#indigenouscreatives

My father’s father once ran away from the draft

fled to an unknown country from the whispers of freedom

aqui no tendras que matar, hijo, aqui solo hay mujeres y trabajo

do you think he knew that he would be killing us all the same?

he met her, a quiet girl from the mountains, brown skinned and beautiful

he knew what he wanted

so he took, as he was taught to do

te llamare laritza, por que seras el origen de mis hijos

do you think she knew what he was saying?

brown skinned and beautiful, so young and unknowing

a language unshared, a culture unknown

a womb, untouched by Periboriwa

no seas dificil, puta

she soon learned what he meant, losing her own speech as she learnt his

her and her children watching as he took and took

took till there was no more, till a new origen was sought

ya no te necesito, dejadme en paz

My mother’s mother taught her to do whatever it took to survive

mija, straighten your hair, don’t go out in the sun

si te preguntan de tu abuela no hables

nobody can know about how la visabuela Carmen 

was one of the last daughters

stolen from the towns of Nigeria as a child

shivering on boats that smelled like death

si quieres sobrevivir en este mundo, te haras una gringa

hidden in the recesses of mud houses

whispers of brujeria happening at the house of old Carmen

Yoruba, they called her, la negra del barrio

married to el viejo Andres, real name long forgotten

taken from the Warao to work on the petroleum fields

my mother’s mother pointed a gun at a rich man in a bar

tu vendras a tu casa y criaras a tus hijos, que me los distes

‘como criare los hijos de una negra?’

my mother learned to wrap her hair under her mother’s careful touch

curls never tightened, skin never revealed to the son

brujeria long hidden, secrets of my grandmother 

who refused to see her daughter be abandoned like she once was

vaya a la escuela mija, y aprenda. no te preocupes por tu papa

how many lies does it take for a child to catch on?

the answer is too many

tu papa fue un hombre bueno, amable, y blanco

my father fled from the memories of his mother’s rape 

and her oncoming dementia from years of abuse

to America, the land of the free, of opportunity, of diversity

a land of sweet drinks and cool cars like the movies showed

in the drive in theaters of Caracas

my mother followed, carrying my brother and sister

how excited they were to let their children live free

how terrified they were as they watched a man the same color as 

their first born son

be violently beat by four Los Angeles policemen on national television

tenemos que protegerlos

straighten your hair, look presentable, don’t go out in the sun

eres mas blanca que tu hermano, si lo mantienes asi pareces mas Española

told to value our heritage, what the Spanish gave us

the beauty of the language, the stunning colors of the dresses and the food

good children always listened. 

tu abuelo era Española, mija. entonces eres Española

school children laughed at me

“you’re not white, dummy”

i couldn’t figure out what they meant

the smell of burnt hair was my daily prayer

sunscreen my salvation

and silence my redemption