Mi mamá y yo

Mi mamá

Arrived to Los Angeles, California with her two sisters and mother. My grandmother sold their home and belongings to pay for a coyote,so they can reunite with my grandfather who worked as a Bracero.

After settling and arranging their next trip, they began their journey to Chicago, Illinois.

My grandmother rented a small apartment for five people in La Villita on the south side.

Mi mamá found a job at a factory in Edgewater. She commuted everyday to and from work for almost two hours for a low wage and no benefits.At the young age of 18, she was work more than eight hours for six days a week.
Mi mamá wanted to go back home. I ask her, what do you miss about home? She says, “todo”.

Yo
“Ni de aquí, ni de alla”. So where do I go? I’m too Mexican for the United States, and too “American” for México. This inner conflict has been heard countless times that the authenticity of it seems to diminishes. However, the pain is very real.
I am not looking to fit in.
I am searching for the peace my ancestors did not find.

Xingona

 

“When I am unveiled
this time, I dazzle
the mouth. Crown the tongue.
Cradle the sob of waterfalls &
summon every child. Ven
aquí, todos. Escuchame,
finally. Pull me from
the deadest root & watch
it ripen in the good air.
Blessings to all parts of earth
whom are forgotten. Blessings
to the splintered leaves, the dark
stars, the sunken branch. Here
is the calling forth, the new
beginning. Yes, I am old
& debuting fresh wind; yes,
I am young with the pulse
of raucous citizens –
recycled poem, shred of
warrior past – I am the hollered
rush of the Rio Grande, the
feet caught between two
lands. I am the omitted
passage; the forbidden water,
the hieroglyph, the non-border.
Walk me along your name until
I become you, niño de los indios,
de los árboles, del cielo. Yo olvido
nada. & my memory is yours, too.
A ver. Tus manos son los mismos
a miyo. I am closer to you than
even death. Mirame, resurrected
in Coyolxauhqui fractured pieces.
I measure the length of legends.
I swim with ancient grace.
I am a red string around
the ankle of history,
holding together my children
in my splendid mouth.”
-Ariana Brown

Soy el fruto de la lengua prohibida
El fruto de los espíritus olvidados, y de los rostros sin cara
Mi sangre no es azul pero es la sangre de los héroes de nuestra tierra
Sangre mexica, mexicana, y americana corre por mis venas
Soy la magia morena en el aire que intoxica a los colonialistas
Soy la pesadilla del opresor, el recuerdo vivo que los persigue día y noche
Soy de mi madre, y abuelita
Soy de mujeres xingonas y luchadoras
Soy de su sudor y sufrimiento pero también de sus sonrisas y carcajadas
Soy el puente que conecta mis raíces con el reflejo en el espejo en el amanecer
Soy magia morena
-Arely Barrera

 

Meeting #8 09/24/2016

Lily Be Storytelling workshop