1996-1997

SOMOS

Staff:

Antonio Alvarez; Veronica Carbajal Kristalee Guerra Marlen Lima Box 1871 Tliird World Center Brown University Providence, RI 02912

http://www.lrown.edU/Administration/Dean_of_the_College/TWC/Latinogrps.litml#Somos

Mission Statement Somos 1996-1997

Somos continues to upkold its commitment to tke goals established with its first issue in 1996:

• provide a literary forum for tke appreciation, expression, and presentation of Latin American and Latino culture and identity

• foster tke growth of creativity inherent in tke Latino Culture

• establish a presence as a permanent organization at Brown University Special Thanhs:

University Departments: Office of Affirmative Action Dean of the College Third World Center

Student Organizations: LASO MEChA

Somos is dedicated to those invested in showing that Latinos Are Here.

Somos...

Tabla Del Contenido

Poetry & Fiction:

Elisabeth Casiano '00 1

Dilania Inoa '99 2

Rachel Salguero '97 4

Marlen Lima '98 6

Veronica Carbajal '98 7

Susel Orellana '00 8

Elisabeth Casiano '00 10

Patty Torres 99 12

Blanca Rojas '99 13 Wilson Quesada '98 16 Katrin A. Beinroth '00 17

Rudy Sagastume 00 18

Antonio Alvares 96 19 Wilson Quesada '98 20 Antonio Alvares 96 21

Besenia Rodrigues 00 23

Vida Mia Garcia 97*5 26

Art & Photography

Marlen Lima '98

Susel Orellana 00

Veronica Carbajal '98

cover & drawings 25

Current, thecurrent that ismy personality my ethnicity the familythat mademe whoI am my physical and inner self, my physique, my mind or lacktheir of

the resistors those who make it hard for me to pass the woman indreaded 203 whomade my lifehell she taught me well taught methat not everyoneis out to helpme in fact shewas determined to screw me the girl who repeatedlysays "HiI'm .... what'syour nameagain? you answer politely butare enragedon the inside because hey she'llsay it again tomorrow

the capacitor theenergy buildsupinside it growsuntil Ihave to explode I close theswitch, thebulb goeson the lightgrowsstronger when does thevoltagestop with thestop of my beating heart I suppose

some havean emf stronger than others youknow a stronger personality a strongerheritage not that it makes me bad but Idon't knowwhere I'mfrom remember, Ididn't crossthe border,the bordercrossed me wheredoes that leaveme anyway a true Texan Isuppose,

Santa Ana's dead and gone though Ishould havedied along with my peopleat the hands of Houston why then is theTexas flagso proudly displayed , T e I was bornan Okie,family from who knows where,living thehigh lifem Texas where to next,Providence, a dot on the map

my friends areall back athome in thesafety of the Hispanic community thecommunity who doesn'tneed a language to bond doesn't need a similarheritage,a dance,a skincolor we are all just a part of that community, we areall just Texans, San Antonians to be exact

so remind me then,who am I?

Mi tierra. My nation. My world. My country. My land. My native country. My life. The Dominican Republic. The land of my dreams. My joy. D.R. R.D. La Republica Dominicana.

That land. The land in which I was born. From my beautiful homeland. From my holy homeland. That's where I come from. With pride I cry out to the skies, I am from the Caribbean. I am a mestiza, mulatta, Taina, Dominican, Dominicana, Dominican-American. Hell! Whatever it isyou want to callme. Go ahead! I am still proud. You will not diminish me or my pride by calling me a spic. So what if I speakSpanish. At least I have theluxury to sayI am bilingual. At least I have the luxury to say I speak another language better than I speak English. I can dream in Spanish. Often, Idream about my homeland; my nativecountry. That land to which you have never been, but, you talk about it as a piece of dirt sitting in the Caribbean Sea. I am proud to tell you that I am from there. And, so what? What if I do not feel like speaking in English. What is the original language of the United States, anyways? Is there one? Why don't we speak the languages of the original indigenous tribes of the United States, now called Native Americans? Why don't wespeak the Spanish that the conquistadores spoke when they settled in Florida and all over thesouthwestern United States? If I were you, I would not worry so much. If you keep nagging usabout speakingEnglish, you willupset us. It will be worse foryou. I promise.

I tell you. I can still hear the cry of the drums partying. Assimilation. Americanism. What is that? Is that a Science? Is that a new subject I should be learning about in school? Why should I assimilate? Assimilate to what? To your so-called American culture. Hell with you! I amalso an American. Iam from the Dominican Republic of America. I wasalso bom in the American continent. Do you know what is going on? I know. You are so caught up in owning and knowing everything that you went on and started calling your country, America. As if you were the entire continent. I am an American. An American from Latin America. An American from the Dominican Republic. And, why should I assimilate? Do you know that by assimilating to your so-called American culture I will be performing what is now known as WASPification. Assimilation to the cultureof the White-Anglo-Saxon-Protestants. Why would I want to do that? I already have a culture, a set of beliefs, a way of life; I do not want to change. I can be proudand move my caderas to the merengueand salsa that alwaysplay in my head. Do you know how to dance that kind of music? I can teach you. I am notselfish. I will like to share my culture with you. However, I will not impose it on you; the sameway you try to 'Americanize' me.

I tell you. Many refrains are sung by my brothers and sisters whom live far from their homeland. We do not come to thiscountry because it feels nice to beable to ride in anairplane. We have reasons to come here. Some of us have to escape the politics of our countries. And, I will give you credit. You have done a good job in creating a democratic kind of government. Our nations are stillstruggling to be able to have the luxury to say they have a government for e people and by the people. Some of us have to escape our countries' economic depressions. You are the owner of the economic world. You know it! Our countries' economies can not be compared to yours.

memories make mecry. Every time I remember that I used to live there. I cry. I ay from desperation. Desperation of wanting everything under the sky for my country; my homeland Dios, Patna y Libertad. Above all, God, Nation and Liberty. I was born there. I grew up there. I would like to die there. I would to be buried in ibp c*™ -h n „ T ,, T „„ — - would to be buried in the same sand that watch me pvpjuiin/r er'iJru fr" T . e r fr°m Pain- Pain of knowing I can not offer my people ".w fm8' IHketosin8- I cry. I like to cry. I like tosing and cry. Ilike 3sonS th?t sPnngsfrom my pain and my own tears. I like for you to hear me cry. I wonder if you would ever notice my agony. I wonder if you have ever felt the way Ifeel. walk harefnnilHUfKS' £ k°mel<»nd hurtsme. It hurts notbeing there. It hurts notbeing ableto me ShjffarfnrW .v! ;J? :white and every color ™ the world sand. She hurts me. She sfar and I can not be with her. And, it hurts.

I know how my homelandfeels. She feels remorse. She strikesmy soul when I amgone. And, when I visit her, she cries of joy. She pushed me forth from its roots. But, she has faith in me. She knows that I will never forget where I come from or where I have been. My ancestry, my roots, myculture, my traditions. My homeland sighswhen I am not there. And, Icry. A cry that comes from the pain that arises from not being able to be with her. The land that I was born, I will never forget. It holds my roots and everything I have left behind. My parents, the people responsible for my existence, are there. They were too proud. They were too attached to the homeland. They had to go back and they left me behind. I do not blame them. At their age, I will also go back. Back to where I belong. Is not that what you always say to me? Go back where youbelong! I will,eventually,I will.

As my life goes on, the melancholy continues. The refrains of pain are still sung. And, each night by the light of this American moon I cry. And, every night by the light of that Caribbean moon a country boy sings his song. His song that is a s-o-n. A song of joy of being able to bewho heisand where heis.

I remember my village. About three-hundred people that were somehow related to one another. Mi pueblo. My town. Mi campo. When will I see her scenery again? The rich land. The bluebeaches. The red, yellow, whiteand every colorsand. The green pastures. The white, black and brown faces of my people. Those people that have a past full of sadness. Each street that leads to my village, mi pueblo, has a cry, has a lament. A cry for all her sons and daughters that have opted to move far away. My town has a nostalgia, like the voice of the country boy. His song keeps repeating while I wish I was able to sing it. It flows in my blood. It getsstronger. And, it travelsits way to my heart.

My homeland has a cry. My homeland hasa lament. My home land has a nostalgia.

I will never forget her.

I will never forget my homeland.

I carry her in myemotions; in my thoughts, my being.

I hear her cry...My homeland.

I carry her inside me. The memories live. She flows through my blood...My homeland.

I sing of my homeland, beautiful and holy.

I suffer the pain that's in her soul. Although I am far away, I can fell her. And one day I will return...I know it!

At night,I hear my homeland calling out my name. She tells meshe loves me. She wants me to be with her; to bein her. She did not think I wasever going toleave her. She tells methat I have fallen in love with the new country. She tells me that I have adopted to this life. In her heart, she knows that I will just love her. I will just love to live in her. She feels lonely. She misses all my brothers and sisters that have opted to move away from their homeland. She knows Alejandra, Besenia,Bianka, Claudia,Damaris, Dioseli, Franklin, Frederick,Glenny, Indira, Luis, Kate, Kelli, Ozzy, Siddhartha,Sue, Sulaka, Tirso, Wilson, Vicente, Yesenia, and I will be back. She knows we will beback. And shetells us:

'Your soul will always be mine. You will never erase the memories. You will remember that no one will ever love you the way I do.

You will be back.

I will not try to keep you. But,your lovefor me and my lovefor you tell me that you will be back.

I know you will be back!"

The Harvest

You Jo not have to be where you are from. It is enough that you live in your skin, That you Jream of black sanJ, Of crops singeJ unJer a purple sky.

You will he lighter or Jarker than each relative. You wi II be clumsy in your grandmother's kitchen; Say the wrong things.

It is enough to listen to the colors you have seen there, The simmering landscape, La Llorona, the sobbing one, whom you have never heard. But it is enough sometimes to dream it.

The campesinos burn their fields like tinder, Destroy them so they may replant. A miracle, this game of fire and rebirth.

Two children play a clapping game beyond the fire's glow; Its flames throw shadows on dark skin.

There were others before nowYou do not have to taste the salt of the two oceans they crossed. It is enough to hold them in the present with you; You are everywhere that they have been.

You were there the whole time crying, Shook the sand from your clothes, Traveled the circle and remembered, Reminded by firelight, And that was enough.

Enough that you stepped off the airplane smelling of spice, and smoke, and old leather.

Purple shadows mourned the daylight's passing, Mourned the tunes that you have never heard And the tales you do not own.

It is enough to have heen molded as such, Yet live from the inside out; Harvest the sienna mornings.

It is enough that your shin is a country, Your hody a landscape.

Ok, Salvador el Ingeniero

Escucka mis palabras ok Salvador de la compania Oye mis pasos descalzo

Escucka mi rekeldia silenciosa

Por qu£ no eres tu un Salvador amigo de los ingenieros ni partido de su politica cientifica ni te influencia la propaganda de la modernidad ni est&s en sociedad con los Petroleros Mexicanos

No existe sinceridad en sus discursos de progreso ni en sus declaraciones de prensa

Haklan de la salvaci6n de la kumanidad en sus discursos mientras aumentan la produccion de kidrocarkuros

:

Haklan de la salvacion de la kumanidad en las Conferences de Ecologia y en secreto se preparan para la construccion-destruccion de los espacios sin cemento Sus agendas egoistas no toman en cuenta a ecologistas, indigenistas, retrogradistas ni kumanistas

Sus escritorios estan llenos de planes para una civilizacion muy avanzada y expedientes capitalistas Pero tu me salvaras de sus planes

Haklan con la koca de las excavadoras Sus lenguas afiladas son los serruckos de la destruction... Castigalos ok Salvador de la compania malogra su politica futurfstica confunde el valor del peso impide sus programas de modernization.

A la kora de vivir en la ciudad tu estaras a mi lado tu serds mi refugio el dia que contaminen los rios y el aire puro

Al que no cree en el puente entre el salvajismo y el modemismo ni en sus visiones de la democracia cultural ni en sus campanas de luz artificial tu los amparas Los rodeas con la selva del tropico como con edificios klindados

Sotnos.

Ckicana Studies

9am Rm.204 Curandera

Presentation

Didce Incensio nos alienta La concka nos despierta El kaky esta en el centro Dirijimos nuestras gracias a las cuatro direcciones al altar Y las/los danzantes nos guian

Pero mis pies mi cuerpo mi alma no se acostumkran al sol a la tierra al circulo

Y ellas voltean wkisper to eack otker listen and pusk tke cart witk krooms mops lysol unlock tke kotel room make (our) keds pick up (our) towels wkile we dance for la Raza.

Burst Bubble

I came kere witk eyes open, wide in tbat ignorant bubble of ckildkood tkat sees no flaw

I grew into adolescence kving in your world thinking it was mine.

Poor fool tbat I was, never knowing tbe trutk, refusing to bekeve wkat kad always keen until I keard your vicious, hateful words: spic, wetback, chick, wkore and I cried as my naive bubble burst and reakty came flooding in.

I was born restrained. I will never kve to he free. Your society has marked me woman, worst of all, latino woman. I was born to serve you the white man.

I can close my eyes deafen my ears and pretend tkat this is not so tkat we are all equals and you not my foe.

I can try to fit in; wear your clothes, speak your words, kve by your rules and you might forgive me, forgive me for wkat I am the underdog, the slave, the ignorant slut, the lowest creature on your socioeconomic scab

BUT, wky skould I give in?

Wky skould. I ask your forgiveness?

To do tkis is to die and kve a waking kell. Wky skould I kend my will to please you? Is it a fault to ke a different skade of krown? to kave two x-ckromosomes instead of xy?

YOU say it is. YOU say tkis until you almost enslave my mind and I almost kekeve you BUT I DO NOT, CANNOT BELIEVE.

I RAGE

RAGE against a world tkat denies my identity RAGE against a world tkat denies me my rigkts RAGE against a society tkat lakels me, even from the womk a society wkick says I am destined to fail, tkat I am inferior, tkat all I am good for is kearing ckildren, and tkat my mind is a void tkat cannot ke filled.

My rage does NOTHING. I cannot stop you nor can 2,3, nor 100 people kut EVERY ONE weakens you, skakes tke foundation of your misguided kekefs until, I pray, tke day will come wken YOU will advocate MY rigkts kelp figkt MY war and you ska11 look at ME. Not a kispanic, not a woman, kut finally ME kuman keing, fellow native of tkis eartk.

Texas

the rage huiIds up inside the performers are on stage, why aren't I there who am I? where do I fit in? student? yes runner? yes friend? yes, to some daughter? yes sister? yes Latina? I'm not sure. I think so, hut who will agree

my dad speaks of the rm, the real Mexican so remind me why I still don't speak the native tongue remind me why there is this community and then there is just me remind me why then everyone gets to222gether, I'm the outsider Oh is that the flag of India, no, it's for Mexico I reply they wonder why Texas pride? of course Mexican pride? yes, hut why? her community welcomes me in, why doesn't my own?

the founders would he proud they say, hut would they? it's nothing I would he proud of make the group my own if I initiate, then mayhe I'll he included why the hell do I even care? if they weren't so darn cute, mayhe I could give up where are my priorities anyway

why aren't I in that class, you don't speak Spanish remember oh yeah, I almost forgot, that's right hit me right where it hurts soy Mexicana soy Latina pero no hahlo espanol that sounds like a contradiction, hut when the language starts flowing, what do I do? I translate as fast as I can, they hegin to translate into my native tongue the feeling of inadequacy overwhelms me where did I miss out?

my mother spoke Spanish even before English how did that happen? the culture is there, where is the rest? at Christmas time, we go to midnight mass, eat tamales menudo for New Year's capirotada for Easter mis ahuelos, de donde estan?

estan de los Estados Unidos? no se pero I should know American? Mexican? Italian? I've never heard your last name before, where exactly are you from? hell if I know! it's never been so important before, why is it now? when your day is long and you feel so lost, everybody hurts

lost and hurt, those are the words I've keen searching for that's so dumb though why do I deserve to feel sorry for myself? when did I say, "hey community, include me, please hut then, when did the others do that

am I alone in this are there others that had to work this hard someone please, this is a cry for help can anyone answer all my issues someone must he akle to, hut who, where and most of all why? why help me, what do I have to offer anyway? a lot, I have a lot to offer

My First

As I sit at my desk, tke warm, salty tears run down my ckeeks and onto tke carpet. Tke dorm walls seems to get smaller and smaller as itknk akout tke mistake I kave done. How could you? I stare at you laying on my ked. Your arms are open and are inviting me over for more. You were my first, and undouktedly my last. Tkey said it would not ke tkat kad, kut tkey ked. I wonder if everyone goes tkrougk tkis. Tkinking and tkinking akout tke mistake I did, I put my kead down in skame. Tkrougkout kigk sckool I was konest and pure, tke good student wko was going somewkere. Tke future for my kigksckool, and you know wkat, I did go somewkere. I came kere, to Brown University, land of tke priveleged ckildren, kome of sckolars, and tke next generation of professionaIs. Wkat you did to me was wrong, kave you done tkis to any otker student, I ket you kave, yeak, you always get your way, don't you? Building up tkeir dreams, only to tear tkem down. How many women kave you done tkis too? Wky wasn't I notified of kow kard it would ke. It is not my fault my education was kad. My future as a doctor is gone, my ckance as an konest good working woman is gone. Wkat kave I done? I regret it so muck. But you mislead me into tkinking I was tke one. My insides are turning justing tkinking akout my kopes you diminisked. My keart ackes at tke tkougkt of not ackieving my ckildkood dreams of kecoming a "someone", Dr. Torrez, to you... You are still tkere, your arms are getting longer and longer as I stare at your red self. Ugk! You disgust me! I skall ke tke one, tke one to warn otkers. I need to stop girls from kecoming trapped into your arms. You are tke reason we are negatively portrayed. I will start now, start witk tke women of color, make sure tkey take tke oppposite route I took. For you were my first, and now kecuase of you, my career ckanged. I am no longer pre-med. Just kecause of you I am afraid to kecome involved witk anytking tkat reminds me of you. You really impacted me. How could I kave done tkis, wkat was I tkinking? All is done, kut I will get you kack. Yes, you, my first, MY FIRST FAILING GRADE...MY FIRST BIG RED "F", I will get you kack!

I wisk I was Lome Instead of kere For You to care for me. It's so lonely kere. I need Your comfort. I need Your love.

I wisk You knew I was sick For Your love Would cure anyone. But wken I need YOU THE MOST, You are far away. WHY...WHY...WHY!

It's late I'm still kere Waiting for You Wkere are You? I need You.

Tkey took klood I tell You, Tkey took klood.

Tkey tkougkt I migkt kave mono Wkat crazy fools I kaven't kissed a soul Since I last kissed You.

I'm just sick Very sick Won't You kelp Me!

I must sleep kere tonigkt. I can't go to You To warn You of My troukles.

Next Day I just finisked eating I want to go kome But no, it's too far

..Blanco, Rojas

Tke nurse kere He doesn't kke me Mayke kecause I Didn't sleep kere Last nigkt and I skould kave.

Or is it kecause I am Latina. And He wants me to Go kack to You. Wkere I kelong.

if His looks could Kill, I would ke floating In Your womk.

I guess I'm Sleeping kere tonigkt. Missing You, Loving You, Wisking You, Were kere.

Late Nigkt Wky did He ke akout tke TV? I asked to watck it, He said, "Tke otker room kas it." But tkat's a ke. I can kear it, rigkt kere Towards my left ear.

Tkat's wkere tke kitcken is, Wkere His fat ass is Stationed watcking television. I tell You He doesn't Like me.

He is suck a kar. You see tkat's wky I won't get ketter Because I am kitter Towards many people Him, Lisa, Amy.

The LorJ won't cure me

He made me silent Because of my Help me to have Hatred heart... A voice, Have rights,

But He has made Have a life. Me this hitter

All the comments, Wait, excitement Stares, From within... Punishment, I never I am going home Deserve... In two days, Into Your comfort,

I can hear His lying Love, Words, over, over, Security, And over. Acceptance...

"The television is in the other room, We only have one television, we are What am I going to do, Working on getting some more." When I see You? Am I going to cry?

DAMN LIAR

I can hear him to my left ear

I know I will he happy, hut u Sitting there, he my first reaction? Torturing me, I am going to kiss You Watching the television, eating. And my rights And my freedom.

I'm telling you He doesn't Like me. Waaooo my chest But You love me, right, Has enormous pressure, Right. All this excitement is going I'm going to continue To hlow my chest open. Reading.

This hook is actually

I've keen reading Good, and I want A great hook. To finish it.

The House on Mango St. Then fall asleep By Sandra Cisneros.

Then I'll he

I went to the bathroom One day closer I just confirmed what To the one I I helieve... He's in there watching IT! LOVE

THANK GOD

I'm weak

My fever has left I'm tired My hody But I must continue Reading.

But where's my voice Reading, I can't find it Education, It is lost... Knowledge, Will help me Sotnos.

Defeat Him.

I kave finisked. I was told Ske was a great autkor And ske is WOW.

Her story is True For many Mexicans Suck as myself. But don't ask me Wkat I mean Because I won't tell. I must sleep now.

Wkat am I doing? Lying in ked Trying to sleep, But I kave Run out of sleep time.

Now I just lay in ked Looking out tke window Wondering...(akout You) [feekng kke tke woman in tke Look]

I'm supposed To take anotker pill But He must Be so into tke TV Tkat He forgot akout Tke one He kates And ker medication.

Let Her suffer! Wky skould I kelp Her? Ske is not My Kind!!!

But I won't kotker Him kecause ke'll Make an excuse saying "I know tkat kut it isn't time yet."

Well I'll try to get some More rest Tkat's all I can do is rest

Yet Anotker Day, Morning Time Tke doctor skould come in skortly. Hopefully ske will Allow me to go kome.

I feel a lot ketter. THANK GOD But at tke moment I feel really Drained.

I need sleep, Sleep, witkout tke sickness Sleep.

I can kear tke kirds As I sit on tke steps Waiting for Maria To take me kome. I'M OUT!!!

Now tasks Akead of me To tackle' Catck up in studies, Putting up witk more Hims Recovering...

Tken I go kome Finally seeing You. I LOVE YOU!

title: Untitled

Dejame besar tus labios dorados, Que de tu fuente quiero beber. Y cuando no pueda ya del cansancio, Un vago rocio quiero ser.

Que tu mirada, cuya luz me ciega Y tu sonrisa, cuya voz me embriaga Y tu cuerpo, que aunque quiere se niega, Sean para mi una Julce balada.

Que el azul bronzeado de tu pelo Y el manantial fresco de tu mano Me rozen al pasar por mi pecbo, Me toquen, y me dejen mojados.

Que toque mi alma el cielo Y que el cielo se vista de rojo Como el rojo del mas profundo miedo Miedo de perderte en un espojo.

Dejame llenarme de ti.

No Comere

No comere del espeso Julce de tus labios (me imagino) o de tus tiernos abrazos.

Ni un mordizco de tu piel clarita, ni un saborcito de tus lunares.

Tus rizos no alimentaran mis dedos ambrientos. (basta que tu no me quieras saborear a mi)

Ni una gotita de tu miel, que cae gota a gota (me apeteces) a gota... basta llenarme, embriagarme, (me apeteces) lentamente despertarme a un banquete de nuevos sabores, olores, roces magnificamente inigualables.

La cbispita de felicidad va subiendo, poco a poco.

Mis labios no buscaran los tuyos para besarlos, suaves, y firmes.

No pelare esa sonrisita. No saciare mi apetito con tu fruta. No saciare mi sed por ti.

Jessica

Do you have anyidea how much I hate home? If you only knew. I hate this place. I hate the filthystreets. The specialmanner in which itsdenizens let theirdogs shit all over theplace. I hate how theapartment houses arebuilt directly adjacent to oneanother. Stacked to three stories. I don'tknow what liesaround the corner. All I know is that Sava'smarket is upthe block. I hate the prices there. All I know is this little block on Brooks Street. I know it takes thirty fivesteps from thecorner to get to 107. 107 BrooksStreet, my fucking homeaway from home. Look at it folks, what a piece of shit. Who the fuck would live hereother than the illustriousBravo family? I mean look at it. Look at the rusted orangecolored door. Look at the little diamond shaped window built into it. Isn't it nice the way theair pollution has collected on it,so that when onelooks through it tolook at the outside world theyget a cloudypicture? Or is it the old green paint of the interior? The way in which it chips andsubtly lets its inhabitants realize they're trapped? Look at the wooden steps. Do you see what I see? Someof them are rotting. Go upthe stairs. You will find the restto be the same. I have to stop here on thesecond floor. This is my home,apartment 2. Like I said outsideit's the samething. I hatethesneakers thatdecorate thesky, dangling fromin between telephone wires. This ismy hate, this ismy home. This is thestreet that nurtured me and raised me. This ismy daily torture. Look at these littlekids running by, playing. There Igo off on some imaginativeadventure. I cannever leave here. That's why I likeJessica somuch. Shedoesn't knowany of this nonsense. She doesn't know hate. Not to trust. Not to get closeto someone. Not to lovesomething or laugh without provocation. She knowsof lands Igrew up hearingabout from my mother. Of a place where the peoplesay hi to you on the streetsand where its okay if you sayhi back. When I lookat her Iseeso much. Much more than the pretty face which Ihave come to memorize. Ican seehopein her eyes. My hope. When I talk to her I can hearso much. Much more than thedainty voice that reverberates through the recesses of my mind. I can hearstories of a far off land that exists for so many but not for me. She tells me of her exploits riding horses. People actually ride horses? What's a horse? She mightas well have told methat she ridesa unicorn to make the fairy tale complete.

I hate this place. This placeinside me. I tell you that its likea God given talent that enables meto seethe future. Have you ever felt pain atsomething that has yet to occur? I have. I feel it every timeI seeher with her friends. It's thesame deeppain each time. I seeher laughingand enjoying herself and enjoying life. Then shemakes her way over to me. I can feel the changein her. It's likeshe'sstepping into another world. Into darkness. That's part of the pain. I don't want to see her in darkness. I want to see her radiant light. I want that light near me butit dims the closershe gets. Then I lookat her again, playing with herfriends. This is when it hurts themost. That's notme playing along with her. It can never be me. Immediately my mind runs throughall the possible scenarios between meand her. You see my paincomesfrom these visions. From looking at her I already know the answers. We cannot bebecause I can never be like that. Each time I lookat her I canseeit more clearly. It would not beme,laughing atanything, runningand playing carefree. Even if I could bring myself to changeI would never be accepted.

My pain comesfrom seeingthis, my dream, mynightmare. Ican never achieve my success,and that is quitesimply my happiness. Oh my God this hurts. Through my cloudy window I can seethe muddled world so clearly. So I tell you one last time,I hate this place.

Moon and star

Moon and star, lying flat on a background of dark kues and contrasted by silhouette buildings protruding from tbe evening sky transforming tbe street into a hallway tbat leads nowhere.

Moon and star, are you as barren as you seem?

And if you are, wby do our eyes follow and long to reach you?

Moon and star, in a perfectly clear nigk leave mankind breathless, as static as you are.

Moon and star, bow I wish God would make us klind and slaves to darkness, like Odysseus and bis men to the Cyclops wben they "twirled fire point-hardened timber into his eyes", so we can be happy where we are and not long for what we see but cannot reacb

Una Carta...

Si los pajaros kaklaran Hoy te dirian lo cuanto Pienso en ti. Como segundo tras segundo No logro el korro de tu Imagen en mis sentidos. Como a cada pasar de las nukes oigo el Susurro de tu voz en Mis oidos, murmurando "Te Quiero".

Si la kriza cantara, Serias tu el canto Preferido. Canto que No calla nunca, Canto que alegra mi Alma, cura mis Hermidos, kaciendo Que todo pase.

Si los arkoles rieran, La sonrisa predilecta Seria por ti. Sonrisa fresca como una aurora. Sonrisa clara, que al sol emociona, Alumkrando mi vida si esta oscura.

La verdad es que Te extrano tanto, que Ni los pajaros, ni las Nukes, ni los arkoles Pueden consolarme. Deseo anciosamente Volver a sentir Tu tierno amor, Querida madre.

Oracion a Mi Madre

Pronto el sueno me tomara en sus tiernos brazos y me arruyara suavemente como la cuna donde tantas nockes mi madre me dormia cuando era un bebe.

Mi santa madre que nocke tras nocke, dia tras dia, estuko al pie de la cuna cuidandome con tanta devocion en mis tiempos de enfermedad.

Mi bella madre que tanto rezo y suplico en lagrimas a Dios para que no nos faltara na<k Mi madre que lucko para mantenernos y protejernos cuando mi padre faltara. A esa madre que lleva arrugas, la marca del tiempo, le deko la vida.

Mi madre que apesar de mi ausencia me extiende sus brazos, como en tiempos viejos, me arruya en mis suenos, me arruya en sus brazos.

En mis suenos, en mi mente, koy y siempre mi madre.

Recuerdo a Mi Abuela

Recuerdo a mi abuela con pelo de plata y la piel tan suave como porcelana, aunque bastante arrugada.

Recuerdo a mi abuela en ese viejo jacal que fuera su casa por cetenta anos.

Recuerdo a mi abuela con el molcajete plantado en sus pi preparando un chile picoso con ajo y cebolla.

Recuerdo a mi abuela con el metate en sus manos, moliendo la masa, temprano por la manana.

Recuerdo a mi abuela que siempre al vernos nos llamaba a sus brazos y nos preparaba tacos de chile.

Recuerdo a mi abuela con la cara fija y la mirada triste en el dia de su muerte.

Recuerdo a mi abuela que dejo un vacio en la vida de mi madre, su hija mas pequena.

Recuerdo a mi abuela porque en mi mente guardo los recuerdos, y porque en el fondo, tambien me hace falta.

ernas, Somos.

Even before I knew all the pain she caused my mother, I had strong feelings towards, or shall I say against, my ahuela. That's what I had, an abuela, not an abuelita like most other kids. I always pretended that my abuela was like the little old abuelitas I always saw on the television who spent all day knitting and baking. Instead, she spent all day watching telenovelas and game shows. She did not knit. And she never cooked, much less baked.

My grandmother's days were spent with the at home look on her face, which differed greatly from the in front of visitors look. The woman never smiled unless she had to. She also never had anything polite to say to anyone in the family about anything. Oh, sure she was nice to outsiders, extended family, but even then she usually didn't mean it. They must have thought of her as the most wonderful, kind, giving woman. But we knew better.

When my mother was at work or at school, my grandmother used to pick me and my sisters up from day care and bring us back to her apartment where, on the hottest of days, my thighs would get stuck to the slick plastic on her couches, making it difficult to distinguish whether it was my legs that were sweating or the couches themselves. We all had to stay at her house until Mami arrived. At abuela's house, we could never watch cartoons. We could never play anything fun because she always thought we were making too much noise; it didn't matter if we whispered. We were stuck having to play with those stupid Barbie dolls that never did anything but sit there. The worst was when she tried to cook or comb our hair; she burned everything and she pulled too tight! It seemed like she knew nothing about parenting.

I will never forget the day I first discovered that the woman was crazy. I was eight years old and playing dress-up in her apartment, my titi's room of course. Red pumps so high that I could barely climb into them, my favorite beige silk scarf that would add the perfect grown-up touch, the matching blazer that my aunt never wore because of the missing button. I even added her black hat as a finishing touch. I knew better than to go near the make-up and the earrings that I could see shining on the dresser from the closet, my mother had always made that perfectly clear. Beeeeeetty, ique haces? I am not doing anything, abuela. iPues ven aca! Yes abuela, I am on my way. I went into the living room with its gloomy brown atmosphere and, knowing the exact discomfort that would await me, I unwillingly sat on the couch. What seemed like a few seconds later, she got up with the familiar annoyed look on her face and her eyes told me that she was doing me a favor by allowing me to stay at her house. She went into my aunts bedroom to assess the supposed damage I had done. I sat there. Anxiously. I haven't done anything wrong, bhe has no right to yell at me. Think. Think. What could I have messed up? What could I have done wrong?

She came out and did not say a word. I could not even read the look on her face. Well, it can't be that bad, I mean, if it were, she definitely would have said something. Or maybe it's so serious that she's going to tell Mami first, or worse, papi. The time went by so slowly that the next hour seemed like four. Finally, my Mami arrived, and my grandmother briefed her on the days events. She then looked over at me, her eyes filled with contempt and her voice filled with anger. Your daughter stole thirty-five cents from

me! Wait a minute. Which daughter? How can she say this ahout me? Doesnt she know me at all? Feeling smaller than I had ever felt in my life, I silently wept. How long before I drown in good intentions? When is it ever enough for her? Isn't anything I do right? The idea that my mother could possibly believe her lies hurt like hell. My mother did not respond. Pues, ique esperas? This is your chance. Just go ahead now...Talk. Explain yourself. Make sure she knows the truth ahout you. I couldn't, though. I could not speak. We went to our apartment which was just down the hall. When we got home, my mother did not bring it up and simply asked me what I wanted to eat for dinner. I shut away the sound of her voice. But more importantly, I shut away the sound of my own voice. My tears were still silently streaming down and they began to warm my face.

My Mami joined me in the living room and told me that she knew the truth, that by the look in my eyes, she knew I didn't do it and that my ahuela had done the same thing to her when she was a ckld.

I know that look in your eyes, she said. The look that says, why me?, the look that says, I wish you would just disappear and let me he a kid like everyone else, like the younger kids even though you are only eight years old and especially like the hoys. I know that look because I owned it throughout an entire childhood of silences. Of wishing that she could hear my mumbles and my pensamientos. Of wanting so badly to he like the other eight year olds, your tios and primos. I still own it. I am thirty years old and I have four children of my own hut your ahuela still controls what I can say and what I can't. You think that because I am an adult that I am not my mother's daughter or my husband's wife.

Much like my Mami, I could not speak. I could not defend myself. I had been wellconditioned by the elders in my family. I knew exactly what would have happened to me. My grandmother's expression was indicative of that. My grandmother and all of my elders dictated silence. Age was so revered that children did not have a voice. Often times, we did not even know what we had done wrong, hut we could read the glares which had become so familiar to us throughout our short lives. The glares that told us to quit while we were still far behind. When adults spoke, it was our duty, our obligation to listen. But we could not listen intently enough to seem nosy because everyone knows that children should not he involving themselves in grown-up talk. And for the duration of the grown-up talk, we could not even look at each other, for that would he a show of disrespect. Whatever we thought was too important to he said later was not. In fact, nothing that we could have said would have been important enough that it could not have waited. And if you had an opinion like I always did, you were better off mute for two reasons: either you would he yelled at for mentioning it or no one would even notice that your lips were moving. I could not stop trying, though, for I could see all of the power that their voices were giving them. There I was, eight years old, and my grandmother, with one he, had just as much power over me as she wanted. Thank goodness my mother knew her better than to believe her. But I was powerless. I soon realized that I could not, that I would not spend my life in silence. That I was sick of trying to read glares and tired of guessing whether I could respond to what the grown-ups were saying or if I should not have been listening at all. As soon as I made the decision to he heard, I knew I could not stop trying. At home, I continued trying to speak out,at any expense. For anyone. At school, now that was a separate story.

Somos.

Authentic Mexican Tamales

Two or three Jays prior to Christmas celebrations, soak ahout 150 corn shucks in a tuh of warm water. This makes the shucks more pliahle anJ less susceptible to rips anJ tears when the masa is spreaJ over them. Buy a hog's heaJ at the cameceria; a gooJ price is ahout ten Jollars. Every Christmas the house fills up with gente: aunts anJ uncles, granJmas anJ granJpas, anJ so many cousins you start to lose track of who's relateJ to who anJ how. Beers pop open, guitars are strummed, anJ children race, screaming, underfoot. The sounds of a good Mexican party filter throughout the neighborhood, which obviously went downhill ever since we moved in. Eventually the process begins, and a subtle hut distinct transformation occurs: the men wander outside to drink and smoke while the women form their assembly lines in the kitchen and out into the dining room. There is a strict hierarchy.

Be sure to flush out all remaining mucus in the pig's head by placing it under the faucet and running a stream of hot water through its snout and out its mouth. Wash off any dirt and place it, along with one or two good-sized pork roasts, in a vat of boiling water. Allow the water to boil down to a thick gravy and cook until the roasts are tender and meat is falling off the animal's face in chunks.

It usually takes two to pull the head out of the vat, so Lupe, my grandmother, and my mother would grab the pig's ears and yank to a chorus of "iorale!" and "ino te cayes, mujer!" They were strong women. We sat hack in the corner, waiting to he given directions or, hopefully, assigned to a place in the line of bodies along the dinner table. Everybody took a turn at ripping the flesh from the cheeks and neck, where the meat was so tender. My sister, always the fearless one, never failed to volunteer to poke out the hapless creature's eyes and pluck out its teeth. Lucia approached this job with unbridled zeal, leading my mother to declare that surely her daughter was destined to he a surgeon. Or a vet. We had a lot of hope for Luce. This was her favorite chore until her thirteenth or fourteenth tamalena, when she suddenly decided she was above such menial tasks. Already there were four or five cousins ready to take her place.

After the eyes, teeth, skull, and brain were disposed of (unless, of course, someone happened to he in the mood for the latter delicacy), nimble fingers plucked and pinched and poked their way through the piles of pork in front of them, searching for elusive and deadly hones that might end up hidden in an otherwise perfectly innocuous tamale. The ones from around the neck were the worst. Small and splintery, the proverbial needles, they were. We sat in the corner and waited until our hands grew big enough and smart enough to find the hones. Strip the meat from the hones of the roasts as well. Using your hands, mix everything together. Knead well. Add comino, rosemary, thyme, basil, black pepper, and coriander to taste.

Sotnos.

The men usually walked in ahout tkis time, ostensibly to grab another six-pack or to yell at the game on TV, but we all knew, even us little ones, that they were coming in to make sure we seasoned the meat correctly. "iQue 'stas kaciendo, eb? No pongas tanto pa' que se sale bruto." My father took tbis as bis time to strut around tbe kitcben, peeping over our shoulders and murmuring about bis secret ingredient that we all knew was sage. "Chinga'o, you girls think you know everything, don't you?" he'd say when we let him know tbe sage bad been added in a half hour ago. "That's not even tbe real secret ingredient. I have that stashed away somewhere special." We didn't have tbe heart to tell him tbe menudo mix bad gone in an hour ago.

After tbe spices and tbe meat have been mixed together, return tbe filling back to tbe fire and simmer for thirty minutes, allowing tbe water to boil down three or four times. During tbis time, prepare tbe cooking masa using at least a quart of pure lard for every 50 lbs of raw masa. Knead tbe ground corn, water, and lard together to form a thick paste. Add salt, pepper, and menudo mix. Tbe shucks should be spread out across a large working surface.

I loved working with tbe masa. It was tbe one thing I could do, and do well. There was an artistry to my stroke, my agile forehand backhand wrist maneuvers that spread tbe doughy paste with one fell swoop across tbe insides of tbe corn busks. Tbe trick was even distribution: not too thick, not too thin. The gritty feel of tbe commeal and tbe greasy lard comforted me back in tbe days before I began counting fat grams and calories. As I spread I'd curl my fist around tbe masa and squeeze, feeling it ooze out from in between my fingers. Then I'd pass tbe busk to my aunts or cousins, who would spoon in tbe meat mixture and then close and wrap tbe shuck tightly around its contents.

Tbis would continue for hours, until finally tbe tamales were arranged in concentric circles and steamed, eaten with gusto and lots of cheap beer, and tbe process was completed for another year. "Oye, these are tbe best ones we've made yet!" Every year, tbe same proclamation. It was a great chain of being kind of thing. Makes 12 dozen.