Writing Truths

I had a great evening with my sister, son, and husband. Gathered at the dinner table our conversation led us to the indigenous languages of Nahuatl, Yacutec Maya, and Purépecha. We candidly spoke about what it's like when you're American and one of your parents was born on foreign soil, what that means as far as identity and connection and how people treat you differently on both turfs even though either will go to great lengths to prove otherwise. 

We spoke of travel, education, and culture.  My son worked on his mathematics and reading homework.  We asked him if he learned about Columbus.  He said he had learned a bit about Columbus, but the teachers were sure to tell him that Columbus did not discover America.  A fact that I was proud was being taught to my fifth grader.  This could also be respective to the area in Texas where we reside.

It was a beautiful evening as we wrapped up the conversation and the laughter when we took it outside to water the matas (plants).  It reminded me of being at my grandmothers.  How each evening we'd spend long hours at her home and she'd take us outside in one sweeping gesture so that she could water her dear plants.  The conversation always turned lighthearted and carefree as she spoke about different plants and different animals that attacked her plants.  

I found myself in a pleasant déjà vu last night.  I am becoming the matriarch in small and careful steps as God wills it.  Stories continue to riddle my lips and l find it is my duty to keep these stories alive in the best way I know how, speaking and writing my truth.  

Author Talk: Yuyi Morales

Last night, with a group of friends, we attended an author talk at my Alma Mater - University of Texas at San Antonio.  We heard Yuyi Morales speak on the power of  story in the landscape of memory. Her illustrations were breathtaking as was learning about her process and her story of immigrating to the United States.

The special way she crafted each of her drawings and puppets for her book, Viva Frida, was inspiring.  To be honest, I did not know who she was.  My friend from England, Claire, was in town visiting and invited me to the talk.

I walked up to the table of books beforehand and immediately took notice of Harvesting Hope.  I own that book!  I purchased it for my son when it first came out. My heart was joyous at the occasion.

We ended our evening at MadHatters Tea in Southtown, San Antonio, Texas.  MadHatters is one of my favorite places to drink tea.  We laughed, convened about writers group, talked about academics, life, and fun. We each added a few other people into our orbits and I could not be happier about it.


If you have a chance to pick up a book illustrated by Yuyi, I recommend that you do.

Martín

God fed many with one loaf and we throw away so many

As we bite off compassion and chew it until it is soggy with deprivation 

Take it out to the curb, a Tuesday morning stop

Martín stands still down the block, waiting for the green can to make it back down

Droppings of carnita and scraps from Thanksgiving 

Will be married to the corners when he opens the lid

His memory coils itself around a distant memory in Querétaro, México

When his family picked fruit for ten dollars a day

Para los Americanos

Coming to America he longed for tables adorned in food

And a job to shield his head from God

Here he stands exposed like a babe at birth

Hungry, tired, no way to communicate

Asi nacemos

This is how we are born

An American dream cut into him and encased him with his own blood

Martín places his hand on his chest, lifts his head to the sky

His throat hallowed like the tunnels we leave behind in countries we dare to invade

Ya no

Ya no

Martín closes his eyes

His mother's rebozo wraps him tightly as he lies down ready to eat

To never be hungry again

 

 

*This poem is a response to the farmworkers on strike in Baja California as they march for 15 miles fighting for more than $10 a day*

 

Cuarenta y Tres - A Prayer for Ayotzinapa

La cuarenta y tres vez que

Se escribe el nombre de Abram

En la escritura de Dios

Diosito le dio posesión

de la tierra Canaán

La tierra prometida

Que Dios este con sus madres

borrowed from vice.com

Abel García Hernández, Abelardo Vázquez Periten, Adán Abrajan de la Cruz, Alexander Mora Venancio, Antonio Santana Maestro, Benjamín Ascencio Bautista, Carlos Iván Ramírez Villarreal, Carlos Lorenzo Hernández Muñoz, César Manuel González Hernández, Christian Alfonso Rodríguez Telumbre, Christian Tomás Colón Garnica, Cutberto Ortiz Ramos, Dorian González Parral, Emiliano Alen Gaspar de la Cruz, Everardo Rodríguez Bello, Felipe Arnulfo Rosas, Giovanni Galindes Guerrero, Israel Caballero Sánchez, Israel Jacinto Lugardo, Jesús Jovany Rodríguez Tlatempa, Jonás Trujillo González, Jorge Álvarez Nava, Jorge Aníbal Cruz Mendoza, Jorge Antonio Tizapa Legideño, Jorge Luis González Parral, José Ángel Campos Cantor, José Ángel Navarrete González, José Eduardo Bartolo Tlatempa, José Luis Luna Torres, Joshvani Guerrero de la Cruz, Julio César López Patolzin, Julio César Ramírez Nava, Leonel Castro Abarca, Luis Ángel Abarca Carrillo, Luis Ángel Francisco Arzola, Magdaleno Rubén Lauro Villegas, Marcial Pablo Baranda, Marco Antonio Gómez Molina, Martín Getsemany Sánchez García, Mauricio Ortega Valerio, Miguel Ángel Hernández Martínez, Miguel Ángel Mendoza Zacarías, Saúl Bruno García

Que La Virgen los guarde

Que La Virgencita los guarde

Nos quitan a nuestros hombres

Para que la nación se quede sin padres

Pero Dios es el padre de todas las naciónes

Primero Dios

Luchamos desde el nacimiento de nuestros hijos

Hasta la muerte luchamos

Siguen luchando, manos arriba, ojos arriba

Primero Dios

Vivos los queremos!

borrowed from weheartit.com 

Southern Sunny California

Southern California is unlike any place I've been.  It is both laid back and upscale all in one neatly packaged box sealed with an organza ribbon.  It is neither silk nor cotton, but all the materials in between.  It's like knitting with alpaca or American bison.  You don't dare knit any old thing.  You take great care to create something beautiful and everlasting.  San Diego is a painting.  Everything in it, including its vagabonds, is painted so perfectly that nothing is ever out of its place.  Skateboarders are not banned from sidewalks; they are welcomed.  A skateboard is another form of transportation here.  It appears that not even the rust on parking poles is out of place.

© Carolina Hinojosa, 2015

The artwork has become a permanent fixture as are the imported palm trees.  None are native to California.  You wouldn't know that unless you talked to a local.  Each and every palm tree is from somewhere else reminiscent of the immigrants that were brought here to adorn the cities filling them with tall prosperity.

Our Silences - Monumental Installation 
© Carolina Hinojosa, 2015

Casual strolls along the beach allow you to partake in the artwork and also to displace you from reality.  It's like knowing that catastrophe is on the horizon, but you're allowed to sit in a glass case while it all happens around you and not to you.  It opens dialogue within you.  "Our Silences" created by Rivelino, born in Jalisco, Mexico, tears open a door and a conversation that questions our idea of self-censorship and freedom of speech.  It is located within a 5 minute walk of an aircraft carrier.  Appropriately (or not) military choppers constantly fly over the area.

© Carolina Hinojosa, 2015

I'm convinced that a different sun shines on the people of California.  A cool breeze sifts through flirting with every head of hair it encounters. The seagulls fly overhead and never seem to leave droppings during their casual appearances.  Bright red trollies scatter people throughout the city where they retreat into their apartments above noodle shops and theaters.  Here life is not fast or it doesn't appear that way.   Vinyl stores are filled with over priced records and bookstores are gems you find neglected in classy outdoor malls.

© Carolina Hinojosa, 2015

We are an hour outside of Mexico and you would never know it after three days of wandering through streets, over bridges and through the Gaslamp Quarter.  It is the goody two shoes stepbrother of Austin, Texas and a very clean version of Manhattan, New York.

© Carolina Hinojosa, 2015

Don't get me wrong.  San Diego is a beautiful place to visit, but a very interesting place to ponder.  There is life here, but it feels as though each person is living in their own world and you might accidentally walk passed someone named Mike that is from Detroit who had to leave home a few short months ago because living in his neighborhood was far more dangerous than anyone of us could imagine.  Those are the stories that you accidentally miss when you walk around San Diego.  It's like living in a painting.  Beautiful to others, but crying out with stories waiting to be told, muffled in a glass menagerie.  Who will open the door and pull out a figurine unafraid to break it?  Who is going to tell those stories?

Un Regalo De Lengua

Te regalo mi lengua

So that you can use it

On Thanksgiving

Te regalo mi lengua

So that you can wear it

Like a pearl necklace

Bien fancy como la tia Lourdes

Vieja boracha

I give you my tongue

So that you can charm the snakes

And hide them in your maletas

I give you my tongue

So that you can tell people our stories

That are buried in that tomb of a throat