warrior spirit

i've been calling on all the energias i can think of. praying for him. hermano salva. shot in january under shady circumstance i need to evoke your name so maybe the eyes that pass over this piece slip you into their prayers. left in a state of limbo almost left our world but your spirit holding on and when i see you eyes open trying to mouth words unable to force the sound out of your throat my heart twists imagining my own man-child-sun 20 years from now and what he will endure and i admire yvonne queen-warrior-woomban-mama for all that she has lived, will live with her baby boys. i pray for each of you familia who healed me in my time of need when i naive girl-woman appeared at your front door seeking self. you saw my eyes searching for ground searching for family and you opened your door, welcomed me, fed me, counseled me, taught me the old school art of neighborly love. salva, hermano, man, scholar, inspiration. siga adelante brother and we your community will be here to welcome you back into the world of the living and the ancestors brother will be there to welcome you into their river when it is your time but until then i pray that the bullet that pierced your skull will not take you from us. until then i pray that this coma that you are fighting looses its battle and you emerge to relearn the world. until then i pray.

Huipil

Peace Freshyouth:
I come with a small offering by which you may get to know a little more about who I am. Today, I am 28 years young, daughter of las Americas, and mother to the new world. I am the youngest of three children the only one born in the U.S. I am a mother of two toddlers, Metzonalli and Citlali, my sun and earth, and companera to my love for 9 years. My parents migrated here in 1979 and 1980. My dad came first, determined to provide a better life for my two older brothers and my mom. My mom later followed, overwhelmed by a 25 year civil war that raged in her homeland and threatened her family. I grew up in San Jose, the only Nicaraguan-Guatemalan-Belizean I knew. I graduated from high school in 2001 and went to San Francisco State University where I received a bachelor’s in Social Science with and emphasis in Ethnic Studies. I graduate from SFSU in 2005 and moved to the Boston area for a year to complete a Masters program at Tufts University in Secondary Education History. Nothing in my traditional schooling really prepared me to be in front of you all. The students I’ve worked with for almost 15 years have all shaped who I am as an ally and educator to young people. For the time that you decide to know me you will hear many stories but today I offer two small stories about who I am.
Nothing about my life was normal. Although, at this point I know that normal doesn’t really exist. Normal is made-up. Somebody probably gets paid the big bucks to sit around in a room all day and think up ways to trick us into believing lies. I know they tricked me and sometimes they still do. Sometimes I catch myself believing lies until someone snaps me out of it. Have you ever felt like that? Like the moment everything was starting to make sense it stopped and nothing else was ever the same or at least exactly the same as it was before.
The first time I felt like that was when I was playing outside. I was five years old and it wasn’t often that my mom let me out. She didn’t trust the neighbors. Was weary of the drugged up fathers of friends. Brothers of friends that had curious hands. It was on one of the rare occasions that my friends and I were playing on the corner taking turns on a jump rope. We saw a man stumbling across a grassy area clutching his abdomen his face a mixture of agony and sorrow. Sadly in pain. He didn’t make it to the corner, collapsed onto the ground like a sack of potatoes, let go of his pain and bled on the concrete eyes fixed on the sky seeing himself reflected in the blue opacity above. He was pronounced dead on the scene once the police arrived. I felt sick ran home to get my parents to hide behind the safety of our security door and barred windows. Prayed for myself to leave myself and fly away to a place where safety wasn’t defined by the construction of cages and barriers or violence and fear.
I regularly sat in church with my mom. Shortly, after my mom had me she started studying with Jehovah Witnesses. She was looking for community, isolated now that she’d come to El Norte from Guatemala she wanted to make sure we had some stability in our lives. An alcoholic father is volatile and unpredictable. Church is not. I grew up reading the bible and attending bible study in Spanish. I learned to speak, write, and read in Spanish here. I remember one day I was maybe 9 when I asked my mom why I didn’t have the same privileges as my brother. I yearned to pass out microphones, lead a prayer, or distribute books and magazines. I coveted the independence that they so naively accepted as normal and couldn’t stand the thought of having to sit one more minute quiet, complacent, and invisible. My mothers eyes burned a hole through me, as they often did whenever I challenged G-d, and simply replied “Porque eso dice la biblia”. I’ll never forget that day, not because it was traumatic or painful. It was at most disappointing. But, at that moment I knew I wanted to know more so I’d never have to rely on someone else’s interpretation to define my life.
My childhood was full of secrets. I hid myself often from my family because I never quite fit in. I was always too loud, too curious, too eccentric for those around me. I also hid myself from my friends afraid of the weirdness of my family and mind. I hid my intelligence and often acted as if I knew less than I actually did. I knew by the time I was in high school that I needed an out. I couldn’t come to terms with the life so many of my peers chose. I didn’t want to get baptized, get married, praise Jehovah 3 times a week at church, and follow blindly. I didn’t want to see my dad come home so drunk he had to crawl through the house to get to his room. I couldn’t imagine myself having a baby with a boy from church or the neighborhood my imagination was too wild to be tamed by a man. I had no idea who I’d become but I knew more than anything that I wanted to decide what that was. I wasn’t going to let anyone else choose my path for me. I was going to do something different because anything else would have killed my spirit.
I have many stories to tell. Some small, some gigantic, but all of these stories weave together my huipil. The huipil is the blouse that Maya women wear. It is an intricate story of their lives, identities, communities, each color, each symbol, each stitch represents a part of their universe. When the Maya woman puts on the huipil it symbolizes their position at the center of the cosmos as creator and keeper of the stories, of life. I sometimes wear a huipil as a reminder to myself to take my place, to tell my stories, to (re)create my universe. I always keep my huipil within adding with each of you a new stitch, a new story, a new symbol. I thank you for being here and for trusting me enough to let me into your lives. I am humbled by your stories and look forward to hearing them as we start a new journey together this year that may or may not last a life time but will definitely (re)shape both our worlds as we know them.

Ashé,
Mama Alaghom

Ashé

They're sleeping quietly in the next room. Citlali, nestled in the top bunk, bold bright daughter, surrounded by her brown baby dolls and toy trains. Sleeping off an exhausting day of chasing brothers, sassy poses and intricate reorganizing of her and her brothers toys. Metzonali, sound asleep in the bottom bunk, head tilted, lips slightly parted, blanket clutched, my sun lightly drooling away his day. A day filled with climbing, pedaling, and storytelling. Not to mention convincing his grandmother to chase after him playing "Mama Dinosaur". I think of them, knowing they are safe, knowing that I can tip toe into their room, interrupt their dreams with kisses and caresses, linger in their scent and memorize the gentleness in their faces. I can look forward to tomorrow, their voices interrupting my morning routine, trying to sync with me. Asking me what is in store for them today. Where will they go? Who will they see? I know what to expect, know that everyday very little changes but changes nevertheless. But tonight, a mother contemplates life never being able to feel her childs warmth. Feel their living being. En paz descanse Carlos Fernandez Nava.

http://www.insidebayarea.com/oaklandtribune/localnews/ci_18640007?source=rss

“even though we go hungry we are not impoverished of experiences.”
– Nellie Wong

I believe television creates a schizophrenic database of memories. Not long ago as I reminisced and thought about how I reconstruct the past, I decided television lets us live vicariously through sitcoms. I watched entirely too much television growing up. I also read obsessively when someone else had control of the remote. I explored new worlds that countered my reality, countered my father’s alcoholism, the long hours my mother worked, the helicopter flying overhead at night. We have imagined childhoods or ideas of what childhood should be. We see Radio Flyers, backyards, bicycles, heated homes, paved streets, and lawns. These images we internalize watching television. This pseudo-nostalgia, a feeling of longing for a past we never experienced, is an ailment we acquire as we age. We long for a romanticized past of what our realties may have never been. Some of us acknowledge the nostalgia, see it for what it is, a way to cope with our realities and our pasts attempting to avoid the pain.

Seventrees is the name of my barrio, just another Sal Si Puedes, get out if you can. It was the kind of place outsiders only came to visit if they knew someone. People are still resistant to drive through Seventrees because of its history. Seventrees was nestled on the border of the south side and the east side. In a space where I argue accumulated the intense energies and conflicts of San José. The east side was traditionally Xicano. The south side traditionally White. We in between were an array of shades of earth. A mix of the continents and histories of colonization all pushed into a neighborhood that neither side wanted to claim. The people of Seventrees were poor, like most people of color in San José. To continue to exist, to remain sane we learned to adapt in the most instinctive ways. The children of Seventrees were especially adept at this art. We played house in cardboard boxes and saved mattresses, tires, and bike parts from the garbage so that we could have trapezes, swings, and bike replacements.

I think back affectionately to my childhood but I realize that I’ve romanticized so much. In the phases of my life, I see the cycles. I find myself returning to Seventrees mentally, sometimes physically to walk the concrete I shared life with. The swings I shared cuts, scrapes and bruises with. The monkey bars I shared calluses with. I remember how elementary school was still safe. It was still okay to play with the little brothers and sisters of Sureños. In middle school you crossed the threshold of adolescence and for us it meant ignoring the neighbor you use to play and eat dirt with. It also meant danger. It meant making sure you weren’t ever caught walking alone with no way to defend yourself. I learned to carry a flashlight at night, the kind pigs carry. A blow from one of those in the right place and you had enough time to run, because most of the time you didn’t want to fight. Fighting always led to more fighting. Now, as a young woman I long to return to the innocence of adolescence. Return to when time still passed slowly, time like the summer.

I loved the summer. I close my eyes and can recall how my body felt when it was too hot to be inside at night. We would sit in front of our homes on patches of grass and fan ourselves with newspapers, dollar-store fans, and our hands while we listened to Tierra, El Chicano, Sly & the Family Stone, Al Green, Roberta Flack, and Rose Royce. Dreams of you and I go sailing by whenever your eyes meet mine . We’d swat at mosquitoes when they’d sing into our ears or sucked on our flesh. Streetlights provided us with just enough light to see each other’s sweat gleaming off our skin. Throughout the night quiet breezes would scatter the smell of smoke sessions happening behind bushes and around corners.

No one had lawn furniture. Seventrees Village was a townhouse community; streets didn’t go all the way through they were abruptly cut off by the park or alleys. The best way to get around was on foot or on bikes. The structures were beige with brown trim; the homes had two, three, and four bedrooms. The garages were in the back so the homes faced each other and were separated by sidewalk and patches of grass. Single-family townhouses with multiple family occupancies, Seventrees made you feel like you were never alone. We learned how to live with each other’s sounds and smells. Family fights, love making, cooking, birthday parties. There were hardly ever one home events; the whole block partook in the drama. I grew up hearing Mexican Spanish, Hindi, Vietnamese, Arabic and Black and Xicano English in addition to the Central American mix of Spanish in my home.

We sat on rooftops or at the park when we wanted to get away from the grown folks. There we could sneak in hand holding and innocent kisses but only for a little while because someone would always come looking for you. Recalling nights like these, before loveless sex, before laptops, before twenty page papers, I let out a sigh. I inhale deeply trying to hold on to the memories in each breath.

After All This is Nueva York

One of the many stories I have about my mom... Completely true well, I may have gotten the name of the wrestler wrong but I know it had to do with Taino something or other. How I met him is another story.

-mama alaghom

“I love you!” my mom screamed as she stood next to him on stage. Her voice muffled by the band that accompanied his crooning voice. “I love you too” I saw him mouth to her as security guards gently guided her away.

It was her first time in New York City, mine too, but I’d been there for two weeks enjoying the first summer I hadn’t worked since I was 14. Now I was 22, grown and sexy, thriving off of everything a New York summer had to offer, a Fela Kuti dance party, Toni Morrison reading from Paradise in Central Park, and a crush on a Puerto Rican wrestler whose stage name was Taino Crusher. I could have never guessed that my mother would be what truly made that summer memorable.

By the time she came I was starving for the rolling green and brown hills of the Bay Area. Tired of the concrete edifices that penetrated the sky. Home sick for the comfort of tamales on street corners and corner stores that sold liquor. When my mom arrived her eyes lit 5th avenue on fire. Ablaze with the possibilities New York had to offer, shopping, shopping, and shopping. But she soon wanted to experience the nightlife hungry for the stories she had heard of pulsating salsa clubs where the singers of her youth continued to “rock the mic”. So, when we heard of Fania’s appearance at a New Jersey club she was determined. I had to convince her it was a bad idea for the two of us, wide-eyed and naïve Californios to venture into the New Jersey wastelands. Venture outside of Manhattan to a club even if they were the legendary Fania. Ponchada (defeated), she agreed.

“Pero mija, tenemos que salir por lo menos una vez, afterall this is Nueva York, we have to go out”. I knew she deserved a night out. Still high from the end of a 30 year marriage she fiend for a slither of the world she’d lost in her youth. There was a salsa club within walking distance of our hotel, the Copacabana. There, Jose El Canario Alberto would be performing with a special guest. I knew this would be a good enough fix for my mom that night and looked forward to spending time with her in a way I never had before. We got dolled up and started our trek down dark Manhattan streets in search of my mom’s youth. When we arrived I was blown away by the size for the club. Never having seen a salsa club so enormous and ripping at the seams with people.

We entered and I was transported to the hot sweaty clubs of a patria I’ve never known, filled with fellow tight rope walkers of the Diaspora ready to celebrate the union of European instruments with African percussion and rhythms. My mom and I headed for the bar ready to quench our thirst for music, movement, and libations. I opted for a Long Island Iced Tea cause well, we were in New York and well, it was the most “bang for our buck”. My mami entranced by the environment didn’t think twice when she began sipping on this brew.

Slowly she let her guard down, let herself live in the moment as men asked her to sashay and step away their worries to the ta-ta-ta-tata of the clave. Her face bright with the innocence and newness of the experience made me envy how free she felt as she twirled her way into a new phase of her life. Then, the legendary Dominican vocalist, El Canario, took the stage. His voice truly encompassing his apodo, he sang with the elegance of a bird and soon the club was pumping with his hypnotizing call. We had moved our way to the front of the crowd, close enough to the stage to see the pellets of sweat starting to form on El Canario’s brow. With growing anticipation at who the mystery guest would be we continued sipping on our Long Island and moving with the crowd. I, on the periphery, self-conscious daughter of a wild woman, watching children of the Americas play with the complex identities we’ve inherited. Shades of brown a whirlwind around me moving with the grace of waters and prowess of jaguars.

El Canario performed his set, his accompanying band feeling the magnetic force of his voice and the audience. Then, El Sonero del Mundo made his way up the side of the stage and my mom, invoking her inner 16 year old, let out a scream that a Beatles fan would be jealous of. I’m not exactly sure how it happened. I wish I could give you the play by play of how she did it. It may have been that the Long Island had me more mesmerized then I’d believed but all I saw was a petite blur of white mount the stage. Determined to not let this opportunity pass her by my mother, all 4’10 of her 46-year-old frame, was standing face to face with Oscar d’Leon. Handsome, bald headed, Venezuelan brotha who she’d sashayed with in her fantasies since 1975. Quickly, two suits darted towards her ready to grab her as she salsa’d with Oscar for a few seconds. For the few seconds where she was able tell this stranger she loved him and he returned the affection. She strutted off stage like a beauty queen and I could only stare.

We walked back to the hotel mostly in silence. Our heels tapping away the night, tapping away the intoxicating mix of vodka, tequila, rum, gin, and triple sec in the iced tea, tapping away the moment where time froze and I saw my mom as a woman and all I could manage to say was, “Mom, I can’t take you anywhere”.

Letter to

Dear Itzel,

When I tell you to write its because I’m secretly asking myself to. I see the way you weave together words and stories and I sit in quiet awe. Hoping to hold on to a piece of your being with each word you put on paper.

I began writing for myself when I was your age. I often invoked the memories of my childhood to inspire my pen. I called up the dark secrets, playful moments, and teenage angst that I was experiencing and put it on paper. As honestly and wholly as you do now.

I played with words. Tried to manipulate their meaning asked them to dance around ideas and implicitly hint at explicit thoughts. I still try to do that now, only I don’t write them down as often, I let them disappear into the universe and imagine myself one day reaching up into the cosmos for them. Reaching up to catch those shooting stars of words, moments, and raw emotions.

I stopped writing for myself a long time ago. Started writing for grades, and titles, and tests. Lost my hands in the process. Lost my weapons with which I offered to the world that which is only uniquely me.

I am writing again today. Writing to remember. Writing to exist. Writing so that when I speak to you, when I’m asking you to write, I’m doing so because I’m also holding on to my own being.

In Solidarity,
Mama Alaghom