MURAL INVIERNO 2016
HACE FRÍO DOSMILDIECISÉIS Editor in Chief Ada Torres
Managing Editor
Patricia van Hissenhoven
Layout Manager
Coral Estrella Sabino Silvestre
Contributing Editors
Christian Sanchez Tatiana Khemet Daniel Ramírez-Raftree
Business Manager Daniela Campillo
Editorial Staff
Regina Favela George Adames Jasmin Pizano
reseñas
Güeros
Ada Torres
Re
Christian Sanchez
“Mi limón, mi limonero” Regina Favela
Dos Santos
Daniel Ramírez-Raftree
Vengo
Paula Carcamo
La Banda
Jasmin Pizano
poesía
Por dentro
Claudia Giribaldi
Entre el viento Daisy Franco
tertulia
No sé
Frank Sierra
política
Frente nacional Patricia van Hissenhoven
prosa creativa The Blues of J Erika Doyle
Tacto
Carly Offidani-Bertrand
a r t e v i s u a l*
y
f o t o g r a f Ă a s* Paula Carcamo Regina Favela Christian Sanchez Ada Torres
*(These are distributed throughout the issue.) **(Cover photo: Paula Carcamo / Mural: James De La Vega’s Homage to Pablo Picasso, Spanish Harlem)
agradecimientos
rese単as
foto: Christian Sanchez
Güeros Ada Torres Tomás emigra de Veracruz a la Ciudad de México para irse a vivir con su hermano mayor Federico, un joven universitario en huelga de la huelga. De camino a la ciudad, Tomás viaja enchufado a su walkman y carga con un casete que le regaló su padre: el de Epigmenio Cruz, ídolo que según Federico, “pudo haber salvado el rock nacional”. Pero aunque la búsqueda de Epigmenio arrastre la trama principal del filme, no se trata de escucharlo a él sino a otros ídolos que efectivamente han salvado y enaltecido la música latinoamericana. De la intersección de emisiones radiofónicas, el piano y las composiciones de Agustín Lara, y lo que a veces pulsa y escuchamos por dentro, de eso se trata gran parte de la banda sonora del filme Güeros (2015). En la radio escuchamos a Ana, una joven universitaria en huelga. Su voz recita algún poema de su autoría o de Federico. La chica también invita a sus oyentes a la asamblea general y anuncia los clásicos del Flaco de Oro, Agustín Lara. En Güeros, la música de Agustín Lara no es meramente aquello que suena en la radio “un lunes de hueva”. Si suena en la radio es porque Federico, enamorado, le prestó un disco de clásicos del Flaco de Oro a Ana y porque Ana, enamorada, le dedicó “Veracruz”1 a Federico. A través del filme, Agustín Lara canta, Toña la Negra canta y Natalia Lafourcade canta. Federico y Tomás estarán lejos de su natal Veracruz, pero junto a las composiciones de Lara y sus intérpretes veracruzanas, Veracruz está tan cerca como el recuerdo de su padre.
Yo nací con la luna de plata / nací con alma de pirata, he nacido rumbero y jarocho trovador de veras, y me fui lejos de Veracruz. Veracruz, rinconcito donde hacen su nido las olas del mar / Veracruz, rinconcito de patria que sabe sufrir y cantar / Veracruz, son tus noches diluvio de estrellas, palmera y mujer. Veracruz, vibra en mi ser, algún día hasta tus playas lejanas tendré que volver... 1
La poesía del Flaco de Oro es la locura espontánea que fluye en las pupilas humeadas de Ana y la luz tenue que brilla en los faroles de las calles del Centro; calles que Tomás observa en silencio, de madrugada y desde el coche. Más que todo, las letras de Lara representan lo que añora Federico: la calma, escribir y enamorarse. Pero tal y como lo compone Lara y lo refleja Federico, encontrar un equilibrio entre esos tres placeres y vivir ese equilibrio, es prácticamente imposible. Sería quizás lo que algunos llaman felicidad. En varias secuencias del filme observamos a un Federico mentalmente atormentado. Tanto así que escuchamos el miedo que tirita en su cigarrillo y pulsa rápidamente en su interior. Las personas que hablan a su alrededor parecen hablar desde muy lejos, como si hablaran con un vaso de plástico cubriéndoles la boca. Pero desde muy cerca, escuchamos la respiración desorientada de Federico. Sufrimos la distorsión de sus sentidos y nos conmueve el tigre invisible que le ruge en frente. “Tengo miedo de volverme loco” le confiesa Federico al doctor que lo revisa. “No te estás volviendo loco wey. Se llama ataque de pánico. Es muy común. Tómate unas vacaciones. Vete con tu chava a Veracruz. Necesitas descansar” le recomienda el doctor. Entonces la banda sonora de Güeros es eso--el remedio ideal para atenuar los ataques de pánico que nos provocan amar y crecer. Sería quizás lo que algunos llamamos felicidad.
Re Christian Sanchez “con todos los mestizos, también me maleducaron” a reseña en Spanglish. La primera vez que miré a Café Tacvba en vivo todo lo que conocía sobre la música cambió. Era otoño de 2014, la banda celebraba 25 años de estar juntos y 20 años desde el estreno de su segundo disco Re (22 de julio de 1994). The theatre where they played that night was full of Latino fans of all ages. Chicago es el hogar de muchos mexicanos but there were more than just Mexican fans in the crowd and the atmosphere definitely reflected a community that went beyond borders. I had been looking forward to this show y fue una gran dicha que esa noche Re sonaría de principio a fin, dejándome con la experiencia del disco en vivo. Rubén, the lead vocalist came on stage dressed in an all-red suit -estilo diablo-, the rest of the band got into place and they began to play “El Aparato” amongst the deafening noise of cheering and clapping. Yo era feliz entre la complejidad de mi vida y la música de Café Tacvba. Re cambia todo para el rock en español. Re es la fusión de generaciones de música mexicana creando así el sonido de una generación distinta. Es el sentimiento de conocer a tu gente y a ti mismo de manera íntima y frágil, al igual que rebelde y fuerte. Re es la poesía que combina elementos del futuro y el pasado. El paso del tiempo y lo que está por venir se escucha en el presente individual del oyente. En una entrevista de televisión mexicana, la banda habla del disco y lo describe como pluricultural. Este aspecto contribuye al sentido moderno de este álbum por la mezcla de sonidos; las canciones nos recuerdan a géneros musicales como banda, bolero, punk rock, cumbia, entre otros. Es un intento de representación mexicana genial porque a través de estos sonidos conoces varias partes de la cultura mexicana. Además, las letras de las canciones hablan de un pasado no sólo mexicano sino que también latino: el mestizaje.
Una de mis canciones favoritas de Re es “El fin de la infancia”, the trumpets/ trombone in the beginning of this piece start off strong with the underlying drumbeat signaling the banda norteña influence: Si nos quieren conquistar, tendrán que quemarnos vivos. Si nos quieren ver bailar, al ritmo de cinco siglos. Al cantar esta canción tengo algo que contarles, que desde ahora quiero ser dueño de mis pasos de baile. If they want to conquer us, they will have to burn us alive. If they want to watch us dance, to the beat/rhythm of five centuries. By singing this song I have something to tell you, that from now on I’m the owner of my dance moves. This song is confronting the colonial past of its culture and is bold in claiming its own artistic creation as its own. This confrontation is important because it deals with what didn’t work with mestizaje, and what to do now that la gran raza cósmica has not lived up to its supposed legacy. It opens up the conversation of what young Mexicans feel about this topic. This comes up again at the end of the album with the final song, “El balcón”. Café Tacvba is not here to appeal to the mainstream and wants to break away from oppression of any kind. Independence and freedom are key themes to this song specifically and to the whole album. La magia de Re es esta experiencia of reclaiming freedom que sigue atrayendo a jóvenes y a todos los interesados en una vida libre de opresión. Todo el disco es una experiencia y es muy difícil no hablar de cada una de las canciones pero tal discusión ocuparía toda la revista. Entonces hablaré del final, con lo que uno se obsesiona especialmente cuando termina cualquier relación.
La melodía de mi alma, si pudiera acercar mi oído hacia ella, empezaría con un “pa pa ru pa pa eo eo”. “El baile y el salón” es la gran canción romántica: es el comienzo, la esperanza, felicidad y dicha de enamorarse. Pero mientras esta canción es todas esas cosas, también demuestra la vulnerabilidad de regalarle el corazón a otra persona en medio del caos que es la vida. Y es así como comienza a cerrar el disco. Le sigue “El puñal y el corazón”, que describe la batalla del amor, difícil, rebelde, adictiva. Demuestra lo difícil que es terminar un amor de extremos. “El balcón” is a sleepy melody luring us into a dreamland ending the album but inviting the listener to think about an alternate reality. It anchors the album in a specific message tied to a colonial past. “El balcón” reimagines the victor as someone who is of black and indigenous descent which is a revolutionary and powerful way to end an album. Tú y yo en el balcón que asoma en los plantíos de plátano los patrones se han muerto y tú sigues trapeando el piso de ajedrez ven acá que desde aquí se logran ver todas las tierras que ahora nuestras son niño zambo heredero serás pues de un indio y una negra es su hogar No creo que cuando usted lea esta reseña piense wow, esta chica de veras llegó a ver todo aspecto “bueno y malo” de este disco. Pero, pues, si tuviera que dar una sugerencia diría que más Meme del Real hubiera sido excelente. Re continúa siendo emblemático de la juventud mexicana y latina. Escuchar este álbum es entrar en un sueño de un mundo lleno de románticos y activistas que quizás esta vez sí ganaron. Y además de todo esto, lo que es sobrevivir (apenas) moshing en cualquier concierto de esta banda legendaria es una experiencia que se posiciona entre las cinco mejores de toda mi vida. Recomendada 100%.
arte: Christian Sanchez Ada Torres
“Mi Limón, mi Limonero” Regina Favela “Mi limón, mi limonero... entero me gusta más...”, canta Henry Stephen y aún más cantarán las audiencias de Pelo Malo al salir de la sala. Esta película venezolana dirigida por Mariana Rondón obtuvo gran éxito y reconocimiento el año pasado. El pelo malo, por cual la película toma nombre, se refiere al pelo chino que se asocia con la ascendencia africana e indígena, un aspecto físico típicamente percibido como negativo a través de Latinoamérica. Por tal razón, Junior (9 años) se obsesiona con alisarse el pelo. Su madre, en cambio, cree que Junior es homosexual por prestarle tanta atención a su apariencia. La relación entre madre e hijo, entonces, se vuelve problemática y a veces hasta abusiva, demostrando así el racismo y la homofobia que existen en Latinoamérica. La incorporación de “Mi limón, mi limonero” se interpone entre estos momentos de tensión y violencia, creando una sensación de alivio ante la realidad que se exhibe alrededor de Junior. Esta canción fue lanzada en 1965 por Henry Stephen, cantante venezolano que fue uno de los primeros músicos de rock n’ roll en Venezuela. El rock n’ roll empezó en los Estados Unidos durante los años cuarenta y se popularizó en Venezuela a fines de los años cincuenta. El género nace de la mezcla de aspectos de la música afroamericana y los instrumentos típicos de Europa para crear sonidos innovadores. Estas influencias se perciben en “Mi limón, mi limonero” a través del uso de las guitarras y los saxofones. Por un lado, la letra sencilla y repetitiva de la canción hace énfasis en los limones, produciendo una imagen típica de Latinoamérica. Por el otro lado, la letra crea una imagen europea con la incorporación de los franceses y los ingleses, cantando, “un inglés dijo yeah yeah, yeah yeah, / y un francés dijo oh la la.” Esta mezcla de influencias culturales evoca una sensación mundial, el descubrimiento de un significado global. Es por esto que se puede decir que además de ser un estilo musical, el rock n’ roll marcó un cambio psicocultural, fue el comienzo de la lucha hacia la libertad y
modernidad. La canción suena más de una vez a través de la película, particularmente en las escenas entre Junior y su abuela paterna. Al descubrir a Henry Stephen, Junior aspira a imitarlo en su foto escolar, colocándose un atuendo blanco similar al que modelaba el rockero venezolano. Este deseo se puede interpretar como una expresión de querer cambiar. Su atracción a la canción y a las costumbres relacionadas a la música de Stephen demuestra que Junior busca alejarse de las connotaciones racistas y homofóbicas que lo persiguen. Aunque la película se centra en los años ochenta, el mensaje del rock n’ roll como un movimiento hacia la modernidad y hacia algo mejor, persiste y conserva la capacidad de cambiar la vida y los problemas que enfrenta Junior. La abuela, queriendo complacer los caprichos de su nieto, le cose un vestuario parecido al de Stephen. Junior, al verse en el espejo, rechaza el vestuario diciendo que parece un atuendo de niña y que él, un varón, no se lo pondría. Esta declaración restablece las tendencias sociales que existen y la dificultad de cambiarlas. La canción entonces, es el recuerdo de un movimiento hacia la libertad, una lucha que no tiene fin.
foto: Christian Sanchez
Dos Santos Daniel Ramírez-Raftree Si me preguntaran cuál es mi sonido latinoamericano favorito, yo diría que es la chicha. En el ámbito cultural de la comida, la chicha es una bebida. Ésta se produce (o, por lo menos, se producía) bajo un método que requiere que uno mastique el maíz por un ratito. Luego se escupe el maíz y se pone a secar para dejar que las enzimas de la saliva ayuden a convertir el maíz en alcohol. Sin duda alguna, esta chicha es tan divertida como la chicha a la cual me refiero cuando hablo de mi sonido favorito, pero como escribo para una colección de reseñas dedicada a la música, queda claro que mi enfoque principal es la chicha que surgió en el Perú durante los años sesenta. Esta música se deriva de una mezcla de estilos. Específicamente, de la cumbia y la música psicodélica—una combinación perfecta para los que gustan del baile y también de la dislocación de su mundo interior. Aunque no es mi canción favorita, un ejemplo notable de la chicha es la canción “Para Elisa”, una interpretación a-la-cumbia de la famosa Für Elise. Este toque peruano toma una pieza clásica del mundo occidental y transforma su seriedad en una broma—quizá poscolonial y definitivamente pro-popular—que da risa sin destruir la musicalidad chichesca que le otorga su legitimidad. Otra canción que incluyo para su goce personal es “Vacilando con Ayahuasca” de Juaneco y su combo. Búsquenla por favor. La chicha es un género musical que logra ser juguetón, complejo e inspirador del baile simultáneamente. Por tal razón, propongo que el género chichesco merece atención, aunque hayan pasado casi sesenta años desde su apogeo. La buena noticia es que no soy el único que comparte esta opinión. Mejor noticia es que estos otros con quienes comparto opinión saben tocar música. Hablo en particular de Dos Santos: Anti-Beat Orquesta. Para no cometer la injusticia de falsificar las raíces del estilo de esta banda, tengo que admitir que la chicha no es su única influencia. Ellos tienen un sonido electrónico más pesado que la chicha, no bromean como los chicheros que conozco y sus letras no incorporan la misma cantidad de gritos incoherentes. Además, gran parte de la banda tiene conexiones personales a México y al Caribe
latinoamericano. Por eso incorporan una conglomeración de tradiciones musicales de estas regiones, factor que aplaca la influencia de la chicha peruana sobre su música. Sin embargo, esta configuración del legado latinoamericano heredado por la banda, el ambiente de hibridez urbana proporcionado por la ciudad de Chicago y la creciente comunidad gringo-latinoamericana1 en el oeste de nuestra ciudad facilitan la creación de una cumbia con un sonido notablemente local. Las similitudes entre la transformación del blues al trasladarse de Mississippi a Chicago y la transformación de la cumbia al llegar desde América Latina hasta aquí me interesan. Aunque no poseo la experiencia para hacer una declaración definitiva, me pregunto qué faz tendrá la cumbia cuando haya sido reinterpretada por los gringo-latinoamericanos que abundan en nuestra “generación del milenio”. Creo que Dos Santos es un ejemplo de la subcultura que se está creando entre los jóvenes gringo-latinoamericanos de Chicago. No más análisis. Mi recomendación es que vean a Dos Santos en vivo. Su álbum es bueno, pero no se compara a sus habilidades de improvisación ni a la oportunidad de escucharlo rodeados por un club de cumbiamberos—amateurs y veteranos. De todos modos, si tienen Spotify a su disponibilidad, hay dos álbumes que vale la pena escuchar para entender mejor de lo que hablo: Dos Santos (comiencen con la canción “La Diablera”) y The Roots of Chicha. La mejor parte de todo es que no les costará nada escucharlos. Qué gloria es vivir en la Era Digital.
gringo-latinoamericanx: alguien que practica una cultura que tiene sus raíces en la mezcla de las culturas estadounidenses y latinoamericanas.
1
Vengo Paula Carcamo One of the most immediately arresting things about Vengo to a firsttime listener of Ana Tijoux is probably Tijoux herself. Ana Tijoux is the daughter of French-Chilean parents who were exiled during the military dictatorship of the 1970s. She began writing music at a young age, but discovered a passion for singing and rapping that she attributes to the Latin American music she listened to growing up. Tijoux’s rapping style has a steady flow and cadence that evokes a sense of calm, but it lacks the vocal force one tends to find in many other female emcees in modern American hip-hop such as Azealia Banks, Angel Haze, or Nicki Minaj. This absence is startling considering the gravity surrounding many of the issues she raps about. Her complex lyricism, coupled with live Andean instrumentals and hard hitting political messages make Tijoux a unique figure among rap artists. But her album Vengo is more powerful than its individual formal elements, and takes a different path from much of today’s popular hip-hop music. In Tijoux’s 4th solo album since departing from Chilean rap collective Makiza, she interweaves her political views and personal life and gives listeners a much more intimate and powerful experience than she has in any of her previous works. Tijoux’s lyricism in Vengo is a key factor that gives the album its depth and makes it such a personal and political statement. In Vengo, Tijoux explores themes of feminism, motherhood, Latin American identity, and environmentalism. Despite their breadth, each of these issues is immediate to Tijoux and will resonate with a variety of listeners. The songs on the album range from an exploration of her Latin American identity and ideology in the titular song “Vengo”— where she invokes Uruguayan writer Eduardo Galeano—to an ode to her young daughter in the acoustic ballad “Emilia”. Each of the songs on the album is capable of standing alone, but together in Vengo, they create a cohesive statement that shows not only what is important to Ana Tijoux and why, but also what Tijoux hopes to inspire people to discuss and understand.
Tijoux’s themes of feminism, anti-colonialism, and political socialism are coupled with historically and politically significant instrumental choices; she uses many live Andean instruments in her beats. Her decision to incorporate instruments like the charango, a 10 stringed guitar-like instrument, and the quena, a traditional Andean flute, into hip-hop music recall the nueva canción movement of the 1960s and 70s. Nueva canción was a musical movement that started in Chile with the desire to preserve disappearing folk and popular music melodies. From there, it was incorporated into socialist movements across Latin America. Thus, the influence of the nueva canción movement can be heard both in Tijoux’s socialist references, such as in the lyrics of “Todo lo sólido se desvanece en el aire”, and in her use of Andean melodies and instruments to create beats for hip hop, so recapturing the soul of a genre of music that once served primarily to give a voice to those ignored and put down by society.
foto: Paula Carcamo
Much like the nueva canción movement outgrew Chile’s borders and became a Pan-Latin American movement, Tijoux’s album grows from her Chilean roots to create a work that speaks about her experiences to a global audience. In part, Tijoux does this through the artists that she features on Vengo. One particularly notable featured artist is the Palestinian rapper Shadia Mansour in “Somos Sur”. In this song Tijoux draws similarities among all the countries that are traditionally referred to as belonging to the “Third World.” She calls for all the “silenced,” “omitted,” and “invisible” to unite and see their similarities rather than their differences. This is just one example of Tijoux’s use of Vengo as a platform for political activism, in this case through collaborating with Mansour to send out a call for global social justice and unity. Overall, Vengo is a powerful work that showcases the talents of an emerging global rap community. Moreover, it is Tijoux’s iteration of a hip-hop reminiscent of its earliest roots. This album is a fearless expression of dissatisfaction with various political issues and uses hiphop as a platform for giving a voice to the marginalized. The album is both deeply personal and extremely relatable. Vengo is worth a listen for all those who are interested in hearing a refreshing reminder of the emotive and political power of hip-hop from a talented artist.
La banda Jasmin Pizano It seems Sunday night family TV has been a tradition Univision has kept in mind. They’ve hosted a variety of reality shows aired Sunday night ranging from Bailando por un sueño, Pequeños Gigantes, and Nuestra Belleza Latina with the intention of providing a show that entertains the whole family. Most of these Sunday shows share the premise of making dreams come true through performing arts, with mostly Hispanic and Latino participants. This premise seems to be continuously added to. Univision is incorporating more and more viewer interaction, such as voting for the show participants from home, thus putting more power in the hands of the viewers. This viewer inclusion and sense of immediate satisfaction has nevertheless reached a limit I find questionable. La Banda, Univision’s latest singing competition series that premiered on September 13, 2015, has taken viewer and audience inclusion to a new level. The reality show is aimed at creating the biggest Latino boy band the world has ever seen. Out of all the boys who auditioned, only five would comprise the band. They would be led by Ricky Martin as manager under a Sony Music Latin recording contract. However, to be among these five lucky fellas, you had to pass the ultimate criticism. Before these young and talented aspiring artists had the opportunity to actually sing,to then be judged by their vocal abilities, they had to walk down a runway and enchant the all-female audience enough to get a pass. A fangirlingcrowd with phones at hand and an app with the option of simply saying “yes” or “no” stood in the way of singing to a panel of judges composed of Laura Pausini, Alejandro Sanz, and of course, Ricky Martin. To get a pass from the crowd, the auditioning boys had no more than around 2 minutes to enamor the audience with their presence. The aspiring artist would need a 75% or higher “yes” rate from the audience to see the panel of judges. The only other way an auditioning artist could reach the panel of judgesif the audience would not give him a 75% minimum to passwas to be “rescued” by one of the judges.
Being crass, this show relies heavily on its participants being extrovertedly and physically attractive to satisfy the audience before it even touches upon musical talent, which sounds misleading given its premise of musical entertainment. Interestingly enough though, the show’s aim was to create the greatest Latino boy band thus far. A goal that seems to factor in viewer satisfaction and celebrityÂ-like potential before given musical abilities. This makes sense, right: the people vote for who they find attractive and talented, the judges choose which artists complement one another, the production chooses which covers will be largely and positively received. The band is manufactured for the people and almost by the people. The people seemingly want it and seemingly get itÂ: the creation of a popular boy band is achieved. However, it is worth reflecting on whether the desired boy band characteristics are even genuinely coming from the viewers. I guess my question now is whether this show is about musical art and talent or about entertainment? The band members are definitely talented, but the prioritized value in their selection was based on their attractiveness under limited impressions- rendering attractiveness as the largest factor. Has there always been a distinction between entertainment and music? In a broader scope, I am concerned Univision resorted to this method of creating a competitive boy band based on a stereotypical archetype that has recently picked up momentum, such as One Direction. With the immense amount of vocal and performative talent that can be found in the large pool of a growing Latino population, it is disappointing that Univision, as one of the most representative and widely known broadcast television networks for Spanish speakers, has settled on prioritizing the looks and attractiveness of a boy band prototype. This conformist attitude is misleading to the wide variety of talent that could be found in the Latino community if we would stop emulating paradigms. Although the music industry is not all commercial, I remain a little disappointed with the representative values the show offers as a Latino community.
Era un no me olvides convertido en flor Un inglés dijo yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah y un francés dijo oh la la
Yo que era un solitario bailando Me quedé sin hablar Mientras tú me fuiste demostrando Que el amor es bailar ven mi linda muñequita ven regálame tu amor no me niegues tu boquita que me muero de dolor y
es
que
vienes
en la brisa y llenas mi alma eres mi bendición toda mi calma
foto: Christian Sanchez
foto: Christian Sanchez
poesĂa
Por dentro Claudia Giribaldi Muchas veces estamos cohibidas en no discutir la sexualidad de nuestros cuerpos que necesitan ese calor orgรกsmico que construye una parte de nuestro existir. A veces queremos trascender nuestros muslos y caderas y aceptar un piropo que no solo sea sobre nuestra figura. Podemos llegar a ese calor en la intimidad con tan solo tocarnos de cierta manera al descubrir nuestros orificios que llegan a prender una luz que parece apagada a la vista pero que quiere encenderse al tocarnos con un deseo que va mรกs allรก de nuestra superficie. Nos calmamos con tan solo llenar tu mirada de deseo sin mover un solo dedo y apaciguar tu amargura con un encuentro mutuo sin nada de remordimientos. Nos sentimos vivas al entender que hemos descubierto los secretos de tus propios entornos y el deseo de viajar y conocer nuestros cuerpos es un acuerdo mutuo.
Entre el viento Daisy Franco Amo a mi ciudad de pelo azotado, ciudad de miradas de lado Mi ciudad de amor y desesperación, vivienda de verdes y grises salvajes, tristes Sus aceras destrozadas brillan como purpurina por la noche cuando fragmentos de vidrio se alumbran con luces tranquilas. Ella es una triste belleza sentada abrazada de sus rodillas Sobre sus pies aterrizan lágrimas brotadas de ojos negros A través de sus calles canta sus penas cuando llueve el desamor y la verdad. Algunos días lleva vestido de verano y susurra hacia los árboles Le sonríe a los turistas que complementan su tono de piel En esas noches cálidas, mi ciudad trenza su pelo con olor a cítricos y sudor mientras esconde secretos en esquinas oscuras. Sus encantos ocultan su ansiedad al ver a sus habitantes estirar la bastilla del hambre Mientras da su espalda al timador, voltea su cara de angustia hacia el asesino A pesar de ser perjudicada por sus agresores nunca deja la esperanza de un nuevo amanecer. Al llegar el frío, desvanecen las multitudes y ella se consuela en la calidez de los que nunca la han desolado Nosotros, sus fieles servidores, quienes la acompañamos y la acariciamos entre el dolor y entre el viento.
foto: Christian Sanchez
foto: Ada Torres
tertulia
No sé Frank Sierra I hated who I was and wished that I would just be White. But, I was too Mexican to be White. And I was too White to be Mexican. I was an underwater explorer. I swam around looking for treasure and swam within the perimeter allowed by my inflatable pool. I rose up from the water for a breath of air, to gaze around my living room, surrounded by noise coming from the kitchen, television, and my parents. I grew up in Brighton Park, a predominantly Latino neighborhood in the South Side of Chicago. The area was pretty quiet and safe during the day. When night came, however, gangs would patrol the streets with violence or gang recruitment on their mind. My parents were no stranger to what lurked around each corner at night. To make sure I was safe, they kept me inside most of the time. My parents would let me go nuts inside. I was sheltered. I read books and rode my bike inside. I had so many stories about fantastic creatures and heroes. When I wasn’t reading, I would have many conversations with both of my parents. Our conversations would focus on motivating me to talk about the books I enjoyed most. When I did go outside, I didn’t play with the other kids. They said funny words and didn’t speak much English to me. Their parents would scream for them, “Ven!” when they ran too far. My father would just yell my name. I didn’t have many friends who lived on my block. Instead, I would wait for my cousins to come over, and then we would play in my backyard for hours. One fateful day in Kindergarten, I asked a classmate if I could play with his group of friends. He looked at me with a disgusted look on his face and said, “You can’t play with us. You’re not Black like us!” Being the kid that I was, I ran to my mom and straight up told on him (My mom was my Kindergarten teacher, so I was pretty cool
in my head at least). He got in trouble, and his mom yelled at him when she picked him up. That’s what he deserved, I thought. But then, I turned to my mom and asked what he meant when he said I wasn’t Black. Her watered down explanation revolved around the idea that some people were different colors. With this idea in my head, I did not understand why people cared what color they were. If they liked video games, I liked them. That’s how being a kid should be: liking people due to similar interests. On my first day of first grade, when we were given our first free time, I tried to make friends. I went up to a group of kids but I could not understand them. I tried to play, but I felt weird not understanding them, so I left to another group of kids. Some started off speaking to me, and then they trailed off to that odd language everyone spoke but me. I was lining up to leave for the day when I noticed someone had the same Yu-Gi-Oh backpack as me. I went to talk to him about Yu-Gi-Oh, and that’s how I met my best friend. He was just like me. He didn’t speak the language the other kids spoke, and he loved cartoons. HE UNDERSTOOD ME AND THAT MADE ME HAPPY. Overtime, the unknown language that the kids spoke in first grade revealed itself to be Spanish. After understanding this, I started associating Spanish with Mexican culture. I did not speak Spanish, but the people around me did. Did that make me less Mexican? I never had to deal with this idea of my own culture when I was younger, but when I grew older, the differences between being White and Mexican stood out on TV. From TV, I had different portrayals of people that looked like me. I had the people that were always sweating and doing hard labor. Janitors, cleaners, gardeners, and any other blue collar job was depicted to be a job for Mexicans. I could turn to the Spanish channels and see Latinos and Hispanics playing overly dressed people with very dramatic pauses and music, yet I didn’t understand it. Aside from the main difference of class, there was also one crucial depiction as well: the characters on the Spanish television had light skin while the Mexicans depicted on American television had dark skin.
Did that mean I was to identify with the janitors because I was dark? Did America not see me being successful because I was Mexican American? Was I even Mexican American? I had no true depiction of who I was. There was no true representation of the different types of Mexican Americans on television. I started wondering if I was White. None of the other kids really connected with me. I loved books and they loved soccer. I loved math and they spoke Spanish. I soon became ostracized because I was not “one of them” as they would say. Any way that I tried I could never fully feel like I belonged. In my head, I was White. I was tired of letting the lack of representation of successful Latinos in my life hold me back. Since I did not fit the idea of Mexican American, according to TV or the people surrounding me, I chose the other route that I was labeled. I was intelligent. I spoke “White,” according to most of the kids at grammar school, and I acted “White.” I enjoyed soaking in every piece of knowledge thrown at me. I read an immensely large amount of books. I was great at school. Teachers would tell me I was going places. I believed them. But most of all, my parents and sister knew that I was capable to reach farther than anyone has in our family. So being Latino was not my goal: being successful was. If being Latino meant that I could not be successful, I had to reject my culture in order to feel like I could be successful without the stereotypes attached to me. In high school, I was placed into all honors and AP classes. I was finally able to meet kids that looked like me and were called “White.” This group of students were composed of predominately Black and Latino kids who were all very well educated and understood the struggles of not reflecting stereotypes or “normal” lives through the eyes of their own culture. I felt at home, finally. I was able to be myself and strive for success without the feeling that I didn’t belong. We were all similar in that we were different: different from what society portrayed us to be. I was understood and not ridiculed.
My identity is a constant struggle. Sometimes I wake up feeling like I should be a productive person, showing that I was lucky enough to have this opportunity. Others, I just don’t care because I worked hard to be where I am without much help from my culture. So am I proud to be Mexican American? No sé. I hate the stereotypes that are strung along, which are created by the media or people who don’t fully understand the struggles of immigrating. I hate the faces that I receive when I am labeled as “that Mexican” or “some illegal alien.” I don’t want to be on a magazine being known as “the first Latino” anything. I want to be recognized as Frankie. I want to be an inspiration for everyone. But I also want children to look at me and be able to see that a person their color can do just as much as any other person can do. I think what is worse is the division within my culture as well. There are first generation children, working hard and knowing the struggles their parents went through in order to bring them to this country; and on the other side, there are the children who have been here for years and have assimilated so much that the culture was diluted as generations progressed. This is obviously not a clear-cut division either because there are always outliers for both sides. However, there seems to be this appeal to assimilate and be White. Being White is associated with success, happiness, and money. Without the representation of successful Latinos, you have the idea that when you try to strive for better, you are most likely to stray away from culture, causing people who may not be as successful to tie education and being White together. In order to keep this culture, kids try to not work as hard in school because it’s a “White” thing. So you then have these kids who don’t believe that they can be educated because then they won’t be Mexican. This is far from the truth. This generation is evidence of that as more diversity is beginning to appear on college grounds. However, it’s still a struggle to break down distorted mindsets. The one thing that I rejected for so long is the only thing that keeps me from drowning in a world dominated by non-Latinos. I want my
kids to be able to feel like they are worth something. I want them to know that their skin will not define their intelligence. And most of all? I want them to realize that being Mexican is not a setback. We need to let everyone know that our voices matter as much as any other. We need to let our children know that it’s definitely possible to be a proud Mexican American and educated. Success is NOT a White attribute, and education is just key for better representation in the media and the real world. It’s time to associate being educated with being any color. It’s time to let people know that as soon as we let our culture sing within corporate America, television, music, and literature, we can be who we are without having to assimilate and lose our rich history and culture. We are strong, educated, and willing to go through great lengths for success. Spread the word. Teach your children. Stand tall. Embrace all the quirks and traditions. Tell your children about the “Chancla” and “El Cucuy” and how it’s okay to be smart and brown. Go. Dale.
polĂtica foto: Ada Torres
Frente Nacional Patricia van Hissenhoven In 1957 Colombia entered its ninth year of chaos. In 1948, the assassination of political leader Jorge EliĂŠcer GaitĂĄn led to devastating bipartisan violence. In 1952 dictator Gustavo Rojas Pinilla was appointed to power. Finally, in 1957 a military junta took his place when Alberto Lleras Camargo, Liberal, and Laureano GĂłmez, Conservative, met in Spain to sign a proposal that distributed and confined power to their two parties for the following sixteen years. Leaders of the two traditional parties, Conservative and Liberal, agreed to share power over the course of the following four terms by alternating which party held control over the presidential seat. This period is known as the Frente Nacional. Their proposal was submitted as a plebiscite, and on December 1st, 1957 the plebiscite passed, thus shutting the door to any alternative party that wished to vie for power. Despite the fact that Colombia had had bipartisan politics for decades, the Frente Nacional shows an effort on behalf of the two parties to do whatever it took to stay in control. They would rather share power with their enemies under this agreement than see their power fall to any other group. Note that Rojas Pinilla came to power to solve bipartisan violence. At the time, followers of the Liberal and Conservative parties were literally killing each other over their political affiliation. The purpose of the 1957 plebiscite was to remove the former dictator from power while establishing some degree of stability to a country torn by bipartisan polarization. Interestingly enough, though, all major Colombian guerrillas, including the FARC, were created during the sixteen-year period that followed. The most telling example of this phenomenon is that of the M-19 movement. The presidential elections of April 19th, 1970 were meant to decide on whether or not Misael Pastrana, Conservative, would become the last president of the Frente Nacional. He was running against the former dictator, Gustavo Rojas Pinilla, who had created a new party and was ahead in the count. Suddenly, the lights went out. Plot-twist. Pastrana won. Outraged by the electoral fraud, university students founded the M-19 guerrilla movement. Similar stories gave birth to the FARC and the ELN, the largest guerrillas in Colombia today. Rather than ending violence, the
restriction of power to traditional political elites and to two political parties resulted in the institutionalization of violence that today, almost seventy years later, we are still trying to disassemble. In a twisted turn of events, Colombia’s government tied a noose around its own neck; political parties fueled the very war that challenged their governments for seven decades. Similar observations can be made of the United States’ electoral system. Bipartisanship creates a problematic distribution of power. Alternation of power between two strong parties encumbers societies because power becomes a binary. If one party has it, the other does not, and will fight to obtain it. The only point of alliance is agreeing that both parties stay in power. The two main conflicts that arise are polarization and ineffective government. The country is polarized, and the party out of power generates an opposition that is poorly articulated and has a poor capacity to act. A couple of months ago, in the midst of the Republican-candidate-election fever, I was watching the news at the gym. After nearly choking from hearing Trump’s comments on vaccination, I nearly fell flat on the treadmill from hearing the topic of discussion: party-ism in couples. Recent studies showed, the report said, that party-ism was replacing racism as a common motive for one to discriminate in choosing their romantic partner. Apparently many American parents would feel outraged by their children marrying someone of the opposite political affiliation. Worse yet, party-ism affects how people are being hired. David Brooks cites a study in The New York Times in which students were asked to say who they would hire from a pool of student resumes. The conclusion was that “Blacks favored black students 73 percent to 27 percent, and whites favored black students slightly. But political cues were more powerful. Both Democrats and Republicans favored students who agreed with them 80 percent of the time. They favored students from their party even when other students had better credentials.” It was inevitable to think back to my grandparents’ stories from the 1940s and 50s, to the time when people killed each other for their political party; to the 1910s when my Conservative great-great grandmother married my Liberal great-great grandfather. Quite the rebels for the time.
We might be political animals, but we don’t need to be political beasts. Bipartisanship makes politics crawl into our personal lives, and since it isn’t a physical trait but an opinion, people feel justified in rejecting people based on their political opinion. Bipartisanship fuels this polarization because it is polarization. It is a binary of power, either your party has it and is trying to keep it or it doesn’t and it’s trying to get it. No serious political opposition can result from this system. Polarization does not result in oppositions balancing power, it stops government. One of the most remarkable events in Obama’s government was the shutdown that ensued when Congress could not agree on a budget. The disagreement was promoted by Republicans and resulted in a standstill. One can question whether there even are good intentions behind such radical fighting given that the result is a government shutdown. Isn’t it like flipping the chessboard because your rival is winning? The Frente Nacional demonstrated the opposite problem. In order to govern, both parties made a pact to keep everyone else out of power. This did not make them allies, but it definitely mutually restricted the opposition’s political leverage. If each party held the presidency every eight years, guaranteed, there was really no incentive to do a better job than their opposition. Worse yet, there was no real representation. Bipartisanship gives the illusion of choice, not only because of the lack of parties, but because not even opposition can be taken seriously. Brooks, David. “Why Partyism Is Wrong.” The New York Times. The New York Times, 27 Oct. 2014. Web. 4 Feb. 2016.
foto: Regina Favela
prosa creativa
foto: Ada Torres
The Blues of J.B. Lenoir Erika Doyle In Monticello, Mississippi a star was born where the cotton fields swing from side to side and the workin’ men sing from sunrise-to-sunset (happily communicating improvised rhymes) “Jordan River, I’m bound to go, Bound to go, bound to go,Jordan River, I’m bound to go, And bid ‘em fare ye well.” Who will get enough money to invite their buddies to a round of whiskey before heading home? J.B. Lenoir and his boogie-woogie (tattooed on his soul from time spent in the nightlife of New Orleans nineteen forty-five) made his way to Chicago in the early nineteen fifties where Big Bill Broonzy introduced him to the Chicago blues community.
J.B. Lenoir was a showman.
Developing a name for himself as a talented songwriter and bluesman with an evident political consciousness J.B.’s uniqueness as an artist was accentuated by his sense of style.
Wearing zebra-patterned suits and Singing in his high-pitched voice.
It was common for folks to confuse his voice with a female’s voice. He struggled financially, combining his career as a musician with meaningless day jobs. He shared his passion for music with other talented local musicians of those times such as Willie Dixon, and Fred Below, Sunnyland Slim, Muddy Waters, among others, with whom he recorded the controversial albums Alabama Blues (1965) and Down In Mississippi (1966);
“I never will go back to Alabama, that is not the place for me I never will go back to Alabama, that is not the place for me You know they killed my sister and my brother, And the whole world let them peoples go down there free”
His comments on the subject of civil rights were accentuated by his striking resemblance to Martin Luther King Jr. and he was no stranger to controversy as he wrote the song “Eisenhower’s Blues” about the state of the economy,
“Ain’t got a dime, ain’t even got a cent I don’t even have no money, to pay my rent My baby needs some clothes, she needs some shoes Peoples I don’t know what, I’m gonna do Mm mm mm, I got them Eisenhower blues”
The record company later forced him to change the title to “Taxpayer’s Blues.” The “Vietnam Blues” was another of his controversial compositions that told part of the American story from the perspective of the antiwar activist. J.B. knew that a change had to come.
He knew change was about to happen. His high-pitched voice cried out for a change, “Vietnam Vietnam, everybody cryin’ about Vietnam.”
Offering simple words with much significance, J.B. understood the fate of being a poor man, a poor Mississippian native and understood how hard it was to get ahead being a poor Mississippian. He knew what it was like being treated like a dog But he would sing, “World I don’t know, My people in here and I don’t care where I go.” In nineteen sixty-five a Swedish couple by the name of Seaberg were visiting Chicago hoping to catch some good blues. They went to Bob Koester’s record store, Jazz Record Mart on Grand Avenue in Chicago and asked where they could find the Blues. A well-known pianist by the name of Roosevelt Sykes was having a rent-paying party on the South Side and at this party was a man who appeared in a zebra-striped tuxedo.
It was J.B.
The Seabergs struck a chord with J.B. right away as they were intrigued by his style, following him around while they were in Chicago. When they
caught an appearance of J.B. on a television program with Willie Dixon supporting a Gospel Choir they were inspired. The Seabergs knew they could do a better job of capturing J.B.’s talent on film. So they filmed him. Zebra suit and all. But J.B.’s big eyes and smile were never to be seen on Swedish television. The films were judged to be too poor in quality. Such was the luck of J.B. Lenoir as it was throughout this bluesman’s life. Until the Seaberg’s films were resurrected forty years later for a documentary on J.B.’s short life after being shelved at the Seaberg’s home, collecting dust. Like most bluesmen of his time, J.B. was down on his luck and couldn’t make a living at home. His music may have been well respected in Europe and influential on artists overseas but back home he was just another poor Black man. So he migrated from Chicago to Champaign, Illinois to take on a dish-washing job to pay the bills. One evening J.B. was victim of a tragic auto accident. The accident would ultimately cost him his life as the hospitals in Champaign mistreated him because of his race. The blues community was shaken by the loss of such a brilliant artist. His legacy and the loss of his gift caused a rift to be felt as far as Europe, where British blues artist John Mayall paid tribute to J.B. in the song “Death of J.B. Lenoir:”
“A car has killed a friend down in Chicago thousand miles away A car has killed a friend down in Chicago thousand miles away When I read the news, night came early in my day”
Tacto Carly Offidani-Bertrand Mi nonna me besa en la mejilla, cuando la saludo y cuando me despido de ella. Pero aparte de ella, pocos conocen el tacto de mi mejilla. Escapándome en cuevas de papel, aprendí cómo tocar con los puños. No lo pensé en esa época, pero ahora me pregunto si me encantaba pegar a puñetazos para acortar la distancia. Hay muchas maneras de jugar con la proximidad física, y luchar es una. Valió la pena el dolor de los contraataques. Y mi amor por las artes marciales se trasladó fácilmente a un amor por atragantadas progresiones de acordes de bar. Ya me había aprendido cómo sobrepasar el miedo de que me pegaran en la cara. Podía zambullirme en los cuerpos agitados y reír. Pero ahora me pregunto por qué el único momento en que mis amigos y yo nos tocábamos era cuando nos empujábamos con fuerza para que voláramos al otro lado de la habitación. Me pregunto en qué clase de lugar se hace un baile con botas con punta de acero. Cambiar de sentirse distante a sentirse invadida al sentir al otro en el espacio. Me encantaba sentirlo, hay momentos en que todavía me encanta. Pero después de haber encontrado otra manera de cerrar la brecha, miro esta escena familiar con un peso en el pecho. Un chico flaquito con pelo estilo militar convulsiona en el escenario, se sacude y tiembla. Se pega con el micrófono, con el palo de la batería, con el resto de la gente. Se rasca la garganta por los gritos, sus dientes se ponen naranjas y pegajosos con su sangre. La gente siente el pulso del dolor, laten juntos, nos tiramos a chocarnos. Codos y hombros firmes hacia afuera, una postura ancha para absorber el impacto. Entraba y salía saltando. Por ahí salís con un par de moretones, pero me gustaba saber que lo podía aguantar. Me gustaba meterme en los espacios, saber que los otros se daban cuenta que yo estaba. Me gustaba sentirlos también. Sentía un orgullo especial por ser una mujer presente en este espacio. Solían haber menos. Encontré donde jugar con esos chicos, a tocarlos de una manera que exigía respeto. Podía ser que me pegaran, pero si me iban a pegar quería sentir lo mismo que el resto. E iba a
devolvérselo. Me metía pateando a los otros cuerpos en los espacios apretados y húmedos. Salía empapada con nuestro olor. Se siente poderoso, sentir tu poder y el de los otros. Lo probás, algunos más en broma que otros. Interpretaciones teatrales de la rabia. Aferrándote para recibir un golpe bajo, un dolor fugaz. Te olvidás de los otros dolores que te están persiguiendo. Es una manera de estar presente sólo en el momento, sentirlo en toda su plenitud mientras luchas con tu aliento. Dentro de un paisaje decolorado y estandarizado, el impacto de estos momentos se sentía fuerte. Luego, viví por un rato en un lugar donde todos me saludaban como mi nonna. Al principio retrocedía, sentía vergüenza por tantas muestras de cariño. Pero después de un tiempo, me encontré relajada en abrazos largos, sintiendo su alivio después de días frenéticos y lejos de casa. Aprendí cómo dormir suspendida de pie por la presión de los otros cuerpos apretados en el tren. Después de aprender eso, un beso en la mejilla no parecía tan invasivo. El desafío zonzo de coincidir con los pasos del otro en el baile también exigía concentración. Me atraía el poder, perderme en el momento con el otro. La diversión de evitar al otro con estilo, rozarnos casi sin tocarnos, para escapar al último momento. Un par de moretones quedaban después. Sé que soy un poco torpe, y todavía tengo que controlar los movimientos de los hombros mientras reboto con emoción. Pero aprendí a amar el baile, respirar y moverme con otra persona, sentir su presencia con una presión firme y breve. Es una manera de reír, reírse de uno mismo e invitar a otros a reír contigo. Una manera de eludir la soledad, de conectarte con una persona desconocida mediante un juego. Involucrarse en un rompecabezas juntos. Debido al baile y paralelo a ello, estoy perdiendo mi sentido de la vergüenza. Más profundamente, sé que voy a meter la pata, y mejor reír cuando pase. Hay muchas maneras de perderte en la masa, y una vez te perdés, no te das cuenta de lo que hacés. Y quedás con el gusto de manejarte así. Hay una fascinación que no entiendo totalmente, en tirar una onda fuerte. Es divertido usar tu fuerza, ver como reacciona el resto. El baile con una pareja, te exige que te des cuenta del otro. Te comunicás con él/ella, con la música. Se sienten y siguen el movimiento.
Para hacerlo bien, simplemente tenés que hacerlo, de momento a momento. No hay un plan. Y en compañía de la otra persona, también te sentís tú misma.Tus pasos tu respiración tu sudor. Tu fuerza. Te mueves con tu fuerza y no por necesidad. Te mueves por la alegría de sentirte en movimiento, de estar viva. Hay otros momentos cuando tenés que arrastrarte de la cama, y moverte a pesar de tu cansancio. Pero en este momento, no. En este momento, tenés energía de más y podés dejar que se desborde. Podés jugar en una forma obvia. Y mientras más te hacés cargo, más te movés como querés. Sacas la confianza de decirle al otro lo que querés. Mejorás, te sentís mejor. Ahora volví a mi lugar de origen, pero no recuperé toda la distancia. Siempre bailaba por el pasillo del supermercado conmigo misma, pero ahora me hace falta el toque, sentirme cerca de otros/as. Me pone hambrienta. Saludos de mano hacen puentes entre los espacios personales. Que no rompés la burbuja hasta que pedís permiso. Y hasta el saludo de la mano te deprime. Unos tienen puré pegado a sus muñecas, hay damas que te ofrecen sus nudillos para un beso, un agarrador ansioso aprieta la mitad de tus dedos y ahí se queda. Los yanquis tenemos miedo, un poco, de tocarnos. Son puntos de contacto tan poco comunes, que estamos fuera de práctica y nos vemos torpes. La confianza brilla, pero es díficil de lograr. Y no tocás al otro porque sí. Las señales sociales cambian un poco y parece que cada toque tiene un mensaje más fuerte detrás. Se interpreta que “no te tocó porque sí”. Por este motivo, tocás al otro menos. Si tocarías a todos/as, estarías tirando una onda demasiado fuerte. Siento el espacio sofocándome, a veces, mientras me paro en un ambiente con unas cuantas otras personas. Mirarles mientras nos mecemos un poquito entre los sonidos ‘post-rítmicos’ que salen de las máquinas pequeñas. Sé que no está permitido meterte en este espacio, la brecha, y si lo hiciera, se perdería el mensaje en la traducción. Me acostumbré a disfrutar el movimiento coordinado con otros más que los choques azarosos de cuerpos. Y aunque todavía siento el gusto de las dos formas, celebrar la agresión me hace temer un poco más
ahora. No por las consecuencias físicas de esta forma de interacción -que no es tan significante considerando toda la violencia que existesino por la oscuridad escondida detrás. Me quedo pensando en por qué elegimos ponernos en ese contacto con nuestros compañeros, por qué imitamos la violencia. Y cuando casi obligo a mis amigos a darme un abrazo, el abrazo se torna en unas palmadas en la espalda. Los brazos se abren y los pechos ni se tocan. Nos conocemos de casi toda la vida y todavía no sabemos cómo tocarnos. Acá si te chocás con alguien, pedís perdón. Para tocar el hombro, pedís perdón. Si contás un chiste y después dudás de su calidad, pedís perdón. Si preguntás algo demasiado íntimo pedís perdón. De hecho, si preguntás sobre cualquier cosa pedís perdón. Y si su abuela se está muriendo y no hay nada que decir, pedís perdón. Mucho. Cuando hablo inglés en casa, me doy cuenta de que paso el día pidiendo perdón. Cuando me pongo a pensar por qué lo digo, muchas veces ni lo sé. Se ha transformado en un mantra, vacío de signficado pero lleno de duda. Se siente como estar pidiendo perdón por estar presente, para hacer que se den cuenta los otros. No quiero pedir perdón. No me arrepiento de estar acá, tocando a otros y haciendo que se den cuenta de mi presencia. No siento vergüenza de amar a otros en mi vida y querer compartir momentos de tierna cercanía porque se siente bien. No quiero tener miedo de entrar en el espacio de otra persona, aunque no tenga un objetivo claro. A veces me preocupo de que sea demasiado. Que yo sea demasiado. Pero intento meterme de manera que la gente esté más feliz que en mi ausencia. Y al final, ya fue. Sólo pido permiso si te molesta. No es mi objetivo. Y quizás te quedarás pensando por qué te molesta, porque me parece que nos haría bien no dejar que nos molesten tantas cosas minúsculas.
foto: Christian Sanchez
foto: Ada Torres
gracias, Thank you, to the Dean’s Fund for Student Life for supporting the production of this issue. to the Center for Latin American Studies, the Organization of Latin American Students, the Katz Center for Mexican Studies, and the Center for Identity + Inclusion for relentlessly believing in this publication. to the editorial board for the hard work, paciencia, enthusiasm y compromiso. and to you ¡for reading!
For translated pieces and previous publications, visit our website: http://www.muralmagazine.squarespace.com/ Interested in getting involved? Escríbenos a muralzine@gmail.com