What is belong?

What is belong?

Belong is the way that man points his finger into your chest saying,
“Go back to where you came from, you don’t belong here.”
Belong is the way his silver-blue eyes dash into your line of sight,
a tomato-red flurry of misdirected anger.
Belong as in, Mexicans go over here South of the border,
because everyone crossing the border is Mexican.

Belong. You belong. Over there.

What they’re trying to say is,
You belong in your own country, slaving away in a field for less than minimum wage
Because NAFTA believes in free trade NOT fair trade.
You belong in a place where soil stings hands that have been calloused by the land, where skin cracks on palms and backs carry stories burned into flesh by the Sun.

Yes, you.
You belong.

You belong in a constant state of displacement,
You belong under surveillance, you belong barred behind concrete and desperation.
Who the fuck cares if you where working forty hours a week, treking through trash for the family you never get to see because they belong South of the border.
No, no. Who the fuck cares if you where working, breaking your back with tears in your eyes.
No, No. You belong in this concrete cell with those criminals because leaving home
for love is just as bad as selling drugs and murder.

You don’t belong says the silver-blue eyed man.
Let’s neglect US enterprises that inhabit third world countries forcing substandard styles of living.
Let’s neglect corrupt, US supported, governments that disembowel anyone that believes in fighting.
Let’s neglect soil stained red with blood instead of sunsets.
But yes. Yes, yes.
Let’s criminalize their citizens when they flee to this country because they’re given no other option than surviving.

But I don’t belong. Me?
Wait a second lets get this straight, let’s evaluate this historically.
I don’t belong.
The last time I checked English was not native to this continent.
No, this was a land of brown eyed dark people where Minnesota was Mee-knee-sho-tah
Sioux for smoke on water.
No, this land was and has always been my land riddled with non-English languages like
Quechua and Aymara, Nahuatl and Maya crawling over South and Central American
Mountain ranges.
I don’t belong? Me.
Let’s evaluate this historically.
My ethnicity was born on this continent.
Si, Mestizos created by conquest and lust.
Let’s evaluate this historically.
Texas, New Mexico and California belonged to México,
until of course, U.S. citizens snuck across the borders creating an influx of foreigners.
Even though Mexico granted them citizenship,
only to secede those states because those new citizens wanted to go back to of the US of A.
Let’s evaluate this historically,
To a time before Columbus and Pilgrims, to a time when my Ancestors’ ancestors crossed the Bering Strait.
Yes, they crossed that tiny fragmented land mass into North and South America

"You don't belong," says the silver-blue eyed man.
I don’t belong? WE don’t belong?
No, no… you see this land was made for traveling.

Rising smoke tickling ceilings.

In the midst of swirling copalli,
ai si ese copalli,
in the midst
of swirling incense, dried tree sap, rising smoke tickling ceilings
slips the beats of ayoyotes
of rhythmic feet slapping Tonantzin.

In the midst of sweat dripping down necks
and chests thumping with huehuetl's
In the midst of rattling sonaja's I have a vision
of water
white blue water streaming through rocks
pulled by the moon.
Nana Metztli smiling,
calling all the warrior women to arms
Saying, be strong Cihuatls, be strong.

Nana Metztli hanging in the sky with the imprint of the rabbit on her face,
The curled up tochtli sleeping,
Symbol of self sacrifice and spirit.
Nana Metztli whispers,
commune with nature, respect your yolcameh siblings
Nana Metztli becomes the Old man moon spirit, Tecciztecatl.
He says, embrace both dualities, masculine and feminine
he says, find balance in the roaring waves of the ocean
and the calm ripples of a lake.

Woman warrior moon, Coyolxauhqui
tells me, protect madre Coatlicue from warring hearts,
wage battle against your own self doubt,
Coyolxauhqui tells me to not be afraid of the deep, dark,
water drowned caverns.
She tells me to face them fully,
no matter how much the ones inside and beyond myself scare me

In the midst of el anscestral copalli,
ai si ese copalli,
I am pulled back from my vision
I am returned to dancing in the circle,
moving without thinking,
In the midst of that white spiraling copalli
I am left,
only breathing.

The Fierce Burning Flashes of Pen Marks.

Some where beyond the spectrum of cold flashing lights.
of fists fighting eyes that are sleepy eyed.
Some where beyond dark rectangular rooms
where insomnia stains drawings and scribbles of half written songs.
Some where beyond the long dragged out drip of night
lies the hated hopeful-deflated-elation
of dirty hands and sharp nails digging into dreams.

Some where beyond over sized blankets and humming central heating
lies the hated hopeful-deflated-elation of remembering
memories that are far worse than nightmares.
Of entrails cupped in women's hands after stab wounds
sliced stomachs sideways.
Of burned bodies after shotguns scared children into sprints.

Some where beyond the scope of hundred year old buildings
where the buzz of refrigerators lack comparison to flies on corpses.
lies the sound of memories stinging throats that continue screaming
through sleep.

Some where beyond the stand still of heavily hammered insomnia
and walls separating dark rectangular rooms
are the memories my mother never speaks of
and the history my grandmother never forgets to tell.
Some where between the silence of my mother trying to neglect memories,
of feigning amnesia,
lies the strength of my grandmothers old voice facing truth bravely.

Some where beyond heavily hammered insomnia where fists fight sleepy eyes,
I am a daughter waking her mother from dreams so terrifying
they depict long subdued reality.
Some where beyond orange walls and cold drafts.
I am a granddaughter trying to scrape history from my grandmothers back,
Inking life into pages, stripping truth from tight lipped family members
that don't want to remember where they came from.

Some where beyond the spectrum of cold flashing lights,
I am a great-granddaughter's daughter
igniting words like fiery explosions, lighting puffy-eyed teary-stained insomnia
with the fierce burning flashes of my pen marks.

"Equilibrium within the panicked pupil of my eye" - Alasone

- Iztac Meztli

A Battle with the Mirror.

The Battle Begins.

My head's too square.

My hair's a mess.

I'm gettting Old....

Am I pretty now?

maybe if I...

Hmmpff.

This shit ain't me.

But you know what is?

I will eat the flesh of my enemy.

AAAAHHHHHH.

Fuck the bullshit.

Devour Fake Standards of Beauty.

La luna y el sol.

The Sun and I have never gotten along. I have been, from birth, a child attracted to the moon like magnetized waves when there's nothing else outside except for the orange fullness of her body. I was a too pale girl trying to trace the frowning being as it followed our car on our way home. Why is she following us? I'd think, maybe she's lonely, from the expression on her face I could understand. I was a too pale girl in a world surrounded by sun lovers, sun lovers that yelled 'God get a tan, you glow in the dark!' I wasn't obsessed with the Moon then, I just felt connected. I understood that her sadness and her beauty were inseparable and that because of her sadness and beauty she was infinitely powerful. Outside of loving the Moon I loved the water, heard stories from family that said I used to hide sand in my socks after we left the beach only to pour it on my bed to recreate the sensation. There are pictures of a three year old me running barefoot in ripples of water, golden brown hair that hadn't turned completely brown an expression on my face like I was screaming at the coldness splashing my feet. I didn't hate the Sun then either, no that didn't come till later, I was always under the Sun. I planted flowers and picked up garbage, watered gardens and ran around under the supervision of the burning orb. I was too young to hate it but I knew that I was the one that always felt fatigued and dizzy when it was too bright out, that the heat made me ceaselessly thirsty and irrevocably sleepy. It used to be an all out war of hissing and burning and me pulling on my mom's sleeve saying, 'ma me 'sta quemando el sol.' Blinding daylight made me grumpy. I was a continual moan of, ma my feet hurt, ma I'm tired, ma I want to sit down, ma it's too hot outside.

See, one of my earliest memories is of a five year old me on my families traditional three day drive from Mexico. I can see a mini me stomach down on the burgundy seats of the van. My mom peeling the skin off of what I imagine would be a sweltering red back, while I groaned in pain stuck in the delusional fever of extreme sun burn. All I remember is my mom telling me, 'ya, ya you'll be okay.' and my crying because it hurt too much. I remember being maybe a little bit older and my mom saying don't look at the sun, it's bad for you.' and I made it an all out point of staring into it until I couldn't stand it any longer because who was the sun to demand such reverence? If I wanted to stare at the sun I would stare. I was nobody, not even as a child, to keep my head down just because everyone else did, I wanted to see the real shape of the sun and every day I tried harder to look past the glowing light. Needless to say I blame my deteriorated eyesight on those staring contests, truth is I can't see shit without my glasses. I guess that's the lesson I learned, the sun didn't want me to know it's real shape and it ruined my eyes because otherwise I'd never stop trying.

I don't remember when hate exactly entered but I do remember that by the time I was an eleven year old visiting Mexico, I already understood the dynamics of this relationship. We were walking all twelve stations of the cross during our visit, my feet hurt and I was tugging at my mom again. 'I'm tired, I need water.' By now my mom learned to ignore my grumbling and swatted her hand towards me. The walk seemed never ending and I thought that at any moment I would collapse, looking at tiny older women with their white umbrellas and jugs of water. It was hot, ridiculous hot, Mexican hot. The kind of hot that people living there their whole lives complain about and know better than to wander around unprotected in its dangers. I don't know how I managed but I made it to the very last station when they reenacted Jesus getting nailed to the cross and just as they were putting up the pretend Jesus, everything flashed black and I could feel myself swooning backwards falling into some one's hands while peoples voices gasped, 'She fainted, she fainted!' The next thing I knew my uncle and dad were hovering over me. I would've laughed if I hadn't felt like shit, the looks on their faces said they thought I'd been touched by a divine spirit or maybe thought the image of a nailed Jesus scared me. I shook my head and said, 'It's the Sun.' and they brought me over under the shade of a tree where a man looked at me like he'd seen something holy.

I was a too pale girl that loved the Moon, water, (and even though I was born in July) winter. I loved snow trapped in gusts of freezing wind, I innately loved everything that was polarly opposite to the Sun. I didn't learn until much later that everything was connected. That the Moon pulled the water and that water, in absence of heat, froze into ice and snow. I learned that because I am a Moon creature I am inevitably a snow loving water creature. Maybe you think this irrelevant that I'm just ranting for no reason but it all has a point, trust me it does. I am recently a Mexica dancer, an Aztec dancer, and what I've learned from my months of ceremony is that most people are connected to my childhood rival. They are people of the Sun and the women that are strong enough are carriers of fire. I've had to reconcile myself con el Senor del los dias but through this reconciliation with the Sun I've noted the strength in my bond with the Moon. Of the four fire carriers in our group there is only one that carries water and I've realized that I'm meant to join the small ranks of water carrying women.

When good writing motivates.

Being a jaded and cynical person when it comes to belief in the political system. Being a person that has given up on the concept of a politician understanding the themes of a lower class life, I have to say, I am in AWE of Obama. Living in a first world country where up until now the only presidents have been White Men when third world countries across the globe have already made that step beyond color and gender, I had in all honesty lost hope. Don't get me wrong I've always believed that the only change you can expect is the kind you fight for; I just didn't believe that for my generation there would ever be a candidate that could motivate the masses with his grasp of truth and his eloquence with words. Having grown up in high schools where teachers and students called me an idealist living in the clouds, I CAN'T get my brain to wrap around the idea that what I just heard was something that was really happening. GOD, how many times have I listened to boring want-to-punch-myself-in-the-face speeches that candidates obviously did NOT write or understand. How many times have I thought, 'Really? This is our president? This the best he can do after years in the best schools imaginable?' As a writer listening to Obama, I have NEVER, in my life time, heard something as high wired in eloquence and poetics. Something that had perfect pacing as he spoke, something that he obviously felt connected to with such a strength that it reeled us in by a simple rise in tone or look into the camera.


In a country where White politicians have been murdered for their voices of optimism and their potential for change, I can't help but feel terrified when I watch Barack up there. A man as smart as he is, a man that knows the undeniable truths of prejudice and hatred, has to be more than fully aware of the threats that can (and probably do) encompass his life. This is a man of intelligence and a man of courage. Who for the first time in my life has managed to make me feel motivated by what I know is worth getting interested in, by the play of his words and the power presence. I can only agree that 'In defining moments like these, the change we need doesn't come from Washington, the change we need comes TO Washington.
'

It might've taken us a while to get here but I'm hoping (with a little cynicism still left over) that this is what we have been waiting for and that as often as we've been let down maybe.. Yes, maybe it'll work out for the best.

Mucho amor Y paz,
Jenine.