points. I stare at the floor thinking of everything it could mean outside the four walls that I find myself hiding in. The shock of such frailty mocks me.
I turn around to slide open the shower door, turning the showerhead on as soon as I step in. The cool water slows the feral molecules that had begun to boil my blood. I breathe. Calm gloom sets in and I begin to sing. I sing a song that carries me as far away from the cause as possible. If this is your venom, I can just as fiercely conjure my antidote. I force myself to bliss.
When I am done, I wrap a towel around myself and look into the mirror once again, my brown eyes tinged with disappointment. This is not my destiny. I take another angry glance at the mark, holding back tears, and walk to my bedroom. Once away from the bare vulnerability of the cleansing room, I dress myself. Covering the cruelty with a striped blouse, I trap the shame in the mirror. If I succumb to weakness now, it is an eternal loss. I finish gathering myself and open the front door. The sunlight once again wraps me in truth as I walk across my front lawn; my destiny remains clutched in my own hands.
I wake up at the sound of the alarm’s buzz, buzz, buzz. The time is 11:30 a.m. on a completely free day. Free from work, free from school, free from friends and maybe even free from family. I hit the snooze button. About ten minutes later, I am grabbing my towel for a much anticipated, summer-morning shower.In the bathroom, I pull the hair elastics from my slept-in, lopsided pigtails, scrunch my hair with my hands and then lazily undress. When all my clothes and hair accessories are piled on the toilet seat cover to be taken to my personal hamper after I am done, I grab my toothbrush and toothpaste and place them on the dry ledge of the bathtub. I look into the large mirror opposite the shower, as I always do, and think that it may not be a bad day to skip makeup. I run my hands over my face and then look at the rest of my body, not unsatisfied. I squeeze my breasts because they ache ridiculously, then notice that I need to shave my legs and underarms. I grab a razor from the compartment behind the sink mirror to put beside the toothbrush, but as I close the small door, I squint my eyes to get a better look at what I hadn’t noticed before. It’s there on my upper right arm, ugly and evident.
I turn to the long mirror again and look into my eyes; they begin to flicker in every direction as my body plunges bluntly into accelerated thought. Maybe it was an accident, races my mind. I step up closer to the mirror and examine it. The mark’s shape is so easily distinguishable that there is no mistaking how it got there. There are flashbacks from the previous night. I place my left hand over it and squeeze it gently; I feel the bruised pain at each of its perfectly-arranged four points. I stare at the floor thinking of everything it could mean outside the four walls that I find myself hiding in. The shock of such frailty mocks me.
I turn around to slide open the shower door, turning the showerhead on as soon as I step in. The cool water slows the feral molecules that had begun to boil my blood. I breathe. Calm gloom sets in and I begin to sing. I sing a song that carries me as far away from the cause as possible. If this is your venom, I can just as fiercely conjure my antidote. I force myself to bliss.
When I am done, I wrap a towel around myself and look into the mirror once again, my brown eyes tinged with disappointment. This is not my destiny. I take another angry glance at the mark, holding back tears, and walk to my bedroom. Once away from the bare vulnerability of the cleansing room, I dress myself. Covering the cruelty with a striped blouse, I trap the shame in the mirror. If I succumb to weakness now, it is an eternal loss. I finish gathering myself and open the front door. The sunlight once again wraps me in truth as I walk across my front lawn; my destiny remains clutched in my own hands.
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