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Marcelo E. Fuentes: Introduction
INTRODUCTION
There is no way to put this in a softer way: this past year has been a year of losses. Amidst a global pandemic that hit this nation and our region especially hard, we have lost relatives, colleagues, and friends. Many of us in our community and at our university have been sick, lonely, overworked, bereaved. The entire world can look like a scarier place after realizing an imperceptible virus can turn our ordinary lives upside down and kill more than four million people (and counting). In addition to the pandemic, we have also experienced a lot of things we wish we never had: among them, a resurgence of racial attacks and tensions, an attempt to overthrow American democracy, and increasingly tragic effects of climate change.
In this context of sociopolitical turmoil and global mourning, one could wonder: What is the value, usefulness, or pertinence of literature? Why do people still write fictional stories or poetry, and is anybody interested in reading that instead of the news? Previous generations have wondered the same thing, as did for example the literary critic George Steiner and others who lived through the Second World War, the Holocaust, and the atomic bombs over Hiroshima and Nagasaki. In a famous article entitled “Silence and the
Poet,” Steiner wrote: “Has our civilization, by virtue of the inhumanity it has carried out and condoned —we are accomplices to that which leaves us indifferent— forfeited its claims to that indispensable luxury which we call literature? Not for ever, not everywhere, but simply in this time and place, as a city besieged forfeits its claims to the freedom of the winds and the cool of evening outside its walls.” When looking for an answer to his anguished question, Steiner could have looked at other places far away from the US and Europe, such as Latin America, where literature stopped being an “indispensable luxury” long ago and it has become since then simply indispensable. He should have read Gabriela Mistral, Ernesto Cardenal, or Nicolás Guillén, writers for whom their social and political commitment was always inseparable from their literary activities. When receiving his Nobel prize, Gabriel García Márquez said: “To oppression, plundering and abandonment, we respond with life. Neither floods nor plagues, famines nor cataclysms, nor even the eternal wars of century upon century, have been able to subdue the persistent advantage of life over death.” And writing literature is part of that struggle against death, not less than having kids, playing
with them, and working for them to have a better life. Because of this, and because compassion can be both a consequence of suffering and a remedy for it, our present issue of “Voces Latinas” contains social poetry inspired by the example of many generations of Spanish and Latin American women and men who questioned, analyzed, criticized, and transformed their societies through the written word.
The first section of this issue, “Comunidades” (“Communities”), looks at our society with a critical and constructive eye. Damaris Baquerizo’s “La naturaleza humana” offers an impassioned critique of a society full of abuse, poverty, corruption, and (t herefore) deat h. That same consumerist society is criticized with humor by Dyana Rivera Barreiro in “El ciudadano consumido.” Genesis Amaro focuses on the absurdities of our education system in “Educación / Education,” while Rosa Martínez’s “31 primaveras” warmly analyzes the role of love and age in different generations.
O u r s e c o n d s e c t i o n , “Fronteras” (“Boundaries”), emphasizes the geographical, social, and racial differences that separate people, but also contribute to the construction of their identities. Widnelia M. Avila examines the losses and transformations of Puerto Ricans during their history in “¡Oh, Borinquen querida!”. Both Rocío Roldán’s “El destino final” and Elizabeth Roche’s “La migración” study the issue of migration, but Rocío focuses on the hopes and trajectory of the immigrant, while Elizabeth pays more attention to the long-term effects of migration on identity and memories. Ana López’s “Los oprimidos” criticizes white privilege in contrast to the suffering and privations of racial minorities in the US. In a similar vein, Ariadna Troncoso’s “Muñeca negra de papel” extols the courage and hope of Afrodescendants in their struggle for equality and dignity. The t hird and final sect ion, “Inocencia” (“Innocence”), reminds us of our original beauty and goodness, which is usually lost to growth and trauma, but maybe not forever. Sabrina Mezzina’s “Hermosa niña” bravely addresses the impact of sexual abuse, while trusting the victim to overcome and resignify her trauma. In “Amor maternal,” Yoandra Vázquez Pérez meditates on the changing identity of a son of immigrants, every day a little bit farther from the culture and values of his parents. Caroline Fernandez’s “Ideas de cristal” observes a mother living in poverty and how, through both the deprivations and games of her children, she finds a hope for a better life. Finally, “Los niños del bosque” by Melissa Tudela is both an indictment of socioeconomic limitations and a call to freedom: through the metaphor of “the children in the forest,” Melissa shows the boundaries that surround most people and a way to liberate ourselves while liberating others.
For millennia, religions have affirmed that real joy and self-realization are only possible through compassion: a human heart can only attain happiness when it is open to others and to the totality of life, including its most painful moments. Researchers have more recently tested and proven the truth of this idea and many articles have been published during the last year about the importance of empathy, compassion, and connection when dealing with the pain of the present and the uncertainties of the future. I hope these poems that deal with suffering, trauma, and injustice, but that also sing about hope and beauty, help arise that compassion that can lead all of us to healing.
Marcelo E. Fuentes Editor of Voces Latinas
1. comunidad
Damaris Baquerizo
was born 22 years ago in Ecuador, where she lived until she was 8. Damaris later
moved to Spain and she lives at the moment in the United States, where she
is learning more about her Latin American roots and defining her identity.
LA NATURALEZA HUMANA
Miro a través de la ventana y lo que veo me horroriza,
Abuso, pobreza, corrupción y muerte es el pan de cada día.
Un padre mata a sus hijos para vengarse de su expareja,
Abuso, pobreza, corrupción y muerte es el pan de cada día.
Niños y mujeres siendo abusados por un sistema judicial injusto,
Los políticos dibujan garabatos mientras se llenan los bolsillos con el dinero de un pueblo empobrecido,
La humanidad siendo inhumana, no ofrece ayuda al prójimo,
Abuso, pobreza, corrupción y muerte es el pan de cada día.
