From August, 2013

Come on Bro, is our turn.

“In the struggle to give voice to our experiences, working class -people of color encounter multiple mechanisms to silence us. More particularly, we encounter silencing when our voices speak of resistance to injustice- both against ourselves and our peoples. And yet, colonization is the historical legacy that continues to haunt us, even today. The ability to effectively promote justice requires vigilance so that we may immunize ourselves against the paralysis that comes from being silenced.” Teresa Cordova. We have been silenced. Yeah I am kind of aggressive. I have notice that my aggressiveness comes out of the history of women…

Escribir

Escribir Es para vaciar mi corazón Escribir es como aprendí a vivir sin ti Por que me acostumbre a no sentir a escribir lo que sentía dentro de mí para ya no sentirte a ti Y resultó que aprendí a vivir sin ti Me gusto. 

Damned Ignorance

They peddle the documentary DVDs like political leaflets, presenting them proudly as they solicit support and monetary contributions for the cause. They are vending a symbol of gender subjugation; a film that is stained with allegations of sexual assault; assertions that were muffled; claims that were minimized; and cries that were choked in the name of the cause. They have contaminated the cause and have even attempted to hijack it. Damned Ignorance! Does the end justify the means? No, not here! The cause. We were all clear about our cause. It was wrapped around keeping our precious Mexican American Studies…

Letter to My Former Teachers

I make the mistake sometimes, as many people do, of putting people I look up to on a moral pedestal. While I was a student in the Mexican-American studies classes I was in awe of my teachers. They were my social justice rock stars. I believed that they would always be defenders of justice and protectors of humanity. They told me at every opportunity how important it was to stand on the side of people, not profit or ego. Yet, as I write this there is a Mexican-American Studies (MAS) teacher promoting Precious Knowledge somewhere. It is difficult for me…

We Will Not Be Sacrificial Lambs, No More

I will always tell her, “Look deep inside yourself.” It is still in you- that light, that fire. Something which you once felt burned out and you would never be able to find again. Feeling you’ll always carry that banner over your head of what has happened to you. I will never let anyone blame your drinking for the cause of this. What a man did, with his actions, his decisions, and his intentions. You were there to celebrate and spread love. He was there to own for the night, a pretty little trinket to claim all his own, behind…

TO THE STRAIGHT GIRLS AT OUR BAR: A LETTER FROM THE GAYS (PLEASE STOP SHRIEKING)

“we LOVE the gays!” this isn’t even what it’s about. the point is we’re so lonely we’ve taken to fucking and falling in love with drug dealers or no one or other peoples’ husbands, taken to single lifestyles and breakups and independence, to drinking and to pretty words and to humoring people like you as if these are our callings, as if love is not the one thing we want for and hurt, quiet and heavy and hard— as if love is not the one thing forgotten here. the point is our homes were the graves of the feelings we…

Mi Niño Llora

 Cuando el niño llora, las mamas arrancan Su madre, su tia, su prima su abuela Todas corren hacia el Casi no llora pero cuando pega el llanto ahi estan Llora por juguetes Quiere una mamila no haya su chupon Es un niño hermoso   Ahora el niño llora pero no se ve Agarra lo que encuentra y pega el brinco Las mamas lo corren no saben ya que hacer Su madre, su tia, su prima, su abuela Quisieran entender Llora por su droga Quiere su familia No alla la salida Es mi niño hermoso   Dime mi niño que es…

Seeds of Struggle

The seeds of my struggle were planted well before I was. They were planted when my 8-year old mother was running from the fists of her mother, and was too busy protecting her 2, 4, and 6-year old siblings to have the time to learn to read. They were planted when my father had to flee his country alongside thousands of others, in a tiny wooden boat, floating on hopes and dreams. They were planted when my parents, who felt the hunger pains of poverty as children, protected me from those pains with $1.99 Happy Meals, daily, as a kid.…

Form I-918A

A girl carrying her rapist’s baby stands in the center of a swirl of paper to get papers. “Fill this out.” “Tell us again.” “Justify your body.” “Justify your sex.” “Justify yourself.” As though the hammering of his fists on her spirit was a grand visa conspiracy. She wraps her arms around herself, protecting her daughter from knowing that the paper to get papers will come with the proof that the rapist is a citizen which makes her legitimate. The papers for protection The papers for support The papers to feed children The papers to pay bills come from showing…