Somos follows the traditional structure of Nosotros, the Latina(o) Literary Magazine that ended publication in 1992. With this first issue, we recognize and welcome the following responsibilities to the voces Latinas at Brown University and its surrounding communities:
-provide a literary forum for the appreciation, expression, and presentation of Latin American and Latino culture and identity -foster the growth of creativity inherent in the Latina(o) culture -establish a presence as a permanent organization at Brown University
This magazine is dedicated to the spiritual memory of three Latinas:Karina Lago, Kathy DeLeon, and Dr. Maria-Teresa Otoya and their committment to the Third World Community .
Special Thanks: University Departments: American Civilization Center for Environmental Studies Center for Latin American Studies Center for Race and Ethnicity Dean of the College Hispanic Studies Office of Affirmative Action Third World Center
Student Organizations: Brown Asian Sisters Empowered Black and Latino Education Society Black Sisters United Brown Organization Multiracial and Biracial Students Filipino Alliance Federaci6n de Estudiantes Puertorriquenos La Fuerza Latina
Latin American Students Organization Latino/a executive board Literary Forum Mezcla-Raices Movimiento Estudiantil Chicana(o) de Aztlan Students of Caribbean Ancestry The Next Thing
http://www.brown.edU/Administration/Dean_of_the_ColIege/TWC/Latinogrps.html#Somos
Dino Martinez '96 4
Maria Elena Garcia 6
Marcelo Ballve '98 7
Ariel Rodriguez '98 8
Kristalee Guerra '98 9 Louis Mendoza 10 Rene Galvan '99 12
Amparo Gordian '98 14
Malaika Thorne '98 15 Veronica Carbajal '98 16 Maria Domenech and 17 Veronica Carbajal '98
Karen Mejla '97 18 Antonio Alvarez '96 20
Chasity Roberts 21 Dorien Agyapon 22
Diagenris Garcia 23 Karla Nielsen '98 24
Consuelito Medrano '97 26
The Next Thing 29 Maria Isabel Domenech '98 30
Art:
Kim Rivera '99
Karen Mejia '99
Malaika Thorne '98
Malaika Thorne '98
Kim Rivera '99
Kristalee Guerra '98
Oriana Cruz '98
Kristalee Guerra '98
Cover 18 21 25 28 32 32 Back Cover
...|and no. i do not stand here cutting to the dark of light, i do not step into the shadows of empty crowds of empty people; and there is no losing myself in their sea of razor words... where sounds give little comfort because empty people cannot reach me
i run to the darkness, i cut to the light of dark, and with both my hands. open my soul to hear black gods bless me as black drums sing me bomba praises and mambo shouts my name and i bathe in the beauty of their black blinding rain and release the sting of razor words they have no hold on me...
and in the dark, i hold my heart tightly
cuz my mind has already flown to follow conga lines that jump Af-ri-can... with and i move and i move and i cannot stop the move because mambo shouts my name and even my hair bends to the beat; to the beat of black gods on black drums blessing me in black blinding rain and here, in the crystal light of dark, i watch mangos fall around me, the color of my skin, and the coco drips from the tips of my fingers and the sun leans over to kiss my sweet-thick serenade and i. i kiss it back... here in the light of dark. i watch as empty crowds of empty people crawl by in their emptiness to swim in their bright sea of razor words and slashing smiles, their light is midnight.... they have no hold on memy dark is clarity, and i am the drum.... and sometimes black gods will dance mambo
only in the dark....
Una Oracion (a prayer)
when i sleep, stroke me with whispers. while i dream, embrace me with your breath, be sure you breathe deep. come to me dark and warm, and let your voice play secret games with my eyes, they invite the flow of lips and the flutter of a tongue...
let me be touched by peace, as if peace itself sought me for comfort and found in me, rest... let serenity be my lover, laying soft forgiving hands across the nakedness of my pain, kissing the broken skin of yesterday's sorrows.
and may serenity be my lover and peace my close friend.
allow me to know the taste of trust and the scent of my faith, may love be my nourishment, may my hunger never cease...
and let trust be my daily bread and faith my sweet wine...
when i sleep, while i dream, let me be touched and let me be kissed, let me taste and let me smell, and as i lay, i shall bring wine to my lips, sip softly, and drink to my lover and to my close friend.
me agarras el pecho y arrancas mi espina y tuerzes mi lengua y esprimes mi estomago con una sola mirada; me siembras espinas y cosechas limones. y chupas pescado y lames azucar y sal con una sola caricia;
me tuestas en homos y preparas en sartenes y fries en aceite y luego.
El velo de la novia cae entre piedras y cabellos de Aztecas. salpicando las bulganbilias. Yo. camino como en trance recostado junto alrio y permanesco a tu lado aunquejuegues con los alces en las noches de tu vida. Junto al fuego, olor a lena invade mis entranas y surgen recuerdos de cobijas en el helado de la noche sobre tu cuerpo que acuna el mio en la soledad denuestro amor, tomando nieve de mango y besandote en mis suenos de Valle.
Que tiene prisa la vida Que corre y corre, galopeando Arrastradome yo con un pie solo en el estribo primero por pastos verdes esmaltados de rocio despues por tierra duras, obscuras y arenas suavesde desierto
A1 finel mar Aguas de seda, agua fria que me llena los pulmones y me acaricia
Que queda? Un caballo sin jinete mirando el mar con sed baja su gran cabeza pero no le gusta la sal
Caballo negro, ojos de fuego agua verde de mar
"Entonces que me dejan? Una espada oxidada una vida olvidada? Me matan y se rajan que les cuesta? vamos, que les cuesta tengan corazon, tengan alma un poco dejusticiaprefiero una bala que un hachetazo en la cabeza No me dejen para muerto, que avanza el enemigo que son feroces y fuertes con caras pintadas y pinta de salvajes No me dejen para ellos."
El primero en pasa le metio una lanza en la garganta.
Apoyo un pie en la cabeza pelada y blanca y mientras el Gallego gorgoteaba... dio un grito que vacio el bosque de alas.
En este sueno, I find myself surrounded by tall phosphorescent walls, paint cracking and crackling, products of heat and humidity. The sky looms yearsover my head, changing continuously, ceasinglessly in shades of deep mauve, guayaba, amber, and azul vitral like a billion bits of litmus paper scattering in the wet coastal winds. I can smell the resin from a fresh naranja on my finger tips. La sal del mar en mis lagrimas tastes like the sand under my bare feet. Sepia toned people, negros y blancos y mulatos y rubios y triguenos, hybridized populations clinging to long forgotten lineages, reyes and caciques, litter the sidewalks and streets selling their artisanias to tourists, to me.
Time stands still; but I can't tell if it's a function of my dream or just the nature of the island. El Lider parades down el Malecon in a rusted green jeep, decrepit, like him and the people and la tierra. Waving, saluting, shouting, fortificando el pueblo, but what's new? The crowds disperse and lines form, streaming from las panaderias and las bodegas, libretas in hand. So I'm swept up in the human tides and tossed around until some abuela takes pity and stops to talk to me. As kind as she seems, all I notice are her thick, white, open-toe, sandals and the brick red gloss of her aging feet. I don't remember looking at her face; solamente the red of her toes, the navies of her dress, and the aquas of all the atmosphere around her. like she could command the weather with a twirl of her fat body.
- Quien eres? I don't know
- Como te llamas? I don't know
- Eres cubano? Yes... I don't know. Creo que si.
Estoy perdido but I know where 1 am. My grandmother talks to me too. But she lives en Miami with the rest of my familia. I'm lost; even in my dreams, the island can not belong to me. Nauige el mar to run away. Escape, and can t come back. If my mother knew where I was. she'd shout "atrevido" and make me come home.
El hogar. surrounded by the sounds of rain and radio Mambi in the shade of ^a'"" n , eS " a( ^S\ gainvilleas. mired in mangroves. 90 miles ofdisorienn ^ fS ne9rOS - arfOZ hlanco - y bistec empanizado. the national nrrnnd H*L , V ^me how 1 §ot here" Aneet °f P^er boats, la armada deMtam, and a sleeping pill. Ando perdido and solo. wi!h another million brothers and sisters, wading in the salty playas de Varadero and South Beach.
waking warm and sweaty from a nap on grandma's bed (which always smelled of dried soap and rose cream), I would toddle my way to you, you slept in an olive-green recliner covered with a bed sheet paper-thin from wash and blooming faded marigolds, i would clumsily nestle in the crook of your arm and begin to dream again. together, our snores drowned the roaring of the 1972 general electric fan.
many a memory i made there- gumming the gamesa cookies grandma always gave me, watching you leaf through a newspaper you picked from the metal bin aside you...my eyelashes fluttering in and through consciousness.
how safe i was, and warm, i remember your brown, wrinkled skin, leathery from work in the factory, covering my babysoft hands, clammy from holding my teta..
years...
and the sadness i felt two weeks after your heart stopped, finding the empty pepto-bismol bottle you finished at my house, my heart stopped, too.
i cried for you three years after you died, a crazy year that was -junior high- driving me, driving mom crazy...until i felt you hug me, your brown, leathery skin this time protecting my baby-soft spirit, clammy from life without your hands, without your laughter.
sometimes, when i visit grandma's house, i like to sit in your olive-green chair, now covered with a patchy afghan, i lie in the recliner, warm and motherly, with my brother in the crook of my arm. quietly, i remember you to him and, when iclose my eyes...
i can dream again, too.
If life is the stuff which poetry is made of it is violent emotions which provide the painful contractions to the creative force from which new poems are born
if you love without evoking love in return— that is if your loving as loving does not produce reciprocal love; if through a living expression of yourself as a loving person you do not make yourself a loved person, then your love is impotent-a misfortune.-Karl Marx
Like the last leaf of an autumn tree i tenaciously cling to that which holds my world together. Afraid to admit that my world may flutter away into some boundless abandonment of all that has brought me to where i am. Ay Dios mio!
i want to wail to my God who i no longer find it fashionable to believe in, not even indulging in the consolation of private prayers. But i still do penance than acceptable social condition.
my wish to elapse time back to a night wrapped warmly in your arms would re-enact nothing but memory, i cannot change the size and shape of the world you embrace to accommodate my dreams.
that your love is large and soft and tenacious with strong hands and never still mouth is what has carried me to this pen. on this bleak, cold winter's eye where my heart and my head have become a prism of shattered feelings.
i've always been an arsonist (and a plagiarist!)and like sun on a leaf through broken glass my feelings catch fire They are self-destructive, my fingers burn, i watch. I want to make coals and distribute fire. Let these digits be useless. Can my blistered fingers re-do Prometheus' work? Can this love turned to pain learn to be loved again?
Her non-actions says "no" to me: her love runs deep but not wide enough to span the gulf that lies between us, so 1 not so gracefully accept the hand of friendship—again. I will continue to love even while honoring the unnamed terms and boundaries set forth, your name will remain unspoken in these lines i call poems, and i'll accept pain as an integral part of life as i always have Hot to comprehend pain as a part of the logic of our lives? even on the most level of playing fields we cannot plot happiness To live life non-contradictory we must be willing to accept the entire realm of human experience, as Marx said.
And so with the echo of another voice saying "Don't be sad, porque that would be useless, hay mucho trabajo hacer, take those passions and apply them to your works with others so it may radiate outward, take that heat and burn esos politicians que no treat the people right" Once again i push down the violent emotions and turn them into...this?
My actions, like my words, are both soft and rough, but i know my love is powerful
My love is not impotent, if this love can evoke a common spirit between us, and it has shown that it can, i must find a way to unleash it on the world with an uncommon fury that will do it justice, and through it many things will be possible, even love reciprocated.
you have done it again.
the rooms are gorgeous. the floors waxed and glowing. windows, they still need some work.
the meal was wonderful, what would we do without you, Perfecta.
the child needs to be changed, he needs your touch. I'm not feeling too well, myself. Perfecta, dinner needs to be ready now. the garden is radiant, you have that green thumb.
how is your family, we need eggs and milk, and the little one is crying again
of course the day is yours, after all it's Sunday.
mama, how was work?
the house needs to be cleaned m'ijo, the floors must be mopped and scrubbed. the windows washed and lunch needs to be fixed.
mama, i learned to spell my name and i can count to one hundred.
set the table m'ijo and wash your hands. and i colored a dinosaur and... i have to go back now
what would we do without you, Perfecta. the table looked grand and the roast was superb. you even had the crystal and silver sparkling.
eat your rice and beans, and don't play with your food m'ijito.
mama, why do they always call you Perfecta. but grandma calls you Maria?
who a
You are the one with the slippery tongue. the used car salesman. you are the one with Christ on your chest. must be a criminal. you are the one that is accused of lying. they all do. you are the one that settles for the worst. they don't know any better. you are the one with cracked hands. just a farm worker, but i am the one that stands proud at playground, King of the mountain.
i
i am the one that is the color of bronze. like the Indians before. i am the astronomer and the architect, whose legacies have lasted centuries.
i am the one that votes, my voice is heard. or i am the one that speaks your language, English only. am i part of the crowd, another face like the rest. or le Am I the one that speaks his Mind, a Leader?
I've forgotten already what I was meant to say maybe I didn't feel like repeating myself maybe I was just waiting for people to act differently for a chance, and really surprise me but nothing just pretenses and no matter what you say, people are hypocritical you are I am he is she is they are we are they're smiling at you but they don't trust you and why should they they don't know you and by the time ten minutes have gone by they've forgotten about you. We all just want happiness, but I can't remember when we've been formally introduced. We re all just living on that one time in our lives when we've met. Everything else is just some strange dream, nightmare, whatever you want to call itsign language, where you can pick up some of the meaning but you don't understand so you find yourself mimicking the movements and eventually just faking it.
last night's dinner, with your half-eyes tearing, silently, and your words spilling over clearly onto my plate., and me, wanting to be anywhere but there, with you.
or with your eyes softening and searching, and dimming, the whole time I wonder, as my eyes skim over you: i thought tears would be louder than this, and I sit back, as you lean forward, shifting in that half-dinner dance, turning and dodging to the words and the music...
so i tell you:
i slide back to that time, early yesterday/last year, where i am you, asking for the same that i of now won't give (the me i never want to revisit), her, me, (who, would've been you, behind the slammed door so often), was here again, offering up her hands, asking and trying everything, not to ask what you were asking then, and old strings don't fade completely, you know that still, i respond to you so well, but the me of today, embarrassed and awkward, will not meet you straight-faced, and level, with an open heart, with an open mind, or an outstretched hand.
so i seemed right at the time-and i'm sorry now-that my excuses could make up for this learned aversion to vulnerability -that my sudden headache could excuse me from the pain that surrounds you. and before i could stop them, (my muscles turned sore)—the words dribbled out cold: that i didn't know i hurt you; that i didn't mean to see the tears i don't see: that i didn't mean to slowly leave you there soaking in that puddle around you... words leave me purging— you the priest and i the sinner—while the gnawing grows. the understanding that i've placed my heart back in my pocket just in time for this. and that hated insincerity so much envelops me, while i, inturn, lean forward to hold you.
Mejlcanos, Chicanas, Mexican Americans, Gringos, Boricuas, Nuyoricans. Puerto Riquenos. Dominicanas, Colombianos. Cubanas, Salvadorenos, y mas mujeres, hombres heterosexuals, leasbians. gays rich, middle-class, poor blancos, morenas. negros, and the list of divisions doesn't end there, yet we are all covered by same blankets': 'Spies, Hispanos. Latinos. Latinas.
Espanol, Spanglish. English You think we speak the same languages? Translations aren't working anymore because we've forgotten the language of respect, comprension, consideration, apoyo. compromise. We're all too busy screaming Yo. Yo. Yo. sin escuchar.
Are we all hermanos y hermanas? Haven't we all refused to melt?
If we all share the same history and reality of colonization. the same lagrimas de confucion, the same mis-representation. Why don't we recognize each other?
Why are we so busy fighting for the same crumb? Why do we insist on looking each other up instead of looking each other in the eyes?
So don't ask me why or when My poetry will stop being politica because hasta hora, that's been one of the only political weapons of my people
So five, ten. fifteen years after we've all walked through the gates side by side. when your memories get fuzzy and your feet can no longer shuffle to the rhythm of nuestra. mi gente. Will you remember the performances, the poems, the dances. the forums, the vigils, the editorials?
Will you remember when you exercise your privilege, when its your turn to check the ballot bo<. when you are the employer, when you read the headlines, when your children come to you with questions, will you remember? Yo si.
La dificultad de encontrarme, ...come to a voice, my own. mi voz.
Encontrar las palabras con las cuales pueda expresar, with which I can articulate my reality. Where I can hear my thoughts, where nosotras y ustedes puedan escucharnos.
Creciendo y teniendo que regresar to a world donde la poesia es solo un pasatiempo, a hobby. To be kept under lock and key.
No me escondo, I don't hide behind my poetry.
The voice, las palabras en mi posia expresan lo que siento. With them 1express who I am.
No there is no rhyme to my poetry. The rhythm of my words is in my identity. No there are no flowers or hearts in my poetry. With my words I express my reality, my identity. I reaffirm, identify. I communicate.
When you see that at the forums, lecture halls, sections, and gatherings i do not express my words it is because of the fear of being misinterpreted, the fear of getting lost in translation, because I am still transgressing the role that "machismo" in my culture has assigned for me.
Don't try to understand my silence, words that were not pronounced. Remember the words that I know read.
Recuerda la voz que habla con y en cada una de estas palabras. Recuerda mis poemas porque estos manifiestan lo que siento y lo que pienso. Mi ser is my stregth, my voice y mi poesia.
Mi poeta sin nombre... sits at his desk day and night tratando de hablar con los de antes, con los de ayer: Neruda, Machado, Rambo.Dario. Marti, Verlaine
Siempre buscando algo; algo que le de la libertad. Pero parrece que las letras, palabras, oraciones no son suficiente.
Necesita mas.
Como Marti, el tambien necesita...Revolution.
Mi poeta sin nombre... sits at his desk day and night, loading his Magnum 44. Waiting for the day when la isla del encanto calls out his name and commands him to return.
Lo que yo recuerdo de mi infancia:
fiestas, fiestas, fiestas... pero mucha Soledad... mi madre.
mi infancia son unos recuerdos de tiempos muy felices junta a mis padres.
fiestas, fiestas, fiestas... pero mucha Soledad... mi madre.
mi infancia son recuerdos de piiiatas y fiestas, fiestas, fiestas... pero mucha Soledad... mi madre.
mi infancia son recuerdos de juegos en la acera, pasteles de mentiras en el homo imaginario, pero siempre mucha Soledad...mi madre.
mi infancia son recuerdos de un adids, un avidn, y un nuevo lugar en el medio de un sistema solar lejano.... en la iuna... pero siempre mucha soledad...
In this great world of ours, where nothing is certain, some of us are granted the wish to live: An event almost equally as miraculous as the origin of life on this planet. But what is life without action?
We are born into the world and we are bound to die. All material life must decompose; the elements of our bodies must return to their origin.
But before we die, we must live!
To live is to act upon your feelings. And since our lives are like particles of sand in an hour glass, constantly draining into the other half, we must act while we can. So by revealing my feelings for you I am living.
In the sun, I raced my shadow. For when my back faced the sun my shadow was always one step ahead of me. And when my face met the sun's burningrays. my shadow followed closely behind. In darkness, I learned to search for light. For I always knew that ahead of me or behind me a stroke of light would break the darkness. And that is how I learned to seek my own wisdom, And pose a challenge to myself rather than to others.
To live is to act, To act is to
Laying in my bed, head on pillow tears streaming doen like branches on willow.
Silk eyelashes shielding the salty wet. Keeping room for those which haven't fallen yet.
Really don't know when they'll stop but they flow down to the bottom of your chin. Drying and soaking all within.
Tears help you understand things that aren't meant to be.
Sometimes they're not wanted, sometimes they are. And sometimes tears help you heal your scars.
Tears are the untonld stories of the heart. Tears are the things that bring us together not apart.
Ayoung child growing up in Providence, Rhode Island, south side, the "ghetto," searches for a better place. South side is a place where poverty lurks, a place where prejudice, racism, and hatred all take place. Yup. it's a normal place, it's my home. South side, a place where I grew up. a place that makes me feel like the whole world is mine. Just me. myself and 1 Dorien Agyapon: a girl struggling to fit into society, and struggling to reach the many goals she has set for herself. Just me. myself and I trying to survive the many ordeals life has set for me.
My life, exciting and fun, yet sad. Exciting and fun in many ways; for example, at age ten, I had the privilege to go to Africa. I spent my vacation in Ghana, a county in West Africa. A country filled with hunger, violence, and starvation. A country that Igrew to love. Throughout all of the suffering, people in Ghana still try to maintain the peace and that's what I love.
An incident that made me feel sad one time, was when my father moved away. My father moved to Colorado for a year in search of a better job. Like myself, my father was also in search of a better life. He got sick of living in the south side. My father is a very educated man; however, it makes him mad that he can't get a job that pays well. I completely understand where he's coming frombecause if i had earned three masters degrees, I would expect more.
I am a courageous and adventerous person. Am I courageous and adventerous because I challenged the school board to put a new curriculum into the schools? Yup, just me. myself, and I standing up for what I bellieve in. and demanding that multicultural education be introduced in schools. With the help of other children in the program DARE(Direct Action forRights and Equality), our plead will be heard and our curriculum implemented.
There are three people who have helped me very much through the short years of my life. My Mom. Dad and God. 1 love them all very much. I do not know what I would have done without them. My parents have given me the support I needed to get through elementary school with honors. They have alos given me the support to experience new things. My parents have given me a chance to experience going to New York with my peers at DARE. The purpose of me going to New York was to present DARE's multicultural curriculum to other teachers and parents. I thank my parents for letting me go because I enjoyed it and I knew that it was something really important to me. God has also played a big role in my life. The Lord has given me the strenght to get by. dav by day. I pray every night that the Lord allows me to live another day ' I have many interests, like playing basketball, running track, and cooking. Sometimes I cannot do all of the things I like because the programs conflict with each other. snortTm • 7aSf Un3H K l° p y °f ^ SROrtS 1 was interested in because I did not want wanMn h?, ? my ?UdieS" SchOGl iS a veiy imPortant part of my life becuase I catton Pediatnclan when I grow up and nothing else will get me there besides eduis frien^veanHUwStiH ^ °f Providence' ^and. is a place where everyone ilafhint mv h h ?^ I* the g'383 iS green and 1 don t have to worry about slashing my tires when I ride my bike do^ the sidewalk. It's my place my new home I £l7„neWSi"' C07,rd '° my °'d h°USe °n Melrose StrMt - south side of Providence. This is a better place, where I have longed to live.
...DtAgc.nrU (\xrcLX
Sophomore, Classical High SchoolA rage in me burns When I find myself going 'round in turns It consumes my body, mind and soul Like a giant black hole And it is impossible to conceal This anger that I feel It is in the steps I take The words that I make In the tears I've shed Because of the life I've led I've lived life in two different worlds Shaped from two different molds Yet I am only one person Trying to understand life's lessons And to myself explaion That I am not going insane Because the battle in my mind Is tearing me up inside My present clashes with my past And peace within me, I need fast Quisqueya is where my roots are sunk deep Where treasured memories I keep Of a tambora beating day and night And long walks in the day light But Quisqueya is nowhere near My prsent is here In America is where I live now Even though I wish that somehow I could go back to a sunny beach But Quisqueya is so out of reach And leaving here would be so strange I feel like I am in a cage, of unyielding doubt Of having sold out. Locked in by my own undecidedness Of where to find my happiness.
the lip rests best in color tongue and salve retasting como un sol doloroso despulsado por crepuscolo dejando la herida dulce naranja quitado por agua como pulque en taza quema a oscuro en sorbo en pozos de luz los ojos sugiere por las olas surgiend solapa/overlap diente bent in
sunset, a votive desolation syllabic elastic la palabra, penumbra a wick above wax inflects, flickers in flechas indigo dios indigeno in sight is violation
strident summons from the pulpit rows of dent which ebb and tear, break away the bonealtar
remains pitted leaving bare the promontory of control
la frente soltada por dragons of water Somos-24
draught of fire breath ingrains skin filming el pulso por piel sombra golpeada impulso suntuoso dentro azul salado endulzado por pasar entrejada el pretexto de idioma revolves automatic and loaded undermines la boca afilada permeable ink rinds wash ashore in grains ground deep to tunnel sink and steep me
be worse off than me." Aida tried to follow her moth ' ^ , varicose veins. Ay, you will off the pillow, unable to withstand the discomfort In^etw"886^0"' she would kic1, applied thick coats of facial cream ^d bodyto ?T?^^ therapieS'A,da als° would say in response to Aida's protests "hi Bolivia I could «!T- ^ l0ti°n'" she full of wrinkles." In fact, Aida's mom locked about t^ ' aff°rd ll" Now Iook at my face could be found at the top of her forehead a Drodnrt of . yearS y°Unger and her on,y facial crease always held her mother h,,heJiS?°JT"I!*"""W Neve,Mess, Aida wrinkles began to appear, she *** border and foundtempora^)^houshlgtn theblsem AH^ fr
m B°IiV'a Cr°SSed lhe Maribel would answer just about any question Aida™ Id* * b0™'- FUnny' SWCet and vivad°us, boys, but she had never confessed her crushes to anvone A'da had already started uuiocent stories,always sighing and laughing at th/ Manbe' listened attentively to Aida's of or witnesses any sexual behavior All she kne aPPr°Pnate moments. Aida had never heard Maribe, brought the stories to lTby JesSbit herTwn" ^^ * the Aida s basement. 8 er own expenences and enactinglittle dramas in
•SiXtE How doyou know?" A.da ,shod one day. A>da slowly maneuvering her towards thTbed^E^DH Maribe' exPlamed as she stood and faced Herself onto her cousin's bed, "Okay I understand " A 3 °f laughter<Aida ^ng more specific and Maribel had to resort to usin^'l. j greW older Aida'squestions grew explanations. But what Aida enjoyed most of a!l was ^ *°m* household Hems to elaborateher going through the ritual of mak^TaS^ T h 1 ? Maribel get read v for her dates outfit and accessorties. When Maribel was looking frtT?8 ^rOUgh her drawers for the right Aida couldn't help but remember her mother's oreJi , hmshed Product in the full-length mirror, appearance: pants too tight, too muchltaL'uoT dlSaPPr°™g commentson Maribel's lessening her admiration for her cousin Afte fh A Alda accepted these comments but withromantic details. Aida cherished the flaSnfclm **>•"»***™uld relate someof the more °W Aidem°rie , S years later and tender goodbye kisses as shewould as fun and adventurous as it h^ee^through^M^h ?"h ^ S°°n discovered that life was not ZJTAI" her doorsfeP a* they h3in Maribeh nbel s descripHons. No handsome princes g° ~"r""Man"' ShC W0UM "y With a Sly Srin - I'm ready have a family. What do you mean?" Me. a"Kdotesandjokesabou,hers„d,l Tell everyone about 'here ml t , "SISfed on hearing again, was over her aunt's house she heard her complain atT^h b"J""1 Beatriz' 006 <%< when Aida Somo,.26 P 3,n ab°Ut how °f*n her son recieved phone calls
fda neyer understood why Beatriz found that commentso hilarious. AK • , f3 P , reie"e the story about the sP'der Aida had named after her ex-bovfriend to diScovered a sP'det•" Alda's basement "Juan?" "Yes, I named him after Juan." "But he wasn't so ugly..." toes ^ to mrtoSto-ite ™d Waite """ies'° Ca,Ch °n W^le Aida eni07ed sharingsome of her stories with their aunts, there were some thinesshe SET* F°r °ne thln«' Alda bad never released Juan from her thoughts anddreara Hef SflawsTnd there ,USt V3m attrPtu f° C°nVinCe HerSelf °f hlS worthlessness. She could recite all to fees He , C°Uld n0t f°rget WS S°rr0Wful exPressi°ns nor the taste of nnf Shf h 7 k IT smelled, and sounded like the prince of her childhood dreams- she could T'P but cherishhis memories with the same childish naivete. The day Juan firstasked her out spellbound 3 W1^ W°Uld CO"apSe ^ 6XCit6m6nt And when hVfirst feed her shl was spellbound- unable to process any thought beyond her sensations, asclose to bliss as she could ' SETf*" rrr'f5;the day he Prouno d undying devotion, sheclTd not res st thinking how sillyhe looted with his facescrunched into a mock display of passion S£esaw past his thm disguise and felt his weakness and desparation. At that moment she realized he needed' the sheTX "° i KS Se'f"W°rth' f° 3dd mySt6ry 3nd depth t0 his shaIlow interior - She longed for had them Lh T T emotions betrayed her. Her pounding heart and dilated pupils deotteT0™ u W3S mTVe' When in reality She was on]y scaredscared of the en,ua"y'he 8rewtad of her ™bivale"ce Hc <<"».fetell her how^V'^^ °VfrhLeard him Say "she wants someone tofollow her around and vou^e \ VS\ But She has never cr,ed for me' never said' 'PaPi I HUSS you' or '1 need never adm'iTrnl h"6 " Aida was mortified. To some extent he was right. She could her warned he 7 71 ^ but n°l 15603056 she wasselfish - Something ins.de her warned her agianst exprssmg all the emotions he inspired in her. mother he aHhlater ShC diSC0V6red tbe cause of her dist™st. Concerned about Aida's future, her the seeds haSl 'mp antlnS seeds of mistrusf into A.da'scarefree soul. By her sixteenth birthday monTS the 81 > T that """P" on fhe flo-6^ of her innocence. The day shesum- X within^her andI"8' d 777"$ ^ W6pt f°r the P°°r' ^(broken child ithm her and cursed the old, intuitive mised that lurked beneath her soul. Eventually the two opposing forces were reconciled, but Aida never let go of her childhood dreams. the" 1 7 U• L J1" ]9th blrthday- Mar'bel came to wish her cousin a happy birthday By then TZ£:l
Pe baddWind,ed f° 3 mCre f°rmality Fr°m Alda'S P6rSP6Ct-' Mar^eUadfenged anTadvenh A° S" aSSCOC,ate with the ''ghthearted girl that had brought romance lauthir hld hT 7?rP/°°T °f hCr baS6ment She had lost her spunk. Even her contagious WhSA d, H h T SUbStUUted rith an endless succession of sights, followed by "Que grave..." que^^f h 'th3t Mar?d C°nSid6red h6r ChanS6d aS wel1Gone her innocent to sav to each othl ih , SP° 7'^' a"d her unquestioning devotion to her cousin. They had little were both awa f f'm°nth gap between their lasf visit. Ironically, they could find tte si u ?T a" reSpCCt that confinued t0 exist ^tween them, but neither b7akdorthe emotionalbarrier Theywereforcedto useindirect fondness of animals ^ 3 °n6 another; they conveyed their love though their mutual
"Y tu gata, c6mo esta?"
"Se ve linda. Su patita ya se esta sanando... y te cuento que he conseguidoun perro, y los dos se llevan bien..."
"Que
"Ay si,"she signed,"Es grave..." "Take care of your cat could be translated" as "take careof yourself" and "send me a picture ofyour dog" as"keep in touch."
When Maribel left that day, Aida thought of the old days in the basement.She wondered how they had grown apart. "Maribel can't read your thoughts. You need to speak to her," her mother had said to her that night, and then she had added,"las dos estanlocas." She was harsh, but she had the right idea. Aida took out a piece of paper, and began writing.
"Querida, Maribel, no te olvides de tu prima loca..." 'Now we can dream about the past'she thought.
Iadmit it. I'm a total nerd. I mean. I can party with the best of them—and when I start dancing, you better duck for cover or risk losing a body part—but I'd much rather spend time with my close friends in a more intimate setting, laughing and talking and sharing our thoughts over coffee. Besides my penchant for good food, lively conversation, and lifting weights (which I just recently started, so I still retain some measure of enthusiasm), the one thing that makes me happiest is listening to good music—hip hop. funk, folk, and acoustic, you name it and I'm into it. Very into it; I must say, I'm no stranger to dancing around my room, singing at the top of my lungs and checkin' myself out in the mirror (please. I know you do it too). I'm a loud and proud feminist whose deep, dark, hidden secret is adoring testosterone-laden action movies starring Sylvester or Ah-nold. I'm a Chicana/Tejana born and raised in the Lone Star State of Texas, I'm a junior, a dual concentrator in English and Women's Studies, fiercely bisexual, and the next thing you know....
here I am, a queer Colombian Filipino woman, an androgynous spirit. 19 years old. a head that often varies in length and in color, raised in Miami, but I wonder about where I'm from forcefully entrenched in an oh-so religious atmosphere: Carrollton School of the Sacred Heart—private Catholic all-girls school for 14 years...mass every Sunday of my childhood life at St. Augustine's Parish, very restricting at so many times....but now I continue to get further and further away from it. instead, I see more clearly the never ending frustrations that face me because of this confused society, in my own world, this doesn't have to exist, but everyday my mind falls further and further into the abyss. I want to dance freely. I want to dance with women, too. No type in particular, just the right mix of energy. Djimbe drumming, dancing to tribal house, and high energy performance are some of my greatest passions. I am a queer Colombian Filipino woman and the next thing you know....
- Gigi Otalvaro '98
Born in Havana, Cuba, I grew up in Miami, Florida and was raised on the white rice and black beans that my archetypal grandmother can make oh so well even in her sleep, insomniac that she is. I'm a second year student at Brown. I spend too much time whining about my lack of direction and unease about being pre-medish (but then again, who doesn't?) I believe in living and dancing and napping and wandering aimlessly and laughing. Indeed! I don't believe in wasted time. I am a Latino man. I am a gay man. And, the next thing you know...
Mi yo. nosotras. nosotros.
Dos idiomas, two languages. Spanish, ingles. El idioma y nuestra identidad. El tan escuchado y dicho, "You don't have to speak Spanish to be Puerto Rican!" With my Spanish accent I try to say that it is trrue, while I'm translating from, "eso es cierto." I'm not telling you that you are not Puerto Rican!
Don't exclude me because I'm from la Isla. Don't perpetuate the fragmentation and divisiveness that the Yankis have imposed with colonialism and the borders that they have created.
The different experiences of our "Puerto Ricaness" Puerto Ricans from the Island and the mainland los Estados Unidos. Las dos. tierras de los Yankis. The land of the immigrants, to where our people were displaced. The land of the "natives" where the United States presence and americanismo are evident.
Opresion en diferentes dimensiones. Different realities and perceptions of national identity. El esfuerzo de ser "ethnic' in a land where we are classified as the "other."
La lucha. the struggle, la causa. La Isla de y para los puertorriquenos. "Que viva Puerto Rico libre" Un grito de independencia.
Different luchas for la patria. the Island. Puerto Rico "P R " The re-imagined Island that we have lived through the memories wh °U'" Par^"ls and grandparents, que no pudieron volver al San Juan amado. "freedom " V migraron detras de un mejor with their blue ticket
Puertorriqueno, puertorriquena, Boricua, AmeRican NuyoRican. Home, Puerto Rico, a memory. Home within us. "Mama Boriquen me llama, este pais no es el mio. Aqui los ojos no alumbran y aqui me muero de frio."
Let us live our present reality. Let us come together. El frio y el calor nos une. Nuetro deseo de un futuro libre, our rhyrhm, our culture...
This is not a call to further fragment the community, or our identities. But a call for solidarity. Let us not see ourselves as the "others"within our own community. Only by recognizing and sharing our different experiences can we ever strengthen la comunidad, la causa, nuestra representacion, la hermandad.
I am Puerto Rican, a latina and I represent. I have a place and purpose in this institution, in this community, in these communities.
Con mis palabras, con mis voz trato de expresar mi causa y unirme a la de ustedes. I try to express my stength as I attempt to transcend the language barriers. Only to be interpreted as weak, too passionate, too simple. Another weak Puerto Rican who doesn't even have a clue of what it means to grow up Latino/Latina in the United States, Mi expereriencia no es simplista.
Let us hear our voices, let them hear our voices, escuchame, escuchate, escuchanos. Dominican, Ecuadorian, Peruvian, Mexican, Puerto Rican. Latino, Latina. Y cuando te identifiques no olvides that this is the thime and place to come together.
Mi voz, nuestras voces.
