Xikano Arte Y Poesia
we make list that honor our memory and honor
the flesh and bone of the arrow we are putting out
http://www.chicanocoloringbooks.com
todos cruzamos la frontera
de la alma que nos espera
con la libertad de nuestras
manos adentro de la pacha mama
abriendo las partes de nuestra memoria
que puede recordar abrir al alma y las alas
en los ojos
2
we are the breaking light
migrating across queztalcoatl
taking the parts of the ocean
that are from the womb where we came
from taking the parts of the sand
that mirror who i really am
taking apart the deception
that somehow I’m separate
from anything
this is our america
breathing the breaks
of broken stories
collapsing on the concrete
waiting for another sun
or another set of children
to speak the truth wide open
http://www.chicanocoloringbooks.com
there are the spaces where our tongues collapse on themselves
and we start to forget our jewish heritage our irish heritage
our japanese or mexican heritage and start to try and just claim american
its easier to pronounce
its easier to make excuses
its easier than to actually try to explain all the layered truths
of your barrio. all the inconsistencies. all the fallen hopes
all the places where you watch the concrete spill your cultura
all the ways it gets left behind when no one is looking
when everyone one is silencing in advertantly
we are these border immigrant migrant dream
echoing across generations of being scapegoated
of being put into concentration camps
detention centers and all the places inbetween
the border of our history
the borders of our tongues
the borders of our memory
waiting to put down the wall
http://www.chicanocolorinbooks.com
we were the ones waiting at the border
waiting for our mother to return
from the setting sun that almost took her life
from the coyote that took my sisters life
from the breath of life
we came to become
in this america
we were the ones waiting at the border
trying to find the border patrol officer
so he could tell us where to go
to be safe again.
he asked why we came here
he told us we were not his problem
and that we should go back to where we came from
that if it was up to him. he would make sure
all these centro americans all these mexicans
would just stay over there
he told us
you are not our problem
you need to ask your government to fix your problems
but he never even bother to here
why we were here
what we were running from
because back home
nobody does anything about the problemas
nobody can stop them
nobody can make them stop killing
nobody can make them stop threatening
nobody can make my home
my home again
so i don’t think he knows what he’s talking about
or maybe he does know but he doesn’t want to admit
it
maybe he knows how bad
it is for us back home
where there is no home anymore
but he just doesn’t want to say it
because we’re not his problem.
http://www.chicanocoloringbooks.com
this border breaks us and binds us
it speaks to us in tongues
we are waiting for the salvation of where we come from
we are waiting for somebody to tear one down
or build another one up
or to rescue refugees or detain them or make them disappear
this immigration song of us
this border song of us
we are the breaking apart of this border paradigm
somewhere in there
remembering that we are this precious chaos
this precious chaos born 2016 born 1999 born 1848
born inside 1493 born inside every salem witch trial
born inside every native hung, every african slave hung
every irish and mexican hung. every japanese american interned
we are this burning tongue
waiting for the water to remind us
we will be borderless again
we will be skinless again
we wil be again
http://www.chicanocoloringbooks.com
where are we coming from
this aztlan deep inside this digital codex
deep inside the face and the mirror of what it means
to stand on this america. this turtle island lost in papers
this america. stuck with the paradigm of becoming some other
part of great again. this america was never great . this america was turtle
island before it was america. this turtle island was alway great. great turtle
swimming in the sea of a feathers serpent. mouthing the history of songs
in migrated hands and feet.
face the dream. when you finally make it to college and realize
that nobody else in your family made it to college
but nobody in your familia has been helping you with your education
for years now.
my father had a 6th grade education
and he left me with my mother and showed up every now and again
my mother had a 3rd grade education
both from mexico. they must have fallen in love
over too many michelob draft beers down on first street
before it was
the zone of gente fication and gentrification
back when the sound on the brick walls were mostly norten~as
back before starbucks or mcdonalds were talking over
everybody’s diabetes intake
neither had enough education
to tell me what i should or shouldnt do
maybe my father was a mexican ghost
caught inside drunken landscapes
waiting to find
i couldn’t get an education with this .
how could i know what type of education was
in front of me.
but somehow i dove into this barrio college wormhole
who cares whether your arte is mexican or mexican american
whether is speaks in spanish, english calo nahuatl or border nations
who cares where you were born on the weekends
nobody really wants to know the layers of arte that is breeding inside you
you should have seen the mess i made today. when i was hoping
to create harmony and dissonance. its the way that oceans are treated
like alien water
we must learn to become more polite
when talking in mexican
