Written: 01/17/2024
Beneath the desert moon's austere gaze, we were ushered into the heart of America like the pepperoni pizza we ordered in Ciudad Juarez to that seedy motel, as we made our way to the land of promise and persecution. In the suffocating confines of the searing-hot semi, mi mama held me and clung to my future with fervent desperation. Her sweaty palms were a testament to the weight of our family’s collective burden. Amidst stifling heat and the palpable stare of forty pairs of eyes of other gamblers,
I found myself stitching myself into the thread of my mother’s faith and sanctuary, cradled against her abdomen and crushed like precious cargo. A sacrificial offering upon the altar of our journey to meet Uncle Sam.
Emerging once more into the blistering heat, we bore witness to offerings of cempasúchil and flickering candles, humble tributes to the spectral presence of El Diablo, the guardian of the borderlands. With reverence, we laid down small stones adorned with vibrant cactus flowers, a gesture of supplication and gratitude for the privilege of passage. Yet even amidst this sacred ritual, Diablo demanded recompense for our transformation into Social Security donors, laughing hysterically about the exorbitant fees, tolls, and speaking proudly about his time in Mar-a-Lago and the malevolent, sinister bureaucratic machinations that awaited us. He regaled us with stories about shipping cremated remains, stopping mid-sentence to answer a call from Israel, demanding more human suffering and expedited services.
Busy and trying to reschedule his one o'clock meeting with the Defense Department, He rushed us out of his office and wished us luck. Retreating into a room decorated with war medals and NRA trophies, and departing into darkness and nothingness. His voice echoing, and muttering invectives and lamentations grew faint as he talked about the bodies and paperwork. Like a pause on the other line of someone you love, a voice that resonated and ricocheted like a mournful dirge played in the cathedrals of churches where our Abuelas prayed, and the auditoriums of schools where our children went to die.
Written: 08/17/2023
A label written and etched by father's hand, Dogs were once scorned in this troubled land, Not from cruelty, but fear to admit, That man cared for dogs more than kinship. They love us, they claim, 'til we dare to speak, To demand our due from Mother Liberty’s tit. But Penny is more important than Moral, And Money builds churches, So they give us sour milk, corroded by coins.
Somewhere we get lost in translation, My father’s selfish, wise nature, I think he reminds you of you. Mirrors your insecurity, and boredom, you tell your friend on the phone. I'm left with my thoughts, Pondering, wondering,
Am I a wolf? A beast, not human, in this paradigm?
Written: 06/17/2023
In America, a certain folklore exists and thrives. The never-ending sacrifice of truth; heartache chosen by fears. Lives enforced by speed limits, separated families, and detained childrens’ tears.
For us, safety is a light, like flies we swarm. Drunk on the ultraviolet, burying the names you drench us in, fear mongering called us Extraterrestrial, migrant caravan of hungry children with parents dressed as angels. “Mama, Apa, no se preocupen, I’ll be back before you know it.” Hunting a haven, never to return. You ask how I'm doing, yet I stall. Silent, lost in isolation’s embrace.
In English, I can't name it, Solitude, sorrow - a foreign space for an American who’s never seen a body in pieces; anatomy on display for all. In school, the teachers press, seeking tales of home, of summers, and a world they'll never know. I struggle, forced to entertain, explaining a history of ebb and flow; Of violence, war, and babies who don’t grow.
