A few weeks ago Xica Nation placed a nationwide call for Xicanx art, photos and poetry that addresses the theme of what it means to be Xicanx today. Here are the results, categorized by visual and written arts.
Scroll down to view the entire collection or click on an image to view the gallery.
Parental advisory: Some artwork may depict nudity.
Visual
By Jaime Gonzalez. This multi-media collage diptych focuses on Latinx in media. It explores Mexican cinema, Hollywood stereotypical roles, current news (i.e. an interview with Emma Coronel Aispuro, reports on the disappearances and killings of Mexican journalists) and is faced with Jackie Guerrido, Univision weather meteorologist. The photograph is close up/cropped so one can view the details. Actual sizing is specified below. 2 4×6 collages mounted on 11×14 matte board (2)
Ruben Martinez “El Pipirisnais”
By Jasmine Reyna. My art work exemplifies mi cultura radiante y unica. Being Xicanx gives me the chance to embrace my Mexican roots and showcase lo que mas me facina de mi cultura : comida Mexicana
By Adrian Delgado. Pursuit – :an activity that one engages in as a vocation, profession, or avocation :occupation Typically we define ourselves by how we pay our bills. Some of us hide our identities behind nice cars and fancy clothes. This new body of work is about the uniforms individuals wear, the representation of self-made individuals, and the vehicles they used on the path to hopeful success and ongoing struggle for survival in our current society. Pursuit is about the determination these individuals wake up with each morning to move forward as wells as a glorification of the men and women I encounter every morning and evening on my commute to work – men and women like my father, who use whatever vehicles they have to survive. The premise of this series originated with the artist’s recognition and appreciation for his parents and their never ending pursuit of providing him and his siblings the ability to pursue their own artistic dreams. The artists began to see his parents in individuals that he saw all around him every day – driving their vehicles. His intent in creating this body of work is to give people who have no voice a powerful presence. The individuals represented in this series are often misunderstood and described as lazy or job stealers. But in reality they are what keeps America going; they do the jobs that are unwanted and use whatever tools they have to survive. Their beauty is glorified and their memory is framed to remind us to be grateful and cherish what we have because of the work they do and have done – for our success and our survival.
By Angelina Villalobos
By Gerardo Quetzatl Garcia. This painting is titled “In alma dividida”. It’s acrylic on wood. It’s a glimpse at the pain & sorrow endured by children who are displaced by the loss of their parents/family due to deportation.
By Ivonne Soriano Galvez
By Monica J Alaniz-McGinnis
By Denni Arjona. Xicanas are resilient and strong, as are nopales. Own it.
By Fabián Landeros. I am not two people. I am not two languages. I am not two cultures. I am the grey space. The area between. The hyphen in Mexican-American. Neither Mexican, nor American. But, a hybrid of both. Always moving back and forth between the two. Never comfortable in just one, but always foreign on either side. I am Xicanx.
Title: “Crossing Over.” By Liz Zepeda. By Liz Zepeda.”You are Mexican? You don’t look Mexican.”is what I grew up hearing all my life. “What does a Mexican look like then?” I would reply…yeah I know…everyone said it. And then quickly dismissed it when i said I’m only half. Like that justified their stereotype. Today I continue to see those stereotypes portrayed in the media. How quickly people forget how our land was built. Crossing Over, symbolizes the seperation of consciousness and the disarray we are experiencing. The hand of souls is reaching out to take back the beauty that once was, built by our family. The hate and fear melting away the good that was gained from the blood and sweat of immigrant workers.
By Andrea Pro
By Liz Zepeda. The invisible are all around us, souls that guide us through our life journey. When I was younger, I often felt invisible and lost in my own skin’s lack of color and my inability to speak something better than Peggy Hill Spanglish. I was the second generation, I floated like a ghost between two cultures. However, it was and still is my dad’s family that I culturally identify with especially spirituality. In the painting SHE WHO WATCHES, La Santa Muerte, the voice of the invisible is visibly aware that all is not well. The US flag dangles from her hand in chaos. The golden orbs made from roofing materials symbolize the souls and three matriarch saints in my life; my great grandmother Beulah, my abuela Amelia and tia Viola aka Auntie. All three women steeped in tradition of cultural relationships with men who died before I was born; but lived their widowed lives together. Their stories filled my soul with historical facts and romantic memories of the lives they lived before. Now that I’m older and have embraced my fair skin and limited Spanglish skills, I no longer feel invisible. Even in death they give me strength as i recall their stories for they are lessons that help guide me as I live my life May she safely watch over you.
By Andrea Pro
By Nestor Torres Lupercio. My mom. In the memory of what has been where we are to go and the ones we love that have passed. En memoria de nuestros queridos difuntos Andrana Torres lupercio La virgen de Guadalupe asido muy importante en mi vida por qué me a compañado en todo el tras curso de mi vida en Aguascalientes Aguas yo iba al templo a mirarla y pedirle que me ayudara a y me diera fuerzas para poder sacar a mis hijos a delante y cuando yegu a este país me así tanta falta mirarla qu cuando pude tener una vela con la imagen de la birjen de Guadalupe fue una dicha tan grande parami volver a mirarla y prometí que cuando mi familia Tuviera una casa la primera en estar ahí iba aser la imagen de la birjen de Guadalupe y su vela Ya que también me a conpaño cuando bine de inducomentada la oracion de la vigirn de guadalupe Virgen Santísima de Guadalupe, madre y reina de los cielos. Aquí nos tienes humildemente postrados ante tu prodigiosa imagen. En ti ponemos toda nuestra esperanza. Tú eres nuestra vida y consuelo. Estando bajo tu sombra protectora y en tu maternal regazo nada podremos temer. Ayúdanos en nuestra peregrinación terrena e intercede por nosotros ante tu divino hijo en el momento de la muerte para que alcancemos la eterna salvación del alma. The end goal is to make the large loteria set with 54 cards with the personal stories attached with to Each of the cards. Bring pride showing diversity of our Latino community from people that work in the field, Ph.D., musicians, artist, straight, feminists, activists, lgbt, and anything in between to from first to 3rd generation Latinos, and mixed. We should be proud of who we are celebrate our accomplishments but also not forget that even if we don’t have a degree that they are important too celebrate everything! loteria is a perfect base that most of us can relate to and connect through viva la raza! You can find more imagen from The lotería project here https://www.facebook.com/PhotoNTL/
By Julie Leopo. My name is Julie Leopo. I am a sister to five girls, and a daughter to two Mexican parents. I take portraits for a living, including my own. This photo represents the heaviness of my last heartbreak and the undying loyalty to my lover. “She who wears the color. He who sees the color.” -Frida Julieleopo.com
By Andrea Pro
By Danielle Castro
By Albert Calvo
By April Cartwright. I wholeheartedly believe the word Xingonx encapsulates what it is to be Latinx. I made this Xingona necklace for myself as an undergradute student and I proudly wear it every chance I get. Brass, fake opal made from resin and cellophane paper.
By Ramona Garcia. Sometimes the shocks of transitions lure us into states of muteness from which we must find creative ways to recover. Having migrated to the United States at the age of thirteen, art became an important language and an outlet for expression. In my work, I like to explore how the language of painting, memory and landscape can be used to tell stories that revert that muteness and gives us voice. Finding our way “back home” through our narratives is a process that requires an inward journey; one that seeks to dig deeper through layers of colonialism and displacement. This is often how I find “home” in a place far away from it and make sense of what it means to be a Xicanx in constant movement.
By Anna Torres. I make images with varied levels of connection to a visceral reality. Within that parameter I am probing relationships between disaster and reconstruction, permanence and transformation, self and identification. I use my own personal deconstructed image as a vehicle for questioning ideas about the role of tradition, the nature of family, the redefinition of gender roles, relationships between ancestry and identity, between hybridization and modernity, between heritage and its threads of cultural and political conquest—underscoring the critical tension in existing in a space that is both past and present. These works invite questioning and perpetuate the idea that meaning is generated in the process of creating and destroying at the same time. A prominent question surrounding my work is whether these images are really paintings, drawings, or photographs, when in reality they are simultaneously all and neither. My recent work pits the expression of a modern individuality against the loss of ancestral heritage. I am interested in the way materials I use are innately destructive, especially how oil paint and solvent are slowly corroding raw wood panel photographs, but also in the way they illustrate a deteriorated mosaic of self-reflection.
By Olivia Valenzuela. This is a self portrait about coming of age as a Xicana in a whitewashed world. I feel everything in pieces. I feel my skin and culture is merely fetishized.
By Natalia Virafuentes
By Farrah Emami. http://farrahemamiphotography.weebly.com/ericka.html This is a link to my website which displays my project in which I photograph women of color. I shot with Erick and Monica who are proud Xicana women, with different perspectives on what it’s like to be Mexican American in the US. Through my photography I strive to break down the idealized blonde hair, blued eyed, thin woman that the media so often portrays as the only form of beauty.
By Juanishi V. Orosco
By Ricardo NACO Gonzalez. This image is titled “As Seen on TV”. The painting depicts a sarcastic look of speedy Gonzalez smirking and playfully displaying a cactus that expresses resentment towards perceived stereotypes in U.S. The image aims towards the idea that we are much more diverse that how popular media depicts our people.
By Ruben Ulises Rodriguez. what it means to be chicano to me is that I take back my body to make it beautiful again. Of giving it the time to honor its curvature or appreciating its brown skin tone. The tone that so many gay magazines fail to represent or to make beautiful.
By Ricardo NACO Gonzalez. This painting is titled “Live Mas”. It presents the concern of Chicanx culture transforming as less students are researching the culture in Higher education. The QR Code is fully functional and reinforces the meaning of this artwork.
By Shantall Prado. This oil painting is a representation of what drives my passion. I feel it so deeply in my being, that it is intertwined within my bones. The ribbons looped through the cage of my heart, my forearms, my crooked back, the souls of my feet. Every part of me knows that the path I am on is the one for me. I have received answers; answers to questions I have not voiced but though, and questions that have no words to console, and no easy remedies. My passion, my rage, my fire, takes me to great heights, but as often as it raises me, it is tied to my oppression. I can neither escape it, nor rise above it. My oppression makes me who I am. My oppression as a Xicana is more than a personal issue, it is a societal one. My oppression is mine, a personal experience shared by others. Society is in me, as I am in society, and one cannot exist without the other. I hover in a state of limbo. At times this ever floating stance can be thrilling, and at others it is terrifying. I am learning not to let the darkness that lurks behind my walls drag me down, but also not let my idealism on what the world can be take me too close to the sun. I struggle with this, como podemos sobrevivir? How do we live, overcome and thrive in a society that is created to oppress us? How can we find happiness when we cannot fly and we cannot walk?
By Cielo Ornelas MacFarlane. “Cielo Tamez Ornelas.” My identity as a Chicana, as a Latina, as a güera, as a Mexican-American is constantly being self-defined. I define myself by my own experience as a Latina in the context of an Anglo dominated society, by how people respond to me. I define myself by my family and my ancestors and their lives. And I define myself through learning and reading about other Latinx experiences and histories and those of our indigenous cousins too. Website: http://cielo-ornelas-macfarlane.weebly.com/
By Roxanne Morataya Website: roxymorataya.com Facebook: Facebook.com/roxymartandstuff
By Sara Esquivel de Morrissette. Chicana artist. Focus on women’s roles through cultural identities and historical events. From Malinche to Chingona in five generations. Fiber and textiles. Painting, and digital art.
By Norma Gonzalez
Title: “un espejo.” By Alana de Hinojosa. Ask me who I am, and I’ll tell you through rajadas. Ask me how my eyes sit deep in their brown, and how my mouth moves comfortably to a superior tongue, and I’ll tell you through mispronunciation. Ask me what I see in the black reflection of my mother’s obsidian mirror, and I’ll tell you through white American teeth: “The thesis and the anti.” Website: alanadehinojosa.wordpress.com
By Alexander Hernandez. My preferred art materials at the moment are scrap fabrics, remnants of unfinished projects, personal belongings, found objects, and traditional textiles. I sew, paint, embroider, layer and patch these mediums together using traditional needlework and DIY crafting techniques. Recently I have been deconstructing Latino masculine troupes and iconography. I dissect these images into smaller pieces then sew them back together creating larger playful artworks. In these pieces I embrace ripped holes, unraveling threads, raw edges and slashes revealing layers of multiple identities; my Mexican heritage, Queer affinity, Rocky Mountain upbringing, gender role expectations, punk and crafty tendencies. Like patchwork, all these different identities come together creating something that is unique, fabulous and complicated.
By Brenda Yedem Mendoza. Mama, Xingona, y Educada (2016) Acrylic on Canvas 12″ x 16″
Susana Sandoval. Collaborative portrait Sandoval/Hernandez. Link: https://www.facebook.com/susana.i.sandoval
By Cielo Ornelas MacFarlane. “Manuel Ornelas.” My identity as a Chicana, as a Latina, as a güera, as a Mexican-American is constantly being self-defined. I define myself by my own experience as a Latina in the context of an Anglo dominated society, by how people respond to me. I define myself by my family and my ancestors and their lives. And I define myself through learning and reading about other Latinx experiences and histories and those of our indigenous cousins too. Website: http://cielo-ornelas-macfarlane.weebly.com/
By Alexander Hernandez. My preferred art materials at the moment are scrap fabrics, remnants of unfinished projects, personal belongings, found objects, and traditional textiles. I sew, paint, embroider, layer and patch these mediums together using traditional needlework and DIY crafting techniques. Recently I have been deconstructing Latino masculine troupes and iconography. I dissect these images into smaller pieces then sew them back together creating larger playful artworks. In these pieces I embrace ripped holes, unraveling threads, raw edges and slashes revealing layers of multiple identities; my Mexican heritage, Queer affinity, Rocky Mountain upbringing, gender role expectations, punk and crafty tendencies. Like patchwork, all these different identities come together creating something that is unique, fabulous and complicated.
By Jose Esquivel. Artist Statement: “It’s my main objective as an artist and communicator to express my point of view and articulate visually our cultural realities and social concerns. My paintings are barrio scenes that are reminders or memories of familiar places. The symbolism depicts some of our cultural beliefs and also the condition and struggles of a people steeped in the culture of poverty”. joseesquivel.com
By Martha Elena
By Jose Esquivel. Artist Statement: “It’s my main objective as an artist and communicator to express my point of view and articulate visually our cultural realities and social concerns. My paintings are barrio scenes that are reminders or memories of familiar places. The symbolism depicts some of our cultural beliefs and also the condition and struggles of a people steeped in the culture of poverty”. joseesquivel.com
By Lesley Garcia. First one was a Selena Quintanilla I did for her birthday and second was a random sad girl I painted with the quote “he’s not down to end the racist,misogynistic assholes, instead he’s one himself”
By Elvia Franco. “Raspa” Oil on Wood 16×24 2016 The following painting is a representation of how I identify myself.
By Luis Valeras. My images explore possibilities of decolonization by isolating and rearranging iconic components of realities. Growing up on the frontera and my father’s stories revealed spaces of shared experiences. By retelling my family’s story while at the same time representing them as collective cultural icons intermingled with current events I connect the collective experience of past and present generations to collapse borders, to transform and explore social and cultural ambiguities that exist in that space in between. It is my belief that the
[email protected] identity past—present—future is in constant evolution. The intermingling of cultures in a more tolerant society is the future of the
[email protected] family. Adaptation and transformation require a foot in the past and present, a familiarity with transitions between borders, and a flexibility that is conducive to a re-imagination of realities. In order for the
[email protected] identity to step into the future, the shared cultural experiences that are the glue in our culture must be transmitted to all. It is time, in this new millennium, to jettison outdated and oppressive gender roles, allowing for a more equitable representation and treatment of our mothers and sisters. A new
[email protected] will lead the way, and it will be through art and science that la raza cósmica will walk the steps into the future that awaits us.
By Anthonette Padilla
By irma garza garcia
By Gabriela Mercado. The msg in this painting is to let the past go and become your true form. This painting is a Acrylic, self portrait. Based on componentry colors. I have more painting if you wish to see more.
By Suzy Gonzalez
By Leis Rodriguez. So many issues affect our community as Raza. As an attorney, I am acutely aware of the intersectionality of race, class, and gender and how these things impact the clients I serve. Likewise, we butch/queer gender non conforming suit and tie wearing lawyers have to take space, hold space and challenge systems of oppression while staying true to who we are inside and out. This is me and my homie M Salazar Esq., celebrating in San Antonio after a big day.
By Nephtali. Radical transformation from traditional Passive love with no conditions to Affirmative love with conditions. From la Virgen de Guadalupe to La Virgen de Guadaliberty. “I love you my children, but u must stand up for your dignity and your rights, and I will stand with you wherever you choose to affirm yourselves.” Chicano Art in praxis. Protest women’s march in San Antonio, Texas.
By Kristen Huizar. Being in a cultural limbo (especially for a third generation) is what it’s like to be Xicana. As a womyn of color inhabiting reclaimed land you are neither here nor there. It’s embracing all aspects of your identity, where you are from (even if that includes indegenous roots, colonizer roots, Native American roots, Afro roots and so on). As an artist I battle with identity and womynhood as a (brown) womyn of color inhabiting Los Angeles. I use chalk around hip spots to prove a point. Body image, feminism, gentrification, sexuality are my main talking points. I draw a big womyn head juxtaposed with a caption as if she is telling you something, straight from her perspective without diluting it with the male gaze. Being a Xicana is letting the world know that YOU exist and YOU have something to say about the multiple oppressions we (Xicanas, WOC, TRANSfolx) face on a daily basis from the powers that be. The picture that is featured is a chalk I did in front of The Last Bookstore in Downtown LA. I am seated in front of a big headed girl I had just drawn. I don’t hunk I had written the caption yet but one of my favorites to use is, “If Hatshepsut can break gender norms, why can’t I?”
By Armando Franco. Instagram @adfranco_art
“MOJADA” by Karla Daniela Rosas. I work at an immigration law firm where part of my job includes screening potential clients. A normal question we ask is “How and why did you leave your home country and come to the U.S.?” The best response I’ve ever gotten was from an Honduran woman who laughed and said, “I came here like every other mother who didn’t have a choice — mojada.” Being undocumented myself, I was so excited by her response! The typical response to this question is either casual avoidance or the same lowering of the voice one uses when they’re forced to admit to something they know is wrong or embarrassing. This woman sounded fierce. She sounded as though she knew exactly what she is thought of as in this country and didn’t give a damn. MOJADA is about celebrating yourself as an undocumented woman. I use words like “mojada,” “ilegal,” or “wetback” in my art in order to remind ourselves that to be a mojada is to be strong enough to survive every day in a land that seeks to destroy you by willing you to invisibility. I make my art because I wish that I had been told at a young age that my mojada-ness is the root of all the aspects I have grown to love about myself: my work ethic, my family, my passion, and my sassy mouth. We proudly proclaim ourselves to be chingonas — we should also be just as quick to flaunt our mojada status. http://karlinche.tumblr.com/
By EllisDee5150. Being Xicana means fighting patriarchy & white supremacy on the daily.
By April Cartwright. I am a biracial Latina (half white/half Mexican), born and raised in the Rio Grande Valley, with a bachelor’s degree in Studio Art from the University of Texas Rio Grande Valley. I have always felt being a Xicana and feminist are intrinsically connected (Xicanisma) and for my Bachelor of Fine Arts show I wanted to highlight intersectional feminism. I was aiming to culture build and introduce folks in my area to important women of color that they probably have never heard of, principally Gloria Anzaldua, a Rio Grande Valley native. Gloria is a writer who focuses on feminist, cultural and queer theory. She wrote Borderlands/La Frontera: The New Mestiza, a semi-autobiographical book that examines the unseen borders between various opposing groups, which was an incredibly formative read for me. I used functional pottery as my medium, projecting portraits I drew on pitchers and redrawing them with a majolica glaze. (Included in my series is bell hooks and Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, equally important intersectional feminists).
Video
Black Dream Place
Luis Valderas
Written/poetry
[su_accordion]
[su_spoiler title=” Who are the Xicanos?” style=”fancy”]
Who are the Xicanos?
Andres Peinado Jr.
* We are the lost Aztec children of Aztlan, living in the occupied land that birth our nation.
* We are “La Gente del Quinto Sol” called by our Creator to go back into our communities, barrios, and colonias to serve the oppresed and the marginalized victims of our divided society.
* We are the ones who take the spray paint can from the hands of the child, and encourage him to express his heart on canvas, instead of defacing the walls of our community. We are the ones who nurture their dreams and whisper to them “Tu mijo vas a ser un Artista…”
* We are the ones who walked into the institutions of higher learning, ashamed of our accents our heritage and our identity wanting to be called Andy instead of Andres, Tommy instead of Tomas, and Mary instead of Maria, until we awaken to the beauty of our heritage and reclaim our identity as part of La Raza Cosmica.
* We are the grandsons, and granddaughters who have never heard the wisdom of our abuelitos, their dichos, cuentos and consejos because our language has been stripped away in the name of assimilation.
* We are the fathers and mothers raising our children in the concrete jungles of Aztlan, with the inquisitive child who goes about the surface of every patch of grass collecting grasshoppers and crickets in mayonnaise jars and attentively admires the miracle of life.
* We are the Tios and Tias who clap earnestly at our backyard barbecues as our sobrinas dance to the rhythm of cumbias to the songs of Selena, hoping one day they will be the next Eva Longoria or Selma Hayek.
* We are the ones who reach out to the youth of the community. We are the ones who rescue our children from the hands of the cartels, the violence and perils of barrio street gangs, and refocus our young child warriors to pursue their destiny; empowering them to rise above the adversities and trials of life.
* We are the hands and feet of the Nation of Aztlan, living out our faith in a world filled with confusion, we are the living embodiment of the spirit of Cesar Chavez whose voice like a mythical humming bird whispers to our souls… “Si se Puede.”
[/su_spoiler]
[su_spoiler title=” Dear Brown Girl” style=”fancy”]
Dear Brown Girl
Daniela Jaime
Dear brown Girl,
We are “It’s too dark for you to be out”
“Wear longer shorts, the neighbors will stare”
We are
Stuck in gentrified neighborhoods,
middle aged men with
Tank Tops and beer bellies
will stare from front porches like you’re the chihuahua you walk,
B/c
“Damn Mami, would I love to taste your spices”
We hold lips on our ever tan faces,
With the corners darker than the center
Just like our history.
We are:
So thick, Brown Girl is hypersexualized,
But when so thin
“Are even a real Brown Girl?”
Only given recognition when your biggest asset is your ass,
Sass,
But never class.
We are,
So brown, “do you even tan?”
No I crisp, now give me the sunblock little ‘Miss Mayo 2016’
Taught from early Ages that your brown doesn’t go well with life
Too brown from Neon shirts,
You just look browner
Too brown for makeup:
Quick: WOULD RATHER LOOK LIKE TOO BURNT TOAST OR VANILLA ICE-CREAM IN A CARAMEL CRUNCH CONTAINER?!
THERE IS NO IN-BETWEEN.
Too brown for hoodies and loose jeans,
Would you rather look like a decent human being or a target.
Too brown to be beautiful.
Eyes always boring brown- But Emma Watson’s are sooo mesmerizing
Nose too big- but on Blake Lively it’s cute.
Hair too thick-
But Cara Delevingne has more in one brow than you do in two.
Thighs too thick- but #WhiteGirlsWinning…?
When were they ever losing?
When were blue eyes bad?
They’ve been so good
Colonizers managed to convince my ancestors their descendants looked better in blue,
Even if it happened through rape.
But,
Dear Brown Girl,
Learn to admire your sisters beauty without questioning your own.
You are beauty
You are strength.
Flowers grow through you like earth,
You might see this ground as dirt,
Like the color of your eyes,
But all I see is life.
Like what’s in your eyes.
Dear Brown Girl,
You are a force to be reckoned with-
Your skin is no crime,
Need for no punishment.
You’re skin is rich in pigment,
like the Art hung in the Museums
That Miss Mayo 2016 payed $25 to visit
Let the dark corners of your mouth
Serve to remind everyone
Of the dark corners they tried to push you into
Let your thick hair grow out like roses in a white man’s world;
They can only add character to the weed filled garden that is his home.
[/su_spoiler]
[su_spoiler title=” When They Disguised The Virgin Mary With Indigenous Strings ” style=”fancy”]
When They Disguised The Virgin Mary With Indigenous Strings
Eduardo Velasquez
Skin is a curse,
The color of earth,
Labeled as gang related,
My pride you have took,
Nervous glances,
I’m not invited to dances,
Balls, Gowns, Sadies, and even Swing Dances
My line is thick like oil,
I spring like a coil,
I’m targeted where lightning strikes, your personal coil,
America’s foil,
My image is soiled,
My face is calm waters, below I do boil
To anoint my pen, I bled out like rain,
I’m sacrificing my life, so we may rise again,
The coming of gods, the coming of kings,
We disguised the Virgin Mary with Indigenous Strings.
[/su_spoiler]
[su_spoiler title=” Affirmative Action Agony” style=”fancy”]
Affirmative Action Agony
Eloisa Perez-Lozano
“Woman of color.”
Does that mean me?
The scholarship application says so,
but which color am I?
Chocolate?
Caramel?
Cappuccino?
Café con leche?
That’s not a box I think I can check.
Can I really claim to be a “woman of color”
if my own is only one shade darker than
the default white we’re all measured against?
My last name, however, confirms my minority status,
the hyphen merging both names into one
for Americans who aren’t familiar with
the Mexican custom of having two last names.
But when I sent in my application,
I asked, “Aren’t these scholarships for poor kids?”
“No, it’s for anyone with Mexican parents,”
my dad answered.
But I kept thinking:
Did I take someone else’s spot?
Maybe there should be one more box to check,
a declaration for some and a deterrent for people like me:
“I am eligible for this scholarship because I have
survived the stereotyped struggles of my race.”
I definitely couldn’t have checked it,
but maybe then I would felt better not applying.
I wouldn’t have felt that my middle class-ness
should have disqualified me, despite hard-earned grades.
I wouldn’t have felt the tug-of-war between head and heart,
wanting the assistance yet doubting whether others needed it more.
I wouldn’t have felt the heat of shame that comes from
feeling unworthy, deceitful, an imposter
A white wolf in brown sheep’s clothing,
hunting for a prize I don’t think I deserve.
[/su_spoiler]
[su_spoiler title=” i am la frontera” style=”fancy”]
i am la frontera
Ernesto Ricardo Rafael Torres
El Paso, la frontera
I am a queer, bilingual, catholic, xicanx.
Me persigno en falda y barba.
I’ve been quartered,
split down the middle by mountains,
and in half by an ugly reja, my cicatriz,
like the fifth wound of Jesus.
Though my head is in the U.S,
my feet, mis raíces are en México.
I am la frontera.
I am the color of untouched desert,
ruddy with the blood of the antepasados.
My family crossed the river more times than it coursed off.
Am I 1st generation?
2nd generation?
1 and a half?
I speak Spanish like a norteño,
and in English, se me sale el taco.
I used to prune back the nopales growing en mi frente,
now I wear proudly my corona de tunas.
From UTEP’s ivory tower I see the colonias,
mimic the Juraense topography.
Everything in México has color!
Las colonias, los mercados, los murales: “¡NI UNA MÁS!”
I am so disconnected from my tierra,
and I miss a patria that I can’t claim.
I am El Paso.
I am Heroica Ciudad Juárez.
I am la frontera.
[/su_spoiler]
[su_spoiler title=” Luna Xicana” style=”fancy”]
Luna Xicana
Janet Gonzalez
“Ni de aqui, ni de allá” we howl
As they pull us into
Opposite sides of la frontera
Tugging at our bodies
Like we’re made of elastic
Demanding us to conform
But their aggression bleeds us dry
We see the anger in their eyes
When they glare in our direction
They call us, las lobas
Because we gain our power
From the moon
[/su_spoiler]
[su_spoiler title=” My Name Is All You See ” style=”fancy”]
My Name Is All You See
John Hernandez
It doesn’t matter to you that my name has a story in this land, a history.
That my name was indigenous to this place before it was a country.
That my name has helped build all that you see, this democracy.
My name has worked the fields, tended the cattle, paved the roads, layed the foundations, manufactured the automobiles and contributed to society.
My name has educated the children, cared for the elderly, rescued the victim, defended the boarders and bled for the ideals of liberty.
My name has been a part of the club, graduated with honors, gone for the gold, dotted the i’s and crossed the t’s.
My name has paid it’s dues, towed the line, pitched in, lent a helping hand and turned the other cheek.
My name believes in this country, this concept of land of the free…
But no matter how hard it try’s…
No matter it’s dedication, sacrifice, it’s quest for liberty…
you do not see me.
If it’s lucky you see your gardener, your waiter, your dishwasher or your nanny.
Cheap labor, someone to stock your shelves, build your home, wash your car and mow your lawn.
But more than likely you see an illegal, someone who doesn’t belong.
A criminal, a gang banger, a thief, a dealer, a junky, a welfare queen…
a burden on society.
You see your own misconceptions.
You see your own assumptions.
You see your own stigmas of who you want me to be…
never once seeing me.
I want you to see me…
not just my name.
I want you to consider me…
not just your stigmas, assumptions or misconceptions.
I want you to see acceptance when looking at me.
My name is American, the same as yours and I want you to see you when looking at me.
[/su_spoiler]
[su_spoiler title=” la hija indígena” style=”fancy”]
la hija indígena
Kimberly Rendon
Be ready by 8:00 AM
I remind myself.
Rise and shine,
Greet the day,
say hello to the Sun…
But I keep denying
my awake state
and lose myself
to my dream life.
There’s no motivation
to lift my spirits
as I see the world in chaos.
Each day a waiting game
with defeat.
It’s as if my body
remains on the sidelines
or is too slow to catch up
to my imagination.
I stay rooted in dreams
because my ancestry was denied sleep:
too busy tending the home,
carrying the workload.
I inherited insomnia,
constantly sleepwalking
through a minefield
of insecurities.
While I sail toward artificial light
I distract myself
in a diamond prism.
Hoping for a pristine existence
but it swallows my name
and regurgitates
acquired expectations.
I’m expected
to assimilate,
be another lost cause,
failed by the system.
My family carries
fragments of
the American Dream
heavy on their body
unable to bare the weight of expectations
or maintain the white picket fence.
In our attempt to survive
We have become displaced.
Strangers to familiar territory.
We suffer in silence,
our identities hidden.
They try to make sense
of the exploitation and oppression
and continue their journey with guilt,
as if,
it their our fault.
Unaware, the pain
of chasing expectations
causes failure-
their growth paralyzed,
never reaching heights
foretold by ancestors.
So the ache is ceded
in future generations
burdened with abandoned identities.
Daughter.
I decipher
the lost codex,
reconnect to a memory
of an identity
slowly erasing generationally.
I awake.
To reclaim, reshape,
my existence in resistance.
Unafraid to proclaim
Xicanx.
Say it loud.
Para no olvidar.
Yo soy la Hija Indígena!
[/su_spoiler]
[su_spoiler title=” Today’s Chicanx Warriors ” style=”fancy”]
Today’s Chicanx Warriors
Luz Magdaleno Flores
Ni muy acá, ni muy allá
Always caught in between
Somos punk, [email protected], [email protected] y siempre con ganas de desmadrar
Our passionate hearts move our two left feet to its beat
United we stand with her, him, and they
“El Barrio Unido Jamás Será Vencido!”
Being chicanx is a beautiful struggle
Ser vosotros es una buen chinga
We are angry yet proud of how hardworking our parents are
A mi mami le duelen sus pies y mi padre no es feliz pero siguen echándole ganas
Con converse y eyeliner negro vamos a misa a rezarle a nuestra señora morenita
In the night with the moons blessing we light our candles in hopes of liberation
No somos fácil de entender
Planting seeds in unknown lands
We drink whiskey and mezcal
Tranquilos después de tanto luchar
[/su_spoiler]
[su_spoiler title=” Cuento de Mexico” style=”fancy”]
Cuento de Mexico
Maleny Crespo
No es el cuento de los hombres
No es el cuento de los gueros
No es el cuento mio
No es el cuento de nosotros
Es el cuento de las mujeres de Mexico
Es el cuento de todos que son joven
Sus bebes que son
De la tierra de oro
Que corren con polvo del dinero
Abajo de sus pies
Enfrente la verdad
De su valor
Cabeza de deseos
Las montanas en sus hombros
Sangre mas puro
Que alguno maldita promesa de riqueza
No es el cuento de los hombres
No el cuento de los gueros
No es el cuento mio
No es el cuento de nosotros
Para atras voces de hombre
Para atras voces de gueros
Para atras orgullo de los extranjeros
Esta cuento no es tuyo
Es el cuento de los reinas
Es el cuento de los reyes
Es el cuento de Oaxaca oro
Es el cuento de la tierra del sol
Es el cuento de Mexico
[/su_spoiler]
[su_spoiler title=” Geographic Dreaming” style=”fancy”]
Geographic Dreaming
Odilia Galván Rodríguez
Dreams of place to call our own
one where we are at home
in our melding of ancestor cultures
Of razas who never left us
who refused to melt away
in that pressure cooker pot
Which has become the way
in these lands called US of America
a place for all, but for no one different
You must fit their mold
complete with Indo-European looks
what their hate speech spewed down
In all the papers and books
of what is Supreme
what they’ve built this system
On the backs of our world
But this is about what it means
to be me, a woman of that Raza Cosmica
who is Chicana proud despite all the years
Of not fitting Here nor There
knowing we were something new
a mezcla to embrace
Holding my head high
teaching the young ones
to be one-hundred percent
Proud of all of who we are
birthing that nation of ours
together with them
[/su_spoiler]
[su_spoiler title=”WE” style=”fancy”]
WE
Paul Aponte
The true expression of enlightenment
comes in a dream
of a morning
shining on our universe.
Waking, stretching out to the sky,
and accepting the gift.
Willingly letting the brightness through.
Even the serpent is in awe,
and the plant leaves bloom.
The vase proudly displays its indigenous roots.
The clouds part,
and the sky clears,
and we can see again
as you and I bless the cosmos
to be all as it should.
[/su_spoiler]
[su_spoiler title=” Xingonas’ Letter to Our Hombres and the Patriarchy” style=”fancy”]
Xingonas’ Letter to Our Hombres and the Patriarchy
Rocio Evelin Carranza Jacinto
We hold the wisdom of our ancestors
Embody their love through our Spirit
You chose to follow the oppressor by suppressing the burning of emotions through your flesh
We chose to embrace those burning emotions through our breasts
You claim to be above misogyny with your whispers of loving promises
But your actions whisper the truth
Your actions shout machismo and we can longer hold onto to you
So we break our promises and you leave seeming unbothered about this wreckage
We leave with both of our emotional baggage
And within us, you see the pounds of pain we carry
You see it in our swollen eyelids.
In our blood shot eyes.
And in our endless sorrow.
You see us as weak.
You think that you have conquered our heart, our mind, our body, and soul.
And you may have for this very instant of grief…
But we carry 500+ years of resilience
And filling your absence will not be the battle we lose to.
Because we have one thing you lost along the way…
Community.
We ground ourselves in each other while you are lost in a sea of individualism
Becoming the puppet of the colonizer.
Now your soul roams lifeless through this land,
And ours begins to coexist within this soil.
Because we chose to feel the weight of grief for the both of us,
While you denied your soul healing and found refuge in a bottle of liquor.
And so we are Guerreras today, yesterday, and continue to be tomorrow
We will be Guerreras for the both of us,
Until you decide to liberate your being from the White men’s example.
We do not fear tears because we are surrounded by Guerreras.
And loved by our Ancestors.
And for now that is truly enough for Xingona revolutionary love.
[/su_spoiler]
[su_spoiler title=” Réquiem para un nombre esclavo” style=”fancy”]
Réquiem para un nombre esclavo
Samantha Marie Haynes
Mi nombre se siente como un cañón atado a mi tobillo.
Un recuerdo del pasado de mi familia.
Quiero lavarme el nombre del cuerpo…
De todos los pensamientos de mi boca.
De todos los trozos de papel…
Quiero darme un nuevo nombre…
El nombre de sangre,
Un nombre que les dé miedo a los conquistadores.
Quiero un nombre que atemorice a los hombres
Y les advierta que los aplastaré si intentan de despellejarme.
Mi nombre
Es un recuerdo del pasado,
La memoria de la horrible llegada,
De la tristeza y la confusión, la traición y el vigor que
se sirvieron al lado de las margaritas mezcladas con la viruela.
Isata,
Ahora serás llamada Sambo.
Isata,
Ahora serás llamada Chichi Mama.
Ellos le dirán que este nombre vale la pena de confiarse a ellos…
Pero no.
Intercambiar un idioma de la tierra de los Aborrecedores por otro
No borra el dolor que siente tu abuela,
No podrán borrar la confusión que siente tu abuela.
Se estrangulan de amargura cuando
Las personas no saben de dónde viniste porque su
Nombre no tiene el sonido que tus antepasados hacían cuando
Gritaban en sueños.
Un nombre
¿Qué hay en un nombre?
Isata, no es tu nombre real y nunca lo será.
Es mejor que nos llamen con algo que nos trae recuerdos amargos,
Que te aferres a una cultura, a un lugar, en un país, en un continente de donde fuiste arrancada
Y nunca vas a conocerlo.
Estás atrapada en una isla destinada a los que no son como tú.
Robado.
Viven en tierras robadas con su cuerpo robado.
Deberías aferrarte a tu útero antes de que te roben también.
Isata,
No te llames así.
Reconoce que no te conoces a ti misma.
Reconoce que nunca lo sabrás.
Reconoce que no te importaba tres pepinos porque
mami, estás aquí ahora mismo.
Sambo,
Chichi Mama,
S-A-M-A en la arena:
Respira.
Da un paso lejos de esa computadora.
Sácate la etiqueta de McDonald’s y métela en sus gargantas.
[/su_spoiler]
[su_spoiler title=” To Xicanx in the Borderlands Today Means ” style=”fancy”]
To Xicanx in the Borderlands Today Means
Samuel Coronado
You are a key beyond extinction
a transmutation
that survives resists reimagines
life beyond assimilation.
A chance to love difference,
to respond to violence
the way our ancestors did,
the way our children’s children
will too.
We live within and without today,
tomorrow, the ever-resetting
cycle of a time that is itself militarized.
Endlessly, we are fed visions
of the apocalypse.
On every television, mobile screen,
from the heights of every cell tower
mi sagrada tierra
burned, caged, made a stage
for the owner’s of the world’s armies.
Though we despair, we know
more than the fictions we have
been indoctrinated with,
that there is nothing luxurious
or privileged or exclusively white
about loving this earth,
or the many spirits
that walk above it,
that share life with mountains
& waves & plants & stars.
To xicanx in the borderlands today
means you shift
the knowledge of the centuries,
you give more than you take,
you stand on the line
where water becomes fire,
where bullets become flowers.
To this generation it must be clear,
as it has been written,
we are governed by two heads
from the same beast
which feeds from the same trough.
Como the nepantla G. Anzaldúa says,
the world becomes as we dream it.
What lies ahead,
mijitx?
[/su_spoiler]
[su_spoiler title=” Barbacoa ” style=”fancy”]
Barbacoa
Saul Hernandez
Barbacoa: 7:45 AM
Through the bottom craters of my door
an uninvited odor comes in. It lingers on my nose
awakening my mind and belly. It provokes
them to wrestle.
My head pleads me to remember
abuelo and the cabrito.
My famished stomach tells me to taste the meat
of a dead animal I once saw slaughtered
before my child eyes.
The mirror stands before me.
It can read my worries
on my face.
Barbacoa: 8:15 AM
The smell enchants me. I close my eyes.
I see what I’ve stored in the back
of my head, files. I wish I had not seen,
the creatures eyes roll back
light in them gone.
Abuelo telling me,
“no lo veas morir, si te sientes triste
el animal no muere en paz.”
His head rest on the pomegranate grass
the wind brushes his coat. It picks up
milk dew weed flurries, taking flight
towards the mourning sky.
In my room. I stand. In front of the mirror
I look at my repulsive reflection. I see
his tongue cradled, on the side of his mouth
it sleeps.
Barbacoa 8:25 AM
The smell of barbacoa turns my head. Away
from the mirror a dust cloud of odor demands to be inhaled,
it begins to take shape. In my room
the cabrito now stands. Parallel to me
he opens his mouth. No words come out.
He is missing his tongue. He begins to prance
around my room.
El ritmo de sus pezuñas me invitan a bailar
One, two, three. Uno, dos, tres. One, two, three.
We are the wind in my room. Spinning
levantamos polvo de libros cerrados,
de tierra debajo de mi cama,
debris from the corners of my room.
I open my baby eyes. Coming to a halt
nos miramos como viejos amores.
I open my mouth and he jumps at me
caemos. Con la paciencia
que tienen las hojas de otoño hacia el piso.
I inhale the smell and I close my eyes.
Empiezo a correr. Con mis cuatro patas,
stomping the ground picking up dirt and debris
on a hot summer day. I am free
to roam my land.
Barbacoa: El Origen del Cabrito
No tengo fronteras. Puedo tocar el crepúsculo
de esquina a esquina. No tengo temor por mi vida.
No estoy fuera de mi lugar.
Esta es mi tierra. No hay limitaciones
que me impiden ser restringido.
Como de mi tierra,
mi panza esta hecha de paja y plantas.
Tomo de la lluvia cuando el cielo llora.
Cuando las luciérnagas salen a jugar
me acuesto en mi cama. Descanso
mi lengua para poder hablar con mi tierra otro día.
En veces sueño. Aspiraciones lentas con el aliento
del aire que me levantan hasta las montañas, desde arriba
vuelo por las tierras en busca de mis hermanos y hermanas,
que fueron levantados, por las manos del hombre.
Miedo se apodera de mí, me dice que corra
a otras tierras antes que vengan por mí.
Baa, baa, no quiero ese destino para mí.
Barbacoa: Tomado por El Hombre
Pero el hombre de otras tierras sabe tomar
su oportunidad cuando uno duerme.
Baa, baa, baa! Es muy tarde. Amarrada
mi boca y lengua ya no son unas arma.
Son desventaja a donde me llevan.
Prenden una máquina, empieza a caminar despacio
luego corre como cuando yo era
libre. De las realidades del mundo.
Ojos con sueños olvidados, ven
la luz saliendo del arroyo donde tomaba agua.
Por última vez veo la paz
de mi hogar—
la tierra sin fronteras.
Barbacoa: Encadenado
Ahora soy prisionero. En otras tierras desconocidas
de mi pescuezo estoy detenido con raíces de árboles.
Muerdo y muerdo y no se rompen
estas raíces. Pesan, es una carga
para poder comer,
Para poder dormir,
para poder soñar.
Mi reflejo en agua contaminada distinto
a mi ser. No soy ese.
Antier otro. Hoy soy invierno
en este campo podrido.
Barbacoa: Carga el Aire
El amanecer no es igual, por el viento
se oyen voces cargadas
con dolor.
Voces con sueños.
Voces que le pegan a mi alma desamparada.
Voces que ya no entiendo.
Voces que me pierden por el florecer de plantas dando vida,
por el verano que seca mi boca,
y por el otoño caprichoso que quita vida.
Sobre los cerros mis pupilas siguen el aire. Al campo libre
me recuerda que mi vida es un ciclo
guiado por el sol y la luna,
que me dicen a que hora como,
a que hora camino,
a que hora puedo beber,
a que hora puedo hablar.
Y a que hora debo dormir.
Campo libre, pies engatusados.
Barbacoa: Revelaciones
El hombre, todo poderoso se presenta. En frente de mi
y me da su mano. Como un acto de paz
le quita la raíz a la cerca
que me detiene de cruzar otras fronteras.
Toma la raíz de mi pescuezo y me guía.
Caminamos juntos los dos,
lado a lado sobre el campo libre. El aire me abraza,
me invita a recordar momentos de gloria.
Los rayos del sol están escapándose lentamente. Sobre las nubes
salen y me dan besos como agua del estanque.
El hombre me lleva al campo. Desconocido
veo a una criatura. Parecido a la imagen del hombre.
Nuestras miradas se conectan. Siento miedo,
por los dos.
Cierro mis ojos. Recuerdo que soy un cabrito—
tengo cuatro pesuñas,
tienen ansias por volver a vivir.
Baa, baa!
Tengo derecho a correr,
a gritar sobre el cerro más grande,
pero sobre todo
el derecho a que mi cabeza cansada, caiga—
picada y en bañada,
para volver a soñar.
Barbacoa: 8:25 AM
Abro mis ojos reencarnados. Adolorido me levanto
con mis dos piernas. Me pongo de pie y me miro en el espejo,
my reflection suggest nothing has changed
my mind disagrees.
Mi reflo me recuerda que
sus ojos me los comí con mi mirada.
Yo estuve enfrente del cabrito. No use palabras.
My hands reach for my neck,
I examine the creases in search
for signs of encadenamiento. No trace is left.
Abro mi boca.
My tongue is in place.
Barbacoa: 8:30 AM
Salgo de mis cuatro paredes
doy pasos ligeros. Down the hallway
leading to the staircase I follow the smell.
But, how will I tell my family?
Es que, no me van a comprender.
Bajo sobre las espaldas de huesos ancianos
pensando en mis ancestros. If,
they ever had the courage to lash their tongue
at their own blood. Over the table across the food
of foreign lands.
Barbacoa: Sueña Again
I sit down at the table. Overlooking my mother
I land my hands on my mouth, con los ojos
de cabro veo las tiras de carne,
I begin to quake. The table set,
my stomach empty. My mouth
an estanque of water. It is full,
ready for the cabrito to drink.
The cabrito rests on my tortilla.
I shower him with salt and salsa,
I take him in my mouth.
I look at my reflection in the plate.
Mi lengua iba a mirar a todos en los ojos
les iba a contar la historia del cabrito
que soñaba. Libre de conformar
con lo que ellos pedían,
libre de tomar su propio destino,
en un lugar indocumentado.
Pero, in a house of silence,
we have not learned
to open our mouths,
dejar la lengua caer hasta el piso
desarrollando palabras
moving mountains,
moving rivers,
moving skies,
moving me. Out of fear.
Yet—
I can dream.
[/su_spoiler]
[su_spoiler title=”3.” style=”fancy”]
3.
Silverio Pelayo Jr.
Your Story
is a snake
That sheds
The death
Of deception
It is a lightning bolt
Fashioned
From the golden fibers
That thread
The infinite sky
Of your heart
It is a fire
Carried on the wings
Of hawks vision
Set ablaze
The dawning
Of a new day
www.silveriopelayo.wordpress.com
[/su_spoiler]
[su_spoiler title=”Talahalusi: In this Paradise” style=”fancy”]
Talahalusi: In this Paradise
Xulio Soriano
Every year I climb this hill
pressed against the breasts
of Mayacamas and Vaca ranges;
caressed by breeze that flows amidst them.
Every year I step on this mound
hoping no bones lay here to be disturbed;
that buried spears and arrowheads
will not pierce my feet in retaliation;
that coyote’s ground is not intruded
nor crow’s sky transgressed.
Every time I climb this earth
I see the force that combed the the hillsides
and uprooted grandmother oak,
and proliferated red bumps
that oxidized native bronze skin
made as velvet and painful as
redskin scalps attached to
twitching, horse-thick black hair.
Fractal, equidistant scars line the mountains.
I think of the cornrows on your head
and the corn fields that my poppa abandoned.
Our paths are intertwined.
Just as you carry rows of maize on you
with braided mathematical precision
accurate as my abuelito’s Mayan calendar,
I carry the heartbeat of your African drum
in the night salsa that
shakes Downtown Napa
and the unauthorized cumbia
that spills uncontrollably into the neighborhood
like the flood of candy broken from
saturday 5pm piñatas
at Kennedy Park.
Sometimes I don’t belong.
My family walked across borders–
indigenous farmworkers uncomfortable
in our own brown skin:
Guests on Wappo soil;
cousins to First Nations.
Your family was shipped across oceans in shackles
or perhaps had sailed here long before.
Your bodies the currency–
your scarred backs–
risk management–
a noose on your necks–
their capital loss at a gain.
Our people’s land the real estate–
our blood the fertilizer
that built this place we
eagerly want to set roots in
yet can’t call home.
I’m stuck between a world that is not mine
and land that belongs to all of us.
Coyote howls.
I must return.
White-tailed kite swoops down.
Wild radish blooms.
[/su_spoiler]
[/su_accordion]
