Tag: immigrant

Bachata Pakistaní 

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Les presto el velo,los zapatos imaginarios,
un sueño hecho trapo,
una rica visión prestada,
a los abuelos les presto,
sí,
un hormiguero pakistaní,
una creencia de esas rápidas,
una vitrina al medio mundo,
o el mundo que sea ombligo,
un humo de trampolines,
colores por todas las venas,
puentes que cruzan,
cruzando pueblos y niños,
una corriente,
una bachata que suena linda,
pies,
dulces,
un carrusel de espejos,
entregarme,
dar las gotas ahora,
los pies corriendo,
el Brooklyn Bridge se cose los labios,
corre,
con los pies que te han prestado,
con los sueños de papeles,
no quiero desahogarme 
en el polvo de tu ausencia,
este enredo no quiero colocarlo en un casa de prejuicios,
corran a otro lado con mis abuelos y consejos medio cosidos,
mi bachata que no entiende ni papa pero que les borda la mirada,
quédense
quédense
quédense.

Mujer con Voz 

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I Smell like Victory

2 Comments

6/30

Entre más apuntan con el dedo juzgador, that says que no eres de aquí, from this unfriendly soil, I am more sure of something: nobody else can replace the kindness of my people, those I left between the campo and those that are intertwined in the spiral caña and guaba hair.

#CrónicasParaDescolonizar

Mujer con Voz ©2016

 

photo credit

Never Enough 

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Photo by Leo Rivas

3/30
My story is not fascinating like the ones you are accustomed to write about. I think my story repeats in every household composed of immigrants. The kids learn a new language, the one spoken by the parents disappears, and there is this thing, this loneliness, of belonging to two places at the same time and never being enough for any. I am a map ripped apart that still connects to its river, and even if it goes far in distance, always returns to its origins. 
#CrónicasParaDescolonizar

Mujer con Voz ©2016

 

Jamaica Avenue 

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Photo by José Silva

“The bus left me this morning. It was damn cold. Don’t be. Don’t be fooled by this tin light you see across Jamaica Avenue. I am burning inside, I have the Dominican sun inside me. I survived. I don’t know. No me pregunten. ¡Que se yo! I don’t really know, how can one adapt? How can you pretend you don’t miss a single thing? Your hands are cold, freezing, hard-heartless-cold winter got me this time. I am lying, not only this time… multiple times. There, while waiting for the Q56. In front of everyone, it did not cared a bit. My twelve year old self was desperated. You would be too, if someone would take you away from the bright sun that burns your body while bringing happiness under a tranquil wooden house in the campo. It has mutilado lo que soy, ahora. I told you I was not lying, I was honest from the beginning. I, myself, no longer wait for the MTA to sent me the bus to go somewhere. I persist fighting against a winter that I did not give birth to, holding it like a child, even if it cries and pulled my brown hair, I still have patience to give him love. But this bus, the one I am waiting on, I don’t want to take me anywhere. I want to just go home. I hope, I really hope, with all my mixed heart that the driver have a pilot license, home is far–not here.” —La niña diaspora
F.P.