Enseñanzas Full

“En este país/barrio/apartamento/bajo mundo/ y mundo con mal olor aprendí muchas cosas, como por ejemplo; la vecina del apartamento 5G no es maga, pero sabe barajar sus vainas, los trapos colgados en las ventanas no son invitaciones para ir a comer, no se sabe cuál es más peligroso si el elevador león o la escaleras que se vuelven basureros y sitio de encuentros, que la puerta del frente no se habré con las manos (a menos que te guste el sucio), que esos aires acondicionados que observas desde lejos la mayoría son de lujo, que nadie conoce a nadie, que nadie es tu pana, que no puedes detenerte al admirar el sol, que si miras mucho te comen como chicharrón, que la gente te tiene en la mira, que no se te ocurra decir que aquí hay más que una caja de cartón con miles de cuadros de cristal, que este edificio es una solución que no soluciona, que hay de to’ y para todos, y que si te portas bien tal vez… quizás… no te llenan tu puerta de grafiti con malas palabras.” 
 

“In this country/neighborhood /apartment/ underworld / and world with bad smell I learned many things, for example; the neighbor from apartment 5G is not a magician, but she knows how shuffle her things, that the rags hung in windows are not invitations to come in for dinner, I am not sure what is more dangerous if the lion elevator or the stairs that become landfills and encounters spots, that you cannot open the front door with your hands (unless you like dirt), that those air conditioners that you watch from afar most are just for decoration, that no one knows anyone, nobody is your homie, you cannot stop to admire the sun, that if you look too much you’ll be eaten as a pork, that people will targeted you, that you cannot even think to speak up about how here there is more than a cardboard box with thousands of glass pictures, that this building is a solution that does not solve, that it has everything for all, and that if you behave maybe… maybe…  they  will not fill your door of graffiti with bad words.”

Mujer con Voz  © 2016

Get your signed copy of my poetry book that is in English, Spanish, and Spanglish ‘Para Cenar Habrá Nostalgia’ (which the title is translated to “For Dinner Nostalgia’) here or on Amazon. Thanks! 

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I Smell like Victory

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

Survival

5/30

 
To the mothers who give their kids names of Central American Rivers, dreams, adding extra letters… extra authenticity, to the ones who choose to be a chaotic current instead of pacific water, to the moms who decided to be hard instead of easy, the ones who wanted their daughters to dust themselves when they fall, the ones who knew your name would be hard to pronounce, but they knew you would survive, to you…madres, strong ones, I say thank you for giving me a name people would never comprehend but it makes me who I am. 

 
#CrónicasParaDescolonizar

Mujer con Voz ©2016


photo credit

Enseñanzas

4/30
Teach your kids to do things for themselves; like conquering their fears, crying and wearing bright colors if they choose to. Teach them to carry pride in their eyes, dile que su piel es un legado, que brille aún así lo quieran apagar.

#CrónicasParaDescolonizar

Mujer con Voz ©2016

Mente Machista

1/30

— Te diré la verdad… no tienes nada de linda, lo que tienes es una personalidad buena, pero linda no, no eres no…

Pausa 8 o más años para pensar, analizar, y crecer.

—Tu opinión no es necesaria en mi vida. Lo que soy no se define, no es mi culpa que no te guste la bondad de mi sonrisa, y tengas una imagen machista de cómo una mujer tiene que ser y actuar. Tu mente está colonizada, podrida, es patriarca, y me importa un cero. 

#CrónicasParaDescolonizar 

 

 

Mujer con Voz ©2016


Photo credit

The Day After

 

Photo by Joelle Santos @azuquita.prieta

“Perdóname”, resbaló de su boca varías veces terminando barriendo el piso. En cambio ella, hizo todo para que el perdón de la boca para afuera no se la comiera. Todo lo que se debía hacer se hizo; sacar la basura, quemar la furia, y prender la estufa con el café a todo dar. Saqueo el más mínimo recuerdo con anís y helado con sabor Oreos.

Para ella el perdón era eso: quemar lo desecho para que no reviva. Sin embargo, el proceso era más largo…se requería tiempo más que nada, ¡tiempo! El perdón que andaba buscando no son actos; como quemar objetos y ensuciar su boca con malditas malas palabras, más bien, es dejar los tetéres intactos. Perdonar es afirmar que ya no molestan las flechas lanzadas, caminando sin tener que llevar vainas cargadas en la espalda. Sobre todo, que el perdón no sea de la boca para afuera… es de adentro, si no comerá su víctima con ansias como un veneno silencioso.

•••

“Forgive me,” it slipped from his mouth several times ending sweeping the floor. Instead, she did everything she could so the forgiveness from the mouth out cannot eat her. Everything that has to be done was done; throwing out the garbage, burning the anger, and turning on the stove with coffee in full swing. Plunder the slightest recollection with anise and flavored ice cream and Oreos.
For her forgiveness was this: burn the waste so it can’t revive. However, the process was longer…time is required more than anything, time! The forgiveness she was searching for is not an act; like burning objects and soil your damn mouth with profanity, rather, it is to leave things intact . To forgive is to realize the thrown arrows no longer bother, walking without carrying pods loaded on the back. Above all, that forgiveness is not the one that comes out of the mouth… it’s in, if not it will eat its victim forward as a silent poison.

Hermanas, Dear Sisters

 

Photo by the author.

 

Names.
Wrapped around metaphors.
The sisters thought their names were simple.
Simplification. Miminalism. Bland. Easy to manuver, passing by the skylines of the city.

They arrived, here and there, and they found out two things. First, the devil doesn’t wear red. Secondly , that their names are noodles. I am taking about fideos baratos.

When they though they had one name,
those names expanded like noddles never returning to their original state.There is not such a thing as recyclable dominican nombres when you are out of the country. They will pronunce your name like they are eating a computer keyboard and you are the black ink of the printer…getting wasted by injustice or worse, they will say your name like they had put their brains in a lavadora just making weird sounds…mostly on purpose. There’s nothing in between.

They thought four letters name weren’t all that.
They thought people will make an effort.
They thought people will not try to rip their tongues out trying to say one “r.”

Sisters, dears sisters, hermanas,
let them mispronounce our nombres from our grandmothers which are passing from generation to generation in the mantel de la cocina. They don’t understand our hair or our skin, much less our historias.