The Haunt of Colonization
Season two
Issue two
Luz Magdaleno Welcome to SERIO’s Haunt of Colonization issue! There is nothing scarier than the act of destroying a culture you don’t feel the need to respect but to kill. The bruja in me wants to cast a spell on all these demonios that we know as white people but I rather learn from their disgusting acts and spread knowledge on the power of resistance and truth. WE are featuring some amazing artists this isssue like Alvaro’s little brother Xavier and some amazing new contributors like Zaahid, one of my mentees. Thank you for all the support and please watch out for the scary pigs that are out to get us! IF only they knew what is coming their way!
MUAHHAHAHA!!!-Luz
Alvaro Zavala Hey BOO! ;) Welcome to another edition of ?Serio? This month’s theme is The Haunt of Colonization, in the spirit of Halloween and all things spooky, For centuries, white people have stomped on our land and claimed it as their own. And what can be more terrifying than slaughter & genocide. In this issue, we have brought together beautiful work from various artists that know how to send chills down your spine. Mi hermano menor also submitted a piece! Es muy espantoso ;) I hope you enjoyed your Halloween, stay safe out there prim@ –Alvaro
Art submitted by @geakzilla
Martin Gonzalez: "So, today I was minding my own business, pumping gas early in the morning, when I was approached by an older dark brown indigenous man. In his hand was a piece of paper, the following conversation took place. (The conversation was in Spanish, but I will translate)
Indigenous man: Good morning, kind of cold isn't it? Me: Good morning, yes it is. Me: Are you here to speak to me about god? Indigenous man: Yes I am. Me: But why? If you are Nican Tlaca. Indigenous man: (Confusion in his eyes) and what is that? Me: Nican Tlaca means indigenous, you and me are indigenous. We are Mexica, and that paper in your hand represents European religions. Do you know why you "believe" in that? It's because the Spanish forced it on our people. Indigenous man: (just stared at me with a half smile) Yes I know, I know the history of Mexico (with an attitude) I know what happened. Me: Let's see, tell me what happened? Indigenous man: Yes I know, about all that, about the Spanish and all that, but one way or another, the word of god had to come to us right? Me: One way or another? Let me tell you what happened, the worlds largest holocaust! 70-100 million of our people murdered! Women and little girls raped by Christians and Catholics.( At this point the conversation had built up a tension) Indigenous man: Yes young man, but all of that is in the past now. Me: No, it's not in the past, because you are still holding that piece of paper and coming to talk to me about god. You a brown indigenous man, trying to convert another indigenous man. It's not in the past. Me: Listen to me, we are in a time in which our people are waking up, our culture and our identity is coming back to us, and we the indigenous people are organizing and rising up. Indigenous man: well that is good, good for you guys. Me: Good for you too! You are indigenous are you not?
Indigenous man: No I am Hispanic, and a proud Christian. Me: Well I am not, I am Nican Tlaca, I am indigenous, and I reject your religion. I reject anything having to do with Christianity or Catholicism. Quit attacking my people with those fairy tale lies. They are the reason our people are on their knees, because we put all of our struggles and problems into hopes and prayers instead of educating ourselves and taking action. Take your little paper and go preach to real Christians, go preach to white people. At this point the man was completely speechless, it was the last thing he thought would happen when he approached me. He tried to speak again but I said‌ Me: Well I have to go, do not have any more time to talk, take care my indigenous brother, I have love for all of my people, and I hope you see the truth soon. Perhaps some people might say that I took it overboard, that the man was simply trying to be nice and talk to me. WRONG!I took it as an attack. I viewed it no different from the Spanish that arrived 500 years ago forcing our people to convert. There should be no bibles or crosses on our indigenous lands period! The action of trying to convert me was an attack, and I defended myself with the weapons of indigenous education. This is how we must treat colonized religious people. I am constantly attacked by these people, who do not understand "NO".
I have even been harassed, I tried to be nice about it the first couple of times, I tried to just get them to go away, but they are insistent on trying to "save" me. Now I have learned, that the only way to get them to go away forever, is to confront them and set them straight with historical truths. Although what happened today may seem insignificant, I know it's not. Imagine if the next person this man talks to, also rejects him and confronts him with indigenous educational truths. Eventually the man would quit walking up to Mexicans, and may eventually question his "faith". After all, he only "believes" in what he does, because he is a victim of 500 years of genocide, he is only following the masses of colonized slaves. Eventually he will follow the masses of awakened warriors. No action is insignificant, if it is full of truth, and full of courage. This is how we start to remove the chains of colonialism." This story was submitted by Martin Gonzalez to Mexicans Wake Up, an educational page aimed at wakening and decolonizing Nican Tlaca/Indigenous people.Which includes the Nican Tlaca of "Canada, USA, Mexico, Central America, South America" and abroad. Follow them on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/MexicansWakeup/
Art submitted by Arturo Fresan @OjoDeBruha /ojodebruha@gmail.com
Alley of the Kiss Written by Meli Alvarez
I
had been waiting a long time to see the famous alley. I couldn’t imagine ending the summer without
viewing the location, which in rumors was a pretty sight to see. Benja, my sister, my cousin and I had
finally reached the narrow alleyway, it was about four in the morning. We had purposely asked to stay at my cousin Cesar’s house because he always let us stay out late. That night we decided to let the guy my sister was dating convince us to travel the four hours from Leon to the ancient old city of Guanajuato. The others had gone ahead and made their way towards the alley opening. I continued to walk
at my slow pace, and sat on one of the benches that was placed under a tree, right before entering the steep hill-like opening to the alley. Some of the city’s inclined streets reminded me of San Francisco streets. Everywhere you went was a tiring walk, almost like a hike so I needed to rest just a bit. I was looking at the sign that was carved into the wall before entering the alleyway that read, El Callejon del Beso with an arrow pointing to the opening. From the corner of my eye I saw a black figure on the main street, below the steps from the sidewalk I was resting on. I turned to see and it was a woman. She was dressed in an elegant, black-red, old Victorian dress and her hair grabbed in half a ponytail. Her hair was long and black, her front bangs moved to the side of her face but her face, I couldn’t see clearly. I felt a tremendous amount of sadness coming from her and although I couldn’t see her clearly, her skin appeared as white as a ghost, almost dead-like. I didn’t move, not one bit. I couldn’t; I was frozen. I don’t think I felt scared; it was mostly like an unwelcoming feeling of depression. Her face was looking toward the ground and she was standing like a misbehaved child in a corner. I said nothing and just then Paty tapped me on the shoulder. I jumped and screamed, and she gasped asking what the hell was wrong with me. Everyone was waiting for me she said and when I turned around the woman was gone. I didn’t mention anything to anyone. I figured she must have been maybe an actor who worked at the city’s theater called Teatro Juarez and she was heading home late from a play’s rehearsal or something. I did ask my cousin if there were any festivals going on and she replied no, not this time of year. Still I kept it to myself; maybe that way if no one knew of it then it would make it less real.
The alley was between two houses and a bunch of souvenir shops which were now closed. We began going up the slender stairway made up of colored stones until we saw the famous spot halfway up. We stopped at the foot of the stairway. The alley stairs kept going and twisted to an even more compressed, shorter set of stairs that continued further. One couldn’t see beyond a certain amount of steps to where it led to. On the left and right side of the strange set of stairs were two old-fashioned, beautiful houses whose balconies almost touched. The balconies were probably only a few inches from touching at the corners, they were so close that two people standing on each side could comfortably touch one another. This was it. This was the location that everyone traveled to come see, El Callejon del Beso (The Alley of the Kiss). For me it wasn’t hard to fall in love with this city. It was love at first sight, its history, its architecture, its people and legends made it unique. As a child I grew up learning of them and always longing to live them but on second thought, after that night I’d prefer not to. I began to make my way up the stairs with my cousin Paty
behind me, to go beyond where the stairway disappeared to get a closer look at the balconies and see what was at the end of them but then a voice stopped us. “Don’t go further without hearing the tale señora”. A boy’s voice commented behind us. Paty screamed, causing me to jump in fright. I turned around and saw a small beggar boy standing at the end of the stairs next to my sister and her date Benja. My sister and Benja at first startled by the sudden appearance of the boy, looked at him confused, trying to figure out where he came from. We ran
back down the steps and joined them. “Asustas muchacho (You scared us kid).” Benja said as he patted the boy on the back. “Where did you come from, it’s pretty late.” “Pos de la calle, yo casi no duermo (From the street, I hardly sleep).” The boy responded and looked towards the alley steps and then back at us. “Why can’t we go up?” My sister asked.
“Those stairs are cursed and no one goes past them without first hearing the tale of Doña Carmen”.
“Who’s Doña Carmen?” Paty asked. By now all of us were paying attention and anticipating the boy’s response. The boy was wearing a pair of dirty tan pants and a plain t-shirt. He began to clear his throat and turned to face us. “Don’t tell me if we go up we die or something like that right?” My sister said and the boy smirked. He went up the first four of the steps. “Touristas (Tourist)”, he murmured and continued. “Just listen, I’ll tell you the story of El Callejon del Beso. Being informed is what my job consists of. After telling you the story and if you’re satisfied with it you can give me a tip as much
as you see fit. A boy’s gotta eat.” We gathered around closer and the boy began to tell the tale. “Doña Carmen was the only daughter of an uncompromising and violent man in town. Luis wasn’t a man of much money and he knew he had fallen for her the moment he laid eyes on her. He had met her one day while coming out of church. As Doña Carmen walked out the church with her governess, she was drawn to him. Due to the careful watch and strictness of her father their relationship wasn’t easy to sustain. Eventually he found a way to be near her by renting a room in the house in front of hers and sending her letters with her governess. Unfortunately for her, she was already bestowed to a rich old man by her father. Carmen lived in the house to the right and Luis in the house on the left. They became a couple in spite of the difficult situation. Every night they secretly met up on these balconies, held each other’s hands and talked for hours. Her father eventually found out about the secret meetings and warned his daughter that she was never to see him again or he would kill her. Taking her father’s threat lightly she met up with Luis the following night to plan out their escape. That night as they both stood before each other on these balconies, Carmen’s father showed up and went through on his threat. He slowly crept in the dark behind her, being careful not to make a sound. As the couple embraced one another and locked in a kiss Luis noticed her turn stiff, with wide open eyes and gasp in sudden pain. There, now in plain view was her father with his hand still on the dagger that pierced his daughter’s back. With no sense of remorse in his expression he released it and her body weight fell against the edge of the balcony and onto Luis’s hands. He had stabbed his own daughter and left her dead. She died on that balcony in Don Luis’s arms and in great mourning and sadness he gave her one last kiss. With his eyes in tears he kissed her lifeless lips and cold hand and closed her eyes. That’s how this place got its name.”
The boy stepped down and continued to add one last thing. “It is said if you pass the third step and you don’t kiss with a loved one that you will get 7 years of bad luck in your love life but if you kiss on the third step you get 7 years of good luck, it’s up to you if you want to ignore that last part.” “What happened to the dad?” I asked as I watched him begin to leave. “ No one knows.” The boy was about to leave when he quickly turned back, “Hey um mind giving me money for food?” Benja took out 20 pesos from his wallet and handed them to the boy. He smiled and thanked him and added one
last thing, “ They also say she haunts this place at night and people report seeing a lady dressed in Victorian clothing or see the lights of the home turn on, on their own and such. Nobody has lived in that house for centuries since her death, I wouldn’t linger here this late.” Then the boy walked away. “I’ll race you past the steps Mel.” Benja stated “No, I want to leave.” I grabbed my cousin’s arm and began to walk away. “Espera, escuchas eso (Wait, hear that)?” My sister told us and everyone stood quietly in the silent night and looked towards the alley. The noise was coming from there but beyond the point of the alley where one couldn’t see and it twisted. They were footsteps slowly coming down the stairs from the opposite direction. Pretty soon as the footsteps got closer, we saw a shadow of a woman but when she got close to the turning point, to be seen, she stopped.
“Vamonos porfis (let’s go please).” I pleaded in a whisper to them remembering the woman I had seen earlier. “Who’s there?” Benja asked but got no answer the figure only backed up one step in the opposite direction. Then the lights from the balcony turned on. I wasn’t going to stay and I ran until I got to the main plaza. The others ran after me, never looking back and never finding out who it was. I had a feeling it was her. I never forgot that night.
Art submitted by Arturo Fresan @OjoDeBruha /ojodebruha@gmail.com
“Throughout American history... there has always been three classes’ status, the wealthy class, the middle class, and the poor class. Looking at America's economy today, it has taken a great down fall which has made it tougher on individuals as well as businesses in American society. Thus making it hard on corrupt political figures to allocate money into different sectors of society. Although the down fall of the economy is a logical reason for the lack of funding in these areas, but some sectors in society must not be ignored, such as our educational system, and social services to communities across the board. In my opinion both sectors are vital to our society because it influences the youth, they are our future. When we look at other countries around the world, these countries invest a great deal in their youth, because the people in those countries understand that their youth is the stability and the future of their country. America needs to have the same mindset when it comes to the environment we all have to live in, especially in regards to our youth. This brings me back to my point about our communities. When the mayor's in our cities only put their attention towards finding ways to make the city more profitable. Such as raising taxes that benefit the city and cutting back on programs to cut costs. One must wonder what the cost really is of this reality. When mayors want to invest back into the city they're only putting money into the areas that attract a lot of tourist; places considered safe and trendy and let’s be honest, white. Wherever there are people there is money to be made and that’s a capitalist mindset. That is a "money hungry" attitude, which is not fair to the people who live in the low income and communities of color in the city who are not benefiting from the money being made.
When I think about my city the way I’ve seen it change as I grew up, I see it as a tale of two halves. I believe it is that much of a drastic change. I live on the south side of Chicago where slums have been formed by conditions worsened by poverty and exploitation, the people in these areas have adapted. An already attacked population, a tarnished identity, always on edge ready blow up like a bomb at the first sign of feeling disrespected, or being threatened, people that are so filled with anger. Why wouldn’t you be? Growing up in pollution, losing people in your life to the prison system or gang activity, being blamed and unheard. On the other side of town, you see communities on the north side of Chicago with a completely different environment, an environment that Mayor Daley and Mayor Emmanuel have built. Whites
have been able to enjoy their pleasant heaven of living in their downtown apartments and condos overlooking Lake Michigan and walking down the street without a single look over their shoulders. Along with a beautiful scenery to look at, you have resources all around you like good schools, fresh food, cleaner air, cleaner streets, nicer houses, maintained parks and rarely a headline on the nightly news stories. Now don't get me wrong it's a great thing to have all of the amazing things that Chicago has to offer and the awesome sights to take in, but there are more important things to be investing money into, things that would improve the lives of minorities in this city. You see, I believe these changes are worth the investment, in one’s dream, in ones future, in one’s life. It is hard enough trying to raise children to be good individuals along with all of the negativity that surrounds them. Political figures should not only be fighting to reduce crimes in these neighborhoods, but protecting them, prioritizing them, encouraging and empowering the youth to chase after their dreams and goals and giving them the resources and opportunities to do so.
What mayor's in the U.S., specifically mayor Emmanuel can do is start investing more money into the schools in these poor communities. Work with CPS to provide better teachers that can provide students with a better curriculum that will properly prepare them for high school and college. This will be a great way for children to gain the necessary skills to excel in the future and to think critically and be leaders. If we can get more money into our communities it would be a good way to put some boys and girls clubs around the communities so children and teenagers can come and try new things so that they can experience and gain different skills, and through this they can find something they may be good at, or even something they love. Create programs in the community that allows young children to have mentors and role models. Give the youth places to go and express themselves in a positive way and in a positive environment. It is time for our political figures and community aldermen to step up and provide for the communities that have been overlooked and the people that get the "short end of the stick", the 99%. It is time to make the youth in inner cities a priority. This needs to happen all across the United States.�
zaahid Mcclellon
“Music Is My Therapy” by Carla Hunter Throughout every bad thing in my life, music was always there keeping me sane. When my parents divorced when I was about six years old, I clung to the rap songs my father and I danced to in our living room in Mississippi. I reminisced on the G-Funk sounds of 90s Snoop Dogg and the soulful lyrics from Tupac and the cool style Biggie. Those artists’ music remained in my head and played over and over again, reminding me of the memories of my family all together again. That music connected me to my dad even though after the
divorce, he chose to live thousands of miles away from me. When I was in high school I finally realized who my favorite rapper was: Kanye West. I’d always really liked him growing up but when I was little I couldn’t always access rap music because of living in a super Christian household (except for when I was with my dad, he didn’t give a fuck what we listened to). When I finally got my own computer when I turned fifteen, I downloaded every single Kanye album from The College Dropout to 808’s and
Heartbreak. I had bought 808’s and Heartbreak in seventh grade, but my sweet, innocent seventh grade mind couldn’t fully understand it. I had a rough time in high school adapting to my transition from a small private Christian middle school to a large suburban, upper Middleclass but “wannabe hood” public high school. I don’t know what it was about his lyrics, but I connected to his feelings of wanting to be greater than what I was surrounded by and being myself in a world full of fakes and followers (“Dicks” rather than “swallowers,” for all my real “Yeezus” fans). His bold and brutally honest demeanor re-
minded me so much of aspects about myself. His love of fashion and development of personal style and taking risks in fashion inspired me in making my own wardrobe choices.
When I first went away to college, I picked Chicago because I wanted to experience the city
that shaped the foundation of my favorite rapper and it’s just a pretty dope area. I met some of the most amazing people in my life. I met my friend Britni, THE coolest girl from Milwaukee, who loves soulful rap and R&B music, artists like J. Cole, Erykah Badu, Kendrick Lamar, and Lauryn Hill. We always vibed out and connected (despite me not liking J. Cole). I met my California sunshine Luz, who loved her 90’s West Coast rap as any good LA girl should. I could always count on her for our gangsta rap days where we could practice our best Snoop dance.
We went to so many concerts together like Dom Kennedy, M.I.A, and the whole Lollapallooza lineup from summer 2014 (OutKast and Nas = highlights of my life). These girls and this music got me through the crazy transition of college life and adapting to a whole new city and life. I got terribly sick in August of 2014. I was so ill that I had to take a whole year off from school and move back home. I was devastated, I had to leave my friends and put my education on pause all while battling terrible pain and serious health concerns. For a while I could-
n’t even listen to music because certain songs reminded me of my Chicago memories and my friends. As I was starting to feel a little better, I listened to a lot of soulful R&B music. For nearly two months straight I listened to Jodeci’s greatest hits album. The harmonious sounds of K-Ci and JoJo along with Devante’s production and song writing reminded me that I was going to be okay. Drake’s mixtape, “If You’re Reading This It’s Too Late” came out earlier this year when I was still recovering and kept me going. The laid back vibes mixed with the cocky
“you’re never gonna be on my level” rhymes inspired me to stay positive and keep my head up during the horrible things I was going through. Music is not just something you listen to when you’re in the car or during your workout, it’s there to keep you motivated, encourage you, make you feel better and make you dance! There were times in my life where I felt like no one understood what I was going through or when I felt like the world was going to come crashing down on my shoulders, but music was always there to help heal my wounds or make me smile. Take it from someone who’s been through
hell and back, not just mentally but physically, there’s nothing like your favorite song to lift your spirit! So when you’re having a bad day, month, or year, let music be your therapy.