La Llorona

Hola mi gente,
I’m so sick the liberal hypocrites who have all of sudden gown a backbone and sense of morality. While neocons like Trump and his henchmen have “alternate facts,” so-called liberals live in an alternate reality. They can kiss my ass.

The following legend, La Llorona (the Weeping woman), can be viewed from multiple perspectives. Speaking directly about La Llorona and her impact upon the Chicana culture, Orquidea Morales writes, “For Chianas, La Llorona is a cultural icon, descendant of La Malinche and Aztec Goodess Cihucotal, who represents women’s voice and agency.”

This is one positive perspective one may take when viewing folktale: La Llorona represents a rebellious woman, refusing to be forced into subservience and treated lesser simply because of her upbringing. Morales speaks of how Chicana’s and Chicana feminists have re-theorized the myth of La Llorona to view the tale as an empowering episode of revolution and the demand for equality. Other women view the tale as a paradigm for being a bad mother -- the examples of being weak, abandoning one’s children in times of crisis, being beaten by emotions and unable to control oneself.

La Llorona

This is a story that the ancient ones have been telling to children for hundreds of years. It is a sad tale, but it lives strong in the memories of the people, and there are many who swear that it is true.

Long years ago in a humble little village there lived a beautiful young woman named Maria. Some say she was the most beautiful girl in the world. And because she was so beautiful, Maria thought she was better than everyone else.

As Maria grew older, her beauty increased and her pride in her beauty grew as well. She would not even look at the young men from her village. They weren't good enough for her.

“When I marry,” Maria would say. “I will marry the most handsome man in the world.”

And then one day, a man who seemed to be just the one she had been talking about rode into Maria's village. He was a dashing young ranchero, the son of a wealthy rancher from the southern plains. He could ride like a Comanche. In fact, if he owned a horse, and it grew tame, he would give it away and go rope a wild horse from the plains. He thought it wasn't manly to ride a horse if it wasn't half wild. He was handsome and he could play the guitar and sing beautifully. Maria made up her mind -- that was the man for her. She knew just the tricks to win his attention. 

If the ranchero spoke when they met on the pathway, she would turn her head away. When he came to her house in the evening to play his guitar and serenade her, she refused to come to the window. She rejected all his costly gifts. The young man fell for her tricks. 

“That haughty girl, Maria, Maria!” he said to himself. “I know I can win her heart. I swear I'll marry that girl.”

And so everything turned out as Maria planned. Before long, she and the ranchero became engaged and soon they were married. At first, things were fine. They had two children and they seemed to be a happy family together. But after a few years, the ranchero went back to the wild life of the prairies. He would leave town and be gone for months at a time. And when he returned home, it was only to visit his children. He seemed to care nothing for the beautiful Maria. He even talked of setting Maria aside and marrying a woman of his own class.

As proud as Maria was, she became very angry with the ranchero. She also began to feel anger toward her children, because he paid attention to them, but just ignored her.

One evening, as Maria was strolling with her two children on the shady pathway near the river, the ranchero came by in a carriage. An elegant lady sat on the seat beside him. He stopped and spoke to his children, but he didn't even look at Maria. Then he whipped the horses on up the street.

When she saw that, a terrible rage filled Maria, and it all turned against her children. And although it is sad to tell, the story says that in her anger Maria seized her two children and threw them into the river. But as they disappeared down the stream, she realized what she had done and she ran down the bank of the river, reaching out her arms to them. But they were long gone.

The next morning, a traveler brought word to the villagers that a beautiful woman lay dead on the bank of the river. That is where they found Maria, and they laid her to rest where she had fallen.

But the first night Maria was in the grave, the villagers heard the sound of crying down by the river. It was not the wind, it was La Llorona crying. “Where are my children?” And they saw a woman walking up and down the bank of the river, dressed in a long white robe, the way they had dressed Maria for burial. On many a dark night they saw her walk the river bank and cry for her children. And so they no longer spoke of her as Maria. They called her La Llorona, the weeping woman. And by that name she is known to this day. Children are warned not to go out in the dark, for, La Llorona might snatch them and never return them.

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My name is Eddie and I’m in recovery from civilization… 

Thanks for reading. If you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it, please consider helping me out by sharing it, liking me on Facebook, following me on Twitter, or even throwing me some money on GoFundMe HERE or via PayPal HERE so I can keep calling it like I see it.

Noche Buena Heist

Hola mi gente,
“Happy Holidays!” for those who don’t. J

The following is fiction. It is based on actual events and is the foundation for one of the stories in my forthcoming book of short stories I'll never finish tentatively titled Ataques de Nervios (Nervous Attacks) or 704 E. 5th St. (or some shit like that). However, I have taken huge liberties with parts of the story, the characters, and time line.

Moral indignation is jealousy with a halo.
-- H.G. Wells, The Wife of Sir Isaac Harman

It’s so cold she can’t feel her feet. She’s wearing slippers in the midst of a raging Nor’easter. She’s afraid and her threadbare coat can’t protect her from the 40-50 mile per hour winds. It’s the night before Noche Buena and she’s alone, keeping vigil outside a home in a white section of lower Manhattan, but she’s here because her kids are in need... there’s no one around and she despairs. Her hands are numb from the cold and her feet ache.

It seemed as if it were hours ago when ‘Galo left with Gangster with instructions that if she saw anyone, she should whistle. In actuality, only minutes have passed. Now she wonders if she can whistle, her face is frozen, and they’ve been gone so long. What if the police come?

Finally, they come rushing out the building with stuffed pillowcases and as she starts to run with them she falls, she can’t feel her toes. Gangster and ‘Galo pick her up and they make their way hurriedly back to the Puerto Rican section of the Lower East Side, which takes too long and she’s crying, she’s in agony. ‘Galo stops to look at her feet and mutters, “Shit!” under his breath.

They hurry home.

They finally get home and by then, she’s crying in agony. ‘Galo takes off the slippers and thinks she has frostbite. She weeps, but tries to stifle her cries, fearful she’ll awaken the children. Unbeknownst to them, her oldest son, all of five-years-old, watches through a crack in the bedroom doorway. He’s afraid.

They call ‘Galo’s sister, who takes one look at the stuffed pillowcases and looks down at the young mother, as if noting her lack of moral standing. What kind of mother are you? Her looks seems to say. ‘Galo asks her to look at her feet and the sister says it’s not frostbite, but that she should go to the emergency room anyway. The young mother refuses, afraid. Afraid of the consequences of the act she just helped commit and afraid of what they may say about her toes that throb with a dull pain now.

They give ‘Galo’s sister a gold watch from the stolen loot, and she’s delighted. It’s an expensive watch, very pretty. She gives the young mother another look condemnation and admonishes her for behaving in such an un-Christian manner. The young mother says nothing and thanks her for looking after the children.

That Christmas was a good Christmas, or at least the children thought so. There was food, there were gifts under the tree, and the young mother seemed so happy though her children asked when they noticed that she limped a little when she walked. She had a brand new pair of boots, the only concession she made for the oldest will always remember the James Bond attaché case, complete with gadgets and it even shot rubber bullets if you pressed a hidden button. He also got a chemistry set that he used for hours upon hours... She made sure her children got our gifts before ‘Galo and Gangster would leave with the bulk of the loot, returning only when the money was spent on drugs. She didn’t even get herself a decent coat. However, her children got warm coats, gloves, scarves, and long underwear.

Her son never knew why she was crying that wintry night all those years ago. He thought they were fighting. But he was not surprised at her sacrifice -- the choices she made so that she could make sure her children were and had what they needed. Somehow she always made it right, even if it meant compromising her values or her reputation. She didn’t care, only her children mattered. Still, she was ashamed and part of the reason why her children had perfect posture is because she taught them to walk tall, with their heads held high. It was the last bastion against the shame -- that she made certain her children would walk proudly.

Most importantly, she taught them what really matters.

My name is Eddie and I’m in recovery from civilization… 

Thanks for reading. If you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it, please consider helping me out by sharing it, liking me on Facebook, following me on Twitter, or even throwing me some money on GoFundMe HERE or via PayPal HERE so I can keep calling it like I see it.

The Woman Warrior

Hola Everybody...
I like to say a tribe of fearless women raised me. Women who, while enduring all forms of abuse, still cared for me and offered to me a true template for a warrior creed. 

They raised me as a “Scholar-Warrior,” but it was their fearless hearts that blazed a light for my path. And so it went throughout my life: I would be fortunate enough to meet, over and over, women who exemplified spiritual courage in the face of the same hardships.

Though many were beaten, raped, and emotionally and psychologically abused, though they were often stigmatized for daring to speak truth to power, they still managed to face life with their hearts, always willing to give.

It is to all these women, and the countless others, that I offer the following. May you never suffer in silence again.

The Warrioress Creed

-- by Mirtha Vega

A warrioress...
is honorable;
has strength, determination, and perseverance;
is magical and optimistic;
is wise and powerful;
revels in silence;
can appreciate both inner and outer beauty;
is dedicated to the sacredness in her life;
loves to live fully;
is unwavering in her quest for the infinite;
is respectful;
can commit to those she deems worthy;
can let go of what is no longer useful, or necessary;
is compassionate;
possesses the will to walk away from illusion;
is willing to trust and surrender when appropriate;
has extraordinary vision and clarity;
faces her fears head on;
believes.

* * *

My name is Eddie and I’m in recovery from civilization…

Politics and Resistance in Puerto Rican Poetry [Julia de Burgos]

Hola mi gente,

These are hard times of the people of Puerto Rican diaspora. First a SCOTUS ruling have effectively destroyed what little autonomy the island can claim. Secondly, PresidentObama recently signed a Republican drafted, bipartisan bill, known as “PROMESA” (English translation: Promise). The bill’s endorsers claim it will help Puerto Rico through its debt crisis. What it actually does is quite different: it imposes an unelected seven-member Fiscal Board who will wield powers far greater than the actual government of Puerto Rico. This junta has the authority to sell off all property and land (beaches, nature reserves, etc.), close schools, cut minimum wages, and pensions, and subpoena and prosecute anyone (including the governor, the highest political official in the country) who fails to comply with their requests.

Simply out, this is colonialism. The debt is U.S. made (30billion of it is illegal) and this bill will be used to destroy what's left of PR and force the people out of their country. This level of U.S. colonialism has not been seen since the invasion of 1898. For all intents and purposes, Puerto Rico is now in a fight for its life. The lives of Puerto Ricans back home, and in our communities here is going to become extremely difficult.

What many don’t understand is that once the Puerto Rican people come to realize and feel its pernicious effects, there will be rioting and blood on the streets. I will guarantee you that once the ramifications of this law become known and its consequences felt, there will social unrest on the island, the likes we have never seen before.

¡Que viva Puerto Rico libre!

Today, I offer a poem from one of the great Latina poets, Julia de Burgos… 

Julia de Burgos

Julia de Burgos is one of the greatest Puerto Rican writers. In fact, she’s one of the giants of Latinx literature, period. While much of the study of de Burgos has centered on her prototypical feminism (she was ahead of her time) and her more lyrical works, she wrote political works grounded in her leftist radial leanings. She was one of the many Puerto Rican writers of her time who actively participated in the Puerto Rican liberation movement. She was a member of the Nationalist Party, which denounced U.S. political and economic control and advocated armed revolution in the name of Puerto Rican independence. Burgos’ themes of liberation, rebellion, and justice in her poetry both reflected and advocated the ideologies of the Nationalist Party, while at the same time preserving her own feminist struggle for independence. 

Her best-known work, “Río Grande de Loíza,” pays tribute to the “great” river that flows through her hometown in Carolina. Critical interpretations of this piece note how the poem functions as a journey through the life cycles and also demonstrate a yearning for sexual freedom. However, it also functions as a source of cultural and historical memory. In the ninth stanza she writes: 

Rio Grande de Loiza!...Blue. Brown. Red.

Blue mirror, fallen piece of blue sky;

naked white

flesh that turns black

each time the night enters your bed;

red stripe of blood, when the rain falls

in torrents and the hills vomit their mud.

Just as Puerto Ricans represent a mixture of Taino, Indian, African, and Spanish as a result of colonization, so the river combines “Blue. Brown. [and] Red,” and carries the nation’s history of conflict within it. The color red, associated with the word “blood” can be seen to allude to those who have shed blood fighting for Puerto Rico’s independence in the hillside towns of Lares and Utuado, not far from this “Great river.” When Burgos’ desires become one with the river, whom she implores, “confuse yourself in the flight of my bird fantasy,” she seeks to connect on the most intimate level possible with her fellow Puerto Ricans. 

While the river serves as a source of inspiration in her early life and poetry, it becomes emblematic of the Puerto Rican people’s suffering under colonialism as she matures and as the poem progresses.

In the last stanza, the river becomes a 

Great flood of tears. the greatest of all our island’s tears

save those greater that come from the eyes

of my soul for my enslaved people.

Here, Burgos physically shares in the suffering and “tears” of her fellow Puerto Ricans, and also confronts their ongoing oppression.  Thus, her poem also serves as a denunciation of the injustices the “enslaved people” of Puerto Rico endure under colonial rule… 

Rio Grande de Loiza

Rio Grande de Loiza! … Undulate into my spirit
And let my soul founder in your rivulets.
To seek the fountain that stole you as a child
And in mad haste returned you to the path.

Wind into your lips and let me drink you,
To feel you mine for a brief moment,
And hide you from the world in myself
And hear voices of fear in the mouth of the wind.

Come down for an instant from the spine of the earth,
And seek the intimate secret of my longing;
Confounded in the sweep of my bird fantasies,
Drop a water rose in my dreams.

Rio Grande de Loiza! … My source, my river,
After the mother petal raised me into the world
With you went down from the rough hills
To seek new furrow, my pale desires,
And all my childhood was like a poem in the river,
And a river was the poem of my first dreams.

Then came adolescence. Life surprised me
Fastening to the broadest part of your eternal voyage;
And I was yours a thousand times, and in a beautiful romance,
You woke my soul and kissed my body.

Where did you carry the waters that bathed
My form, in a spike of the newly open sun?
Who knows in what remote Mediterranean land
Some faun on the beach will possess me!

Who knows in what rainstorms of what far lands
I will be pouring to open new furrows;
Or if, perhaps, tired of biting hearts
I will be frozen in crystals of ice!

Rio Grande de Loiza! … Blue. Dark. Red.
Blue mirror, fallen blue fragment of sky;
Nude white flesh that turns you black
Every time night goes to bed with you;
Red band of blood, when under the rain
The hills vomit torrents of mud.

Man river, but man with river purity
Because when you give your blue kiss you give your blue soul.

My fear Mister River. Man river. The only man
Who has kissed my soul when the he kissed my body.
Rio Grande de Loiza! … Great river. Great tear.

The greatest of all our island tears,
But for the tars that flow out of me
Through the eyes of my soul for my enslaved people.

– Translated by Grace Schulman

* * *

My name is Eddie and I’m in recovery from civilization…