Cuentecitos

For Cuentesitos first foray into the Poetry Friday pool, I’ve chose the epic Chicano poem, I Am Joaquin. It gives me chills.

The Round-up is here.

I Am Joaquin

by Rodolfo Corky Gonzales

Yo soy Joaquín,
perdido en un mundo de confusión:
I am Joaquín, lost in a world of confusion,
caught up in the whirl of a gringo society,
confused by the rules, scorned by attitudes,
suppressed by manipulation, and destroyed by modern society.
My fathers have lost the economic battle
and won the struggle of cultural survival.
And now! I must choose between the paradox of
victory of the spirit, despite physical hunger,
or to exist in the grasp of American social neurosis,
sterilization of the soul and a full stomach.
Yes, I have come a long way to nowhere,
unwillingly dragged by that monstrous, technical,
industrial giant called Progress and Anglo success….
I look at myself.
I watch my brothers.
I shed tears of sorrow. I sow seeds of hate.
I withdraw to the safety within the circle of life –
MY OWN PEOPLE
I am Cuauhtémoc, proud and noble,
leader of men, king of an empire civilized
beyond the dreams of the gachupín Cortés,
who also is the blood, the image of myself.
I am the Maya prince.
I am Nezahualcóyotl, great leader of the Chichimecas.
I am the sword and flame of Cortes the despot
And I am the eagle and serpent of the Aztec civilization.
I owned the land as far as the eye
could see under the Crown of Spain,
and I toiled on my Earth and gave my Indian sweat and blood
for the Spanish master who ruled with tyranny over man and
beast and all that he could trample
But…THE GROUND WAS MINE.
I was both tyrant and slave.
As the Christian church took its place in God’s name,
to take and use my virgin strength and trusting faith,
the priests, both good and bad, took–
but gave a lasting truth that Spaniard Indian Mestizo
were all God’s children.
And from these words grew men who prayed and fought
for their own worth as human beings, for that
GOLDEN MOMENT of FREEDOM.
I was part in blood and spirit of that courageous village priest
Hidalgo who in the year eighteen hundred and ten
rang the bell of independence and gave out that lasting cry–
El Grito de Dolores
“Que mueran los gachupines y que viva la Virgen de Guadalupe….”
I sentenced him who was me I excommunicated him, my blood.
I drove him from the pulpit to lead a bloody revolution for him and me….
I killed him.
His head, which is mine and of all those
who have come this way,
I placed on that fortress wall
to wait for independence. Morelos! Matamoros! Guerrero!
all companeros in the act, STOOD AGAINST THAT WALL OF INFAMY
to feel the hot gouge of lead which my hands made.
I died with them … I lived with them …. I lived to see our country free.
Free from Spanish rule in eighteen-hundred-twenty-one.
Mexico was free??
The crown was gone but all its parasites remained,
and ruled, and taught, with gun and flame and mystic power.
I worked, I sweated, I bled, I prayed,
and waited silently for life to begin again.
I fought and died for Don Benito Juarez, guardian of the Constitution.
I was he on dusty roads on barren land as he protected his archives
as Moses did his sacraments.
He held his Mexico in his hand on
the most desolate and remote ground which was his country.
And this giant little Zapotec gave not one palm’s breadth
of his country’s land to kings or monarchs or presidents of foriegn powers.
I am Joaquin.
I rode with Pancho Villa,
crude and warm, a tornado at full strength,
nourished and inspired by the passion and the fire of all his earthy people.
I am Emiliano Zapata.
“This land, this earth is OURS.”
The villages, the mountains, the streams
belong to Zapatistas.
Our life or yours is the only trade for soft brown earth and maize.
All of which is our reward,
a creed that formed a constitution
for all who dare live free!
“This land is ours . . .
Father, I give it back to you.
Mexico must be free. . . .”
I ride with revolutionists
against myself.
I am the Rurales,
coarse and brutal,
I am the mountian Indian,
superior over all.
The thundering hoof beats are my horses. The chattering machine guns
are death to all of me:
Yaqui
Tarahumara
Chamala
Zapotec
Mestizo
Español.
I have been the bloody revolution,
The victor,
The vanquished.
I have killed
And been killed.
I am the despots Díaz
And Huerta
And the apostle of democracy,
Francisco Madero.
I am
The black-shawled
Faithfulwomen
Who die with me
Or live
Depending on the time and place.
I am faithful, humble Juan Diego,
The Virgin of Guadalupe,
Tonantzín, Aztec goddess, too.
I rode the mountains of San Joaquín.
I rode east and north
As far as the Rocky Mountains,
And
All men feared the guns of
Joaquín Murrieta.
I killed those men who dared
To steal my mine,
Who raped and killed my love
My wife.
Then I killed to stay alive.
I was Elfego Baca,
living my nine lives fully.
I was the Espinoza brothers
of the Valle de San Luis.
All were added to the number of heads that in the name of civilization
were placed on the wall of independence, heads of brave men
who died for cause or principle, good or bad.
Hidalgo! Zapata!
Murrieta! Espinozas!
Are but a few.
They dared to face
The force of tyranny
Of men who rule by deception and hypocrisy.
I stand here looking back,
And now I see the present,
And still I am a campesino,
I am the fat political coyote–
I,
Of the same name,
Joaquín,
In a country that has wiped out
All my history,
Stifled all my pride,
In a country that has placed a
Different weight of indignity upon my age-old burdened back.
Inferiority is the new load . . . .
The Indian has endured and still
Emerged the winner,
The Mestizo must yet overcome,
And the gachupín will just ignore.
I look at myself
And see part of me
Who rejects my father and my mother
And dissolves into the melting pot
To disappear in shame.
I sometimes
Sell my brother out
And reclaim him
For my own when society gives me
Token leadership
In society’s own name.
I am Joaquín,
Who bleeds in many ways.
The altars of Moctezuma
I stained a bloody red.
My back of Indian slavery
Was stripped crimson
From the whips of masters
Who would lose their blood so pure
When revolution made them pay,
Standing against the walls of retribution.
Blood has flowed from me on every battlefield between
campesino, hacendado,
slave and master and revolution.
I jumped from the tower of Chapultepec
into the sea of fame–
my country’s flag
my burial shroud–
with Los Niños,
whose pride and courage
could not surrender
with indignity
their country’s flag
to strangers . . . in their land.
Now I bleed in some smelly cell from club or gun or tyranny.
I bleed as the vicious gloves of hunger
Cut my face and eyes,
As I fight my way from stinking barrios
To the glamour of the ring
And lights of fame
Or mutilated sorrow.
My blood runs pure on the ice-caked
Hills of the Alaskan isles,
On the corpse-strewn beach of Normandy,
The foreign land of Korea
And now Vietnam.
Here I stand
Before the court of justice,
Guilty
For all the glory of my Raza
To be sentenced to despair.
Here I stand,
Poor in money,
Arrogant with pride,
Bold with machismo,
Rich in courage
And
Wealthy in spirit and faith.
My knees are caked with mud.
My hands calloused from the hoe. I have made the Anglo rich,
Yet
Equality is but a word–
The Treaty of Hidalgo has been broken
And is but another threacherous promise.
My land is lost
And stolen,
My culture has been raped.
I lengthen the line at the welfare door
And fill the jails with crime.
These then are the rewards
This society has
For sons of chiefs
And kings
And bloody revolutionists,
Who gave a foreign people
All their skills and ingenuity
To pave the way with brains and blood
For those hordes of gold-starved strangers,
Who
Changed our language
And plagiarized our deeds
As feats of valor
Of their own.
They frowned upon our way of life
and took what they could use.
Our art, our literature, our music, they ignored–
so they left the real things of value
and grabbed at their own destruction
by their greed and avarice.
They overlooked that cleansing fountain of
nature and brotherhood
which is Joaquín.
The art of our great señores,
Diego Rivera,
Siqueiros,
Orozco, is but another act of revolution for
the salvation of mankind.
Mariachi music, the heart and soul
of the people of the earth,
the life of the child,
and the happiness of love.
The corridos tell the tales
of life and death,
of tradition,
legends old and new, of joy
of passion and sorrow
of the people–who I am.
I am in the eyes of woman,
sheltered beneath
her shawl of black,
deep and sorrowful eyes
that bear the pain of sons long buried or dying,
dead on the battlefield or on the barbed wire of social strife.
Her rosary she prays and fingers endlessly
like the family working down a row of beets
to turn around and work and work.
There is no end.
Her eyes a mirror of all the warmth
and all the love for me,
and I am her
and she is me.
We face life together in sorrow,
anger, joy, faith and wishful
thoughts.
I shed the tears of anguish
as I see my children disappear
behind the shroud of mediocrity,
never to look back to remember me.
I am Joaquín.
I must fight
and win this struggle
for my sons, and they
must know from me
who I am.
Part of the blood that runs deep in me
could not be vanquished by the Moors.
I defeated them after five hundred years,
and I have endured.
Part of the blood that is mine
has labored endlessly four hundred
years under the heel of lustful
Europeans.
I am still here!

I have endured in the rugged mountains
Of our country
I have survived the toils and slavery of the fields.
I have existed
In the barrios of the city
In the suburbs of bigotry
In the mines of social snobbery
In the prisons of dejection
In the muck of exploitation
And
In the fierce heat of racial hatred.
And now the trumpet sounds,
The music of the people stirs the
Revolution.
Like a sleeping giant it slowly
Rears its head
To the sound of
Tramping feet
Clamoring voices
Mariachi strains
Fiery tequila explosions
The smell of chile verde and
Soft brown eyes of expectation for a
Better life.
And in all the fertile farmlands,
the barren plains,
the mountain villages,
smoke-smeared cities,
we start to MOVE.
La raza!
Méjicano!
Español!
Latino!
Chicano!
Or whatever I call myself,
I look the same
I feel the same
I cry
And
Sing the same.
I am the masses of my people and
I refuse to be absorbed.
I am Joaquín.
The odds are great
But my spirit is strong,
My faith unbreakable,
My blood is pure.
I am Aztec prince and Christian Christ.
I SHALL ENDURE!
I WILL ENDURE!

This is one of my most beloved children’s books.

The Woman Who Outshone the Sun/La mujer que brillaba aún más que el sol is such a beautiful and moving story. It is based upon a poem by Alejandro Cruz Martinez, who was a young Zapoteca poet who spent years collecting the oral traditions of his people. The Zapotecas are great storytellers and the tale of Lucia Zenteno comes from that grand tradition. In 1986 he published his version of this story as a poem and was later killed in 1987 while organizing the Zapotecas to regain their lost water rights.

The book is about Lucia Zenteno, a woman who was so beautiful she outshone the sun. All of nature loved Lucia and in this magical story, the fish in the river and the river itself love her so much that she combs them in and out of her glorious long black hair. The people of the village, however are afraid of her because she is different. They whisper about her and are so cruel in their fear of her. The village elders are different. They warn the villagers that Lucia is a woman in touch with nature and they hurt her at their own peril but the villagers don’t care to listen. She is too different, too odd. Finally, Lucia, hurt by their taunts and whispers, leaves the town followed by her beloved pet iguana.

The river and nature mourn her loss and leave with Lucia caught up in her hair. It is only when the village, now desolate and dry that the villagers repent of their cruelty and seek Lucia out.

The book is fabulously illustrated with lush and magical paintings by the acclaimed painter Fernando Olivera who was a close friend of Alejandro Cruz Martinez. Each page is a fantasy of beautiful Zapoteca indigenous dress, nature, animals and of course, the river which is as much an important character as Lucia Zenteno.

The story has a strong moral message for both adults and children and I cannot help but think that to Cruz Martinez, this story was an allegory for the water rights he died defending as the water plays such an important role. His widow gave Children’s Book Press – a wonderful independent publisher that specializes in multi-cultural books that is based in San Francisco the permission to adapt the story and all royalties are paid out to her.

I encourage everyone to purchase this book and to read it to your children or just enjoy it yourself. It is bilingual in English and Spanish and is just such a beautiful and compelling book.

On the Seventh Anniversary of the Zapatista Uprising Subcommandante Marcos and Comandante David wrote:

Indigenous Brothers and Sisters of Mexico:
In this, the seventh year of the war against oblivion, we repeat who we are.
We are wind, we are. Not the breast that breathes for us.
We are word, we are. Not the lips which speak to us.
We are steps, we are. Not the foot that moves us.
We are heartbeat, we are. Not the foot that moves us.
We are a bridge, we are. Not the lands that form a union.
We are road, we are. Not the point or arrival or departure.
We are place, we are. Not those who occupy that place.
We do not exist, we are. We only are.
Seven times we are. Seven times we are.
We are the reflection, we are.
The hand that just opened the window, we are.
We are the timid knock at the door of tomorrow.

So begins the amazing Questions and Swords: Folktales of the Zapatista Revolution. Once again, Subcomandante Marcos and the incomparable Don Antonio color our minds, hearts and souls with their beautiful folktales. Don Antonio tells of Votan Zapata, a story of water winning over sword and the story of questions with such simple beauty and grace that they pack a powerful punch. The artwork of Domitila Dominguez, the indigenous Oaxacan woman is luminous, primitive and astounding.

With essays by Native American poet Simon Ortiz and the incomparable Elena Poniatowska, Mexico’s grande dame of letters, the book is a revolution that you hold in your hands. It teaches, it entertains, it enlightens. Once again, Cinco Puntos Press and the Colectivo Callejero have worked together to bring these powerful works, our history to the light.

Benjamin and the Word is a beautiful grade 1-3 picture book which delivers a powerful message about the issues of bigotry, race and difference.

Benjamin is on the playground playing when suddenly he hears “the word”. The book doesn’t tell you which word it was that hurt him so and bothered him so much and this absence just makes it that much more powerful. We don’t need to know the word to know that words hurt and that children can be cruel to each other.

In the story Benjamin is hurt and it shows. The word is eating at him and his father sees that something is bothering his child. He waits for Benjamin to tell him what transpired and once hearing the word, he skillfully teaches his son his own worth.

Mr. Olivas, who scared us with his Devil Talk, now takes us on a journey through childhood and the playground. He skillfully shows us how we learn racism and bigotry and how it can be unlearned; how children can be educated to be accepting and aware of the impact of their words.

Don Dyen, the illustrator has masterfully captured the essence of this simple, yet powerful punch of a story with soft watercolors that bring the quality of a dream to this rich and colorful book.

I encourage all parents to buy this book for your children and to be honest, maybe we all need to read it. It brought home some simple truths to me and made me reconsider some things I would have said without thought. Be careful of your words.

Xochitl and the Flowers/Xochitl, La Niña de Las Flores
by Jorge Argueta, Carl Angel (Illustrator)
Publisher: Children’s Book Press (CA); Bilingual edition (July, 2003)
ISBN: 0892391812

Xochitl and her family have come from El Salvador and are missing home very much. They live in San Francisco’s Mission District and what they miss most of all are the flowers that they were surrounded with back home. Back in El Salvador, the Flores family was known for the flowers that they provided. Xochitl’s mother dreams of owning a nursery filled with beautiful flowers and plants. She begins working on her dream by selling bouquets of flowers on the roadside, walking door to door with Xochitl in their new neighborhood. When Xochitl’s father finds an apartment with a large yard filled with garbage that would be perfect for a nursery once cleaned, the family and the new friends in the community work hard together to make it work.

This is a beautiful story of community and the power of banding together to make dreams happen. It is a story of how people can band together to bring positive change. It is also the tale of love for a homeland and the homesickness that hits hard at the oddest times. It’s about finding your place in the world, of making a home in a new land.

Xochitl and the Flowers is about a dream and the work to make that dream come true. It is what most of our parents and grandparents have done; bringing a piece of that culture and homeland that they left and blending it with the new land to make something entirely their own. It’s about transcending borders. The book teaches love, home and community, determination in the face of adversity and of establishing roots.

Prize-winning poet Jorge Argueta has written a timeless, eloquent and moving tale based on real life events in the San Francisco Mission District. The illustrations are colorful and gorgeous like the flowers central to the story. Each page is filled with flowers and smiles and each page made me smile. This is a powerful book and one each of us should have in our shelf reserved for special books.

Magda’s Tortillas (Las Tortillas de Magda)
Author: Becky Chavarría Chálrez
Illustrator: Anne Vega
Publisher: Piñata Books – Arte Publico Press

Magda’s Tortillas is the story of Magda Madrigal who is celebrating her seventh birthday. She has waited for this day with great anticipation because this is the day that her abuela will teach her to make tortillas for the first time. Magda is excited and can’t wait to get started.

The book describes in wonderful detail a day spent in the kitchen with a beloved grandmother learning el gran tradicíon of making tortillas and the quest to make them perfectly round. You could almost smell those tortillas on the comal!

Magda is adorable. I fell in love with the stunningly vibrant and lifelike illustrations of Anne Vega whose artwork is truly marvelous. Each page pulls you into Magda’s emotions and actions so that you are right there in that kitchen. One of my favorites is the one with Magda’s face covered in flour. I burst into surprised laughter when I turned the page to see that precious face decorated with white splotches. The minute I saw it I was reminded of my own kitchen education at the hands of my Grandma Lupe as well as the excited, flour-covered faces of my own children and grandchildren. This story brought back so many great memories of family, kitchens and the art of the tortilla.

This is a feel-good book, one that I encourage you all to read. I think it’s an important one as well, since it’s about one of our most ancient traditions – the making of the all-important tortilla. Our ancient ancestors in Tenochitlan were making tortillas and teaching generations of little girls that special art. With life so fast-paced today and tortillas of every kind pre-packaged in stores, this could become a lost art. Let’s not let that happen.

I loved this book and it’s one of my granddaughter Jasmine’s favorites. Whenever we read it, we just have to make our own tortillas. We have to – the book just makes us not want to do anything else. This story is one of simple beauty and joy, the love of family and tradition leaps off the pages and moves you in a profound and incredible way. Magda’s abuela and family will move you with their love, understanding and overwhelming pride in the daughter of the house.

Title: Prizefighter en mi Casa

Author: e. E. Charlton-Trujillo

Publisher: Delacorte Books for Young Readers

ISBN: 0385733259

Prizefighter en mi Casa tells the story of young Chula Sanchez, a twelve-year old girl with a mountain of serious problems. I’m talking BIG issues here. She’s extremely poor, she’s got epilepsy, her dad drinks, her mom is ashamed of her, her brother picks on her and is starting to get involved with a gang and oh yeah, she’s Mexican in a small Texas town where racism is alive and well. Remember those stories your abuela used to tell you about the Cucuy? I do and they scared the hell out of me. They scare Chula too only the Cucuy is coming to stay with her family. You see, Chula’s father is determined to pull his family out of debt and so he has called on an old friend, El Jefe – a battered prizefighter from Mexico with a dark reputation and past. In Mexico City, they chant his name, El Jefe del Diablo – the Boss of the Devil. Ayyyyy! Yet Chula and this unlikely man become fast friends. Each finds something in the other that touches their heart, they find understanding.

I was impressed by this story. It’s dark, sad, sometimes brutal and absolutely wonderful. The conversations with Chula’s mom are intense and heart wrenching. The writing really makes you feel Chula’s hopes and fears. The budding friendship between Chula and El Jefe is touching and speaks to every tentative instance where a new relationship develops, the uncertainty, the fear and the yearning for contact. There are wonderful sentences that are so poetic I just fell in love with the language of the book. Take for instance, “Sprinkles scattered like lost children hoping to find their mothers soon.” Or “Not to mention, nobody went down to the Playground after dark anymore unless they were dark enough in the heart not to be seen.” That’s wonderful imagery and it gives you a picture so clear you can see that playground and what goes on after dark.

e. E. Charlton-Trujillo has written an amazing story of love, family, bravery and real life. It’s an amazing and truthful book.