Dirt smeared on rosy cheeks
Blood matted in perfect, pristine pale hair
Wore a dressed torn and ripped in flawless locations
She arose with noble posture
Snapped all her bones back in position
She curtsied in front of all the men
Walked away with a confidence
We all saw her
Like a;
rag doll
Descend:
from the heavens
Kissed the earth
As if she blessed it
As if the puddle of blood that surrounded her
Was a sacrifice
She was
the girl who
fell from the sky
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
I’m talking about
Tonight I spoke my name
And frowned.
Ashley Escobedo,
Named after the fresh prince of belair.
It is not a stereotypical Mexican name.
That is because I am not Mexican.
My name represents nothing about me.
Or my history.
I’m not talking about the history of Ashley Escobedo.
I’m talking about the history of Ashley Escobedo.
From the blood stain pyramids
Of Mesoamerica.
To the rich islands of Cane sugar and
Communism.
I’m talking about Escobedo
From born again Christians that yell in perfect Spanish about the appearance of my hair and how no respectable boy will enjoy girls with lobes bigger then their circumference if you catch my drift.
To the “catholic” Sanitarian woman who drags her children to Boston to celebrate compluenos de Chango con un fiesta which includes roosters a grown man in diapers and piñatas filled with money which is later spent at the bodega after school.
Estoy habalndo de un nombre que origine en una pais,
Que teine una historia mas complicado de yo
As una persona.
Not to say that other cultures are not as important.
But I am sick of learning about Africans through Anglo Americans eyes.
Through the media of brain washed self-claimed liberals.
I want to learn about my people,
Of Central and South America,
The rape and conquest of the Caribbean,
The hijacking of continent where all our roots lye.
I’m talking about understanding where I come from.
From the Afro-centric country lost in a sea of red tape that lies 90 miles away from us.
From the Indigenous tribes of New Spain.
I am far from the “marked” categories that you bubble in during the S.A.T.s
I’m talking about the most famous and quotable Cuban man of history,
“Say hello to my little friend”
I’m talking about the footsteps of a man who is depicted in every anti-capitalist college student’s dorm room.
Do not let my skin color deceive you,
Behind this washed out shade of caramel
Hides a girl confronting her people’s past.
A linage of citizens, who have been raped,
Took,
Stolen from,
And been killed off.
No I will not speak Spanish on demand
I will not speak for a race of people I know little about because you want a person of colors perspective.
I will speak to my own experiences
And I will smirk when students in my Intro to Women’s studies class feel uncomfortable with list that calls them out on the undeserved privilege they receive on a daily basis.
Though I am extremely submerged in American culture
I know what real tortillas taste like,
None of this bullshit flour round disks filled will under seasoned meat they sell in the caf.
I’m talking about home made, wrinkled hands that belong to my abuela, pressed with a plate, wrapped in rough and colorful towel in a basket placed in-between the rice and frijoles on the picnic table, maíz tortillas. Then going back home to mojoro with pork shoulder that has been in the oven since this morning with fried sweet plantains and yuka. And to top it all off torerha that has been sitting the fridge since last week.
That’s what I’m talking about.
And frowned.
Ashley Escobedo,
Named after the fresh prince of belair.
It is not a stereotypical Mexican name.
That is because I am not Mexican.
My name represents nothing about me.
Or my history.
I’m not talking about the history of Ashley Escobedo.
I’m talking about the history of Ashley Escobedo.
From the blood stain pyramids
Of Mesoamerica.
To the rich islands of Cane sugar and
Communism.
I’m talking about Escobedo
From born again Christians that yell in perfect Spanish about the appearance of my hair and how no respectable boy will enjoy girls with lobes bigger then their circumference if you catch my drift.
To the “catholic” Sanitarian woman who drags her children to Boston to celebrate compluenos de Chango con un fiesta which includes roosters a grown man in diapers and piñatas filled with money which is later spent at the bodega after school.
Estoy habalndo de un nombre que origine en una pais,
Que teine una historia mas complicado de yo
As una persona.
Not to say that other cultures are not as important.
But I am sick of learning about Africans through Anglo Americans eyes.
Through the media of brain washed self-claimed liberals.
I want to learn about my people,
Of Central and South America,
The rape and conquest of the Caribbean,
The hijacking of continent where all our roots lye.
I’m talking about understanding where I come from.
From the Afro-centric country lost in a sea of red tape that lies 90 miles away from us.
From the Indigenous tribes of New Spain.
I am far from the “marked” categories that you bubble in during the S.A.T.s
I’m talking about the most famous and quotable Cuban man of history,
“Say hello to my little friend”
I’m talking about the footsteps of a man who is depicted in every anti-capitalist college student’s dorm room.
Do not let my skin color deceive you,
Behind this washed out shade of caramel
Hides a girl confronting her people’s past.
A linage of citizens, who have been raped,
Took,
Stolen from,
And been killed off.
No I will not speak Spanish on demand
I will not speak for a race of people I know little about because you want a person of colors perspective.
I will speak to my own experiences
And I will smirk when students in my Intro to Women’s studies class feel uncomfortable with list that calls them out on the undeserved privilege they receive on a daily basis.
Though I am extremely submerged in American culture
I know what real tortillas taste like,
None of this bullshit flour round disks filled will under seasoned meat they sell in the caf.
I’m talking about home made, wrinkled hands that belong to my abuela, pressed with a plate, wrapped in rough and colorful towel in a basket placed in-between the rice and frijoles on the picnic table, maíz tortillas. Then going back home to mojoro with pork shoulder that has been in the oven since this morning with fried sweet plantains and yuka. And to top it all off torerha that has been sitting the fridge since last week.
That’s what I’m talking about.
Toca
You melt like Easter chocolate
A cream filled center I meet
I lavish in your flowery scent
wishing to take you into me
You open yourself to me
I grin with nervousness
Sweet soft sounds
I bathe in
while the gates of heaven are reached
by dirty hands
Uneasy Heart(s)
Her best friends are her hands
which are painted with the colors of the world
And the world doesn’t realize it
which are painted with the colors of the world
And the world doesn’t realize it
Her heart beats for us all
and yet we don’t give a fuck
We continuously cut her losses for her
not giving her a chance to explain herself
She is the moon that brings
china’s farmers riches
yet is neglected by Westerners
She is the Earth reincarnated
into a single human being
that has power to end and begin life
She is the grim reaper
who never reaps a single soul
she let’s us destroy ourselves
with our own belief in mortality
As her wet feet pad along the hallway
I hold my breath for fear I’ll be her first
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