De Maiz

Everyone is igualdad! Said the man of the wise mind and the old hands as we were staring into the dry land and the mountains of the gran chichimeca. He told me, Mijo we are getting lost. We do not remember who we are and the land knows this. That’s why our mother no longer give us gifts! He held his hand high, sang a short and simple song and asserted; This is the way to find ourselves; You grab this maiz and see it as an extension of your heart.You use the coa of free will and place the grains in the hole of hope. Then, you cover the seeds with your feet well put on the earth. Forget about quimico. Take care of your happiness, and send your voice in prayer songs and tears. For these will give you strength. Here, there, wherever you make your field!

Dance, sing and smoke for the water. And this will arrive with life, and smiles of the little ones. Wait and grow wise and old with patience. You’ll see the sprouts, you’ll feel the fiery sun and the challenging wind! But the biggest lesson is this, if you are one with all, you will be true. And will grow to be, and harvest, Corn…

Hombres

That wake up when it still is dark and cold outside. Because the restaurants, factories, warehouses and the streets have to be opened, producing and cleaned; and because earning a living doesn’t understand the concept of a good night of sleep

Hombres

With strong arms to lift furniture, ice bags, transmissions, pick oranges and harvest cotton, and once in a while give hugs; hands with thick calluses. Bodies covered with scars produced by laboring in places with low wages and unsafe conditions.  With heads and spines arched down from so much going uphill

Hombres

Black and brown, flacos and gordos, chaparros or tall, that only know how to work hard, and at times forget how to laugh; that smile when their sons and daughters speak good English without accent, and finish high school. Celebrating the better part of themselves that lives in us.

Hombres

Who love and respect our grandmas, sisters, and mothers. Who blush when singing Pedro Infante songs to them, send shy kisses, buy them cheap and beautiful flowers, and would never raise a hand on them.

Hombres

Who tell us stories of long lost treasures in abandoned ranchos, brewing pulque and hunting with a sling shot.  All with a laughter that shows their heart intact and innocence not lost

Hombres

With an iron will that crossed desserts, send money and hope. That risk body, dignity and soul, who sent for us. Who thought and acted to create a better life, a vivir mejor, with few affective words and with a lost and peaceful stare

Hombres

That find comfort on Friday nights hanging with compadres, homies, and carnales. Telling stories about joy, family, home towns, and loss. Minds that on drunken nights fight the ghosts of frustration. For not being able to provide for not being able to exploit some more their already worn out bodies

Hombres

That give us life, carry our pain, provide us with shelter, and yet feel unwelcomed. Beings that deserve a chance, a day off, to be seen, to be loved. Hombres that are worth to be seen as such. Hombres who deserve a dignified life of peace…

Granma doesn’t fit

Don’t lie you have seen them, you may have of even be afraid of one. I am talking about Las abuelitas. Regardless of where they come from you have had at least two of them.  It is amazing to see how their strength of spirit carries them and the whole family. How much blind love they posses along their sense of duty, to the point that they follow us to the new country or outside of our communities to attempt a new life. You see them at your or your friend’s houses. Silent next to their kitchen they are; dreaming of the old one she had, along the stain that only good Cazuelas de peltre have. Commenting how electric or gas stoves cannot warm the fire of a heart and the flavor in the food like good ocote or fat wood.

Be aware that they know of our failures and financial troubles, you can tell because their unbending smile agrees with that we cannot see, yet she is able to feel. And yet they continue in silence playing along, pretending that they do not understand what is going on or what we are doing. Praying that we don’t fuck up too bad when we act upon our impulses and wants. Always awake, knowing better, being there, always allowing us to be, until the day arrives when a member of the family falls and everyone else freezes, so they can act guided by their god.

I often wonder what goes on an abuelita’s head, what she sees and wishes for? Is it the image of her old adobe house? The one that is not more than a memory in a faded black and white picture? I wonder what her heart beats to?  Witnessing in her mind the silhouette of grandpa as he came back from the milpa every evening? In her quiet corner, while ironing, cooking, babysitting and cleaning.  She probably dreams of milpas, packs of clouds, good corn tortillas, birds migrating, and self sufficiency. She probably wants friendly neighbors that speak her language and that at least say hello, she wishes to have grandchildren who will understand the importance of prayer, dances, and traditional songs. She dreams of having slow wedding dances with long gone abuelos, tios and tias, and the love of hard work and pain of creating family and life.

In semi cold nights like this I send my voice to my grandma’s, and all grandma’s and they become one. I say to her and all- Nana nina, my ixa’s, thank you for cradling me! For sending lessons, behavior changing chanclas, warm tortillas and bendiciones, you are beauty, you are the way, because grandma you possess the key; to our greater consciousness, our connection of respect to the earth, to our soul. I ask that sooner than later we start to recognize the strength of your humble voice. But I also send my voice giving thanks because I see, that abuelita is many and can be a madrina or a tia, an elder in our lives. I give thanks for your love in the shape of the compassion that leads and guides you to lose that which cannot be found in the concrete of the cities of the first world. Of such humility and strength I can only think, I can only dream:

Your sore and callused hands
Make me feel the most ingrate
And useless person in the planet
Your aging smile
Reminds me of our generations past
And the strength of our people’s prayer
Your failing and aching legs
Remind me of all that is left to walk…