The Little Things
by Solo Greene Throughout our walk in life, there are times when we expect and want great things to happen, and, most of the time, they come and go, and they are far in between. We spend so much of our life and time waiting for these great things to happen that we overlook or look beyond the small things that happen or come along in our life daily. The reality is we take a lot of things for granted. We don’t appreciate or acknowledge the small things that we have or that come along our way, yet the small things are the things that keep us going. The small things are the things that give us hope and faith. If we didn’t have these small blessings, gifts, or rewards, what would motivate us, keep us going, or give us purpose? A while back after 911, I received an e-mail and a list of reasons why some of the people survived the attack and are still here today. One of them, the head of a company, survived 911 because his son started Kindergarten. Another one was alive because it was his turn to bring donuts. And yet another one was still alive because her alarm clock didn’t go off. There were many small things that happened that day that explained why people were late, missed work, and are here today. Another example of appreciating and acknowledging the small things are when teams or athletes win the World Series, Super Bowl, NBA Championship, or individual sports or events. It isn’t winning the title or coming out on top that makes it so great. It is all the small stuff like the time, energy, effort, sacrifice, and commitment that a person or a team puts in to win that title or championship that makes it so great or rewarding. Another quote that I read said, “Big shots are only little shots that keep shooting.” Michael Jordan didn’t even make his high school basketball team, but he didn’t give up or quit. He put in more time practicing, and he worked harder. He did all the small things to make himself a better player, and, today, he is one of the greatest players to ever play the game. Larry Bird or the “Legend,” as he is called, is another great example. He wasn’t fast, couldn’t jump, or didn’t have a lot of the athletic ability as other NBA players, but he did all the small things to be a great player. He took thousands and thousands of shots from all over the basketball court. He worked hard at blocking out, being in position on defense and seeing the floor. Don’t get me wrong, he was a good athlete, but he did all the small things exceptionally well. A lot of these people didn’t become successful or who they are today over night. It took time and hard work. Many of them worked their way up from the bottom. They had to do what they had to do, and they had to accept and appreciate all the small things that they had and all the small things that they have accomplished.Michael Jordan and Larry Bird are prime examples of how the small things are the important things. This also reminds me of a quote I read a while back that said, “Children do not ask about our ability or inability. They are only concerned about our availability.” They don’t ask for much. They only want our love, attention, and time. These are small things that have a BIG influence. It seems too simple, but just think what our families, households, community, tribe, nation, and world would be like today if we accepted, appreciated, and acknowledged all the small things that we have or come our way daily. Some of us are here today because of the small things that someone else has given us or has done for us. One thing that we have to remember is this: Great opportunities seldom come, but small ones surround us every day. In closing, life is what we make it. We can wait our whole lives for something great or something big to happen, or we can accept, acknowledge and celebrate the small things. Luke 16:10 of the Bible says, “He who is faithful with little will also be faithful with much.” We want the big things, but we must first be thankful for the small things. God Bless! Bending gaily
Her four-year-old torso, Picking up So gently A fuzzy wuzzy Black and yellow Banded Woolly Bear Caterpillar, Holding outstretched arms, Eyes clapping, Hands cupped, Cradling Her fuzzy-wuzzy Symbol of future Transformation, Lifting gently and then... Kissing the Fuzzy Wuzzy, Experiencing The blistering, the stinging, Of a fat lip. Who would have guessed? Black and yellow Woolly Bears Have poison in their Fuzzy-wuzzy little needles. “Set it down carefully, and let it go.” My statement, My response to swollen eyes, Shock and surprise And the now twenty-year-old tears Of an experienced Addict. Gordan R. Livingston Why Not Take All of Me? By Viola Ware The local jewelry store recently closed, leaving me to use one of many pawn shops in town to size the watch I just received from an online order. The lady behind the jewelry counter measuring my wrist could not believe the size of it. If you set two quarters side by side on the back of my wrist, one will slip off. Turn my wrist sideways, and only one quarter has room to rest. They are tiny. At first the woman appeared in sour spirits, but slowly sweetened under a wash of my dry, self-deprecating humor. White and middle-aged with long ash-blonde hair, she began talking about these Navajo bracelets the shop recently received, speculating that they were owned by the same person who must have been very small as they were metal with no clasp. She looked me in the eye and said, “Do you wear Navajo jewelry often?” As I left the shop, I texted my best friend, “Now I’m Navajo?” My mother is Korean and my father was Welsh/Irish and Portuguese. I have dark, French-roast-brown eyes, long black hair, pouty lips, a long chin, flat face and freckles. I am horangi, a tiger, who eats cheeseburgers. Though coming from a long line of short and round, I am fine boned and the thinnest of my siblings at 5’7” and 160 pounds that fluctuates wildly throughout the year depending on my level of stress and involvement with men in a Bridget Jones sort of irony, though not as dizzy. I will be the first in my family to graduate from college. I grew up in a house with a WWII and Korean War Veteran father who spent months on end away at sea as a Merchant Marine and a mother whose broken English we had to translate at the grocery store and for whom we patiently spelled out words as she wrote our absentee slips for school. My mother laughingly tells new acquaintances that Sesame Street taught us English. Inside the home, my mother did her best to raise me as a Korean daughter, wife-to-be, wholly lacking in desire and full of devotion, while outside the home America pummeled me with its proud and persistent individualism. When my father was home, we were not allowed to speak Korean. I grew up with two older brothers, and, much to my mother’s dismay, spent my childhood climbing trees and trying to play with their Star Wars figures, growing quickly bored with the baby dolls my mother kept buying me. My Korean is the most invisible part of me. No one ever sees it. Everyone seems to think I am Native American. Even Sherman Alexi, upon first meeting me, asked, “What tribe are you?” White people often make racist Asian jokes or comments in front of me or even to me not realizing I am Asian. In Korea, I was picked on by other children because they always saw the White in me. Older students often tried to practice their English on me, or did not bother to hide their contempt, “We love your American movies, but we hate you.” In Taiwan it was enough to be chased from playgrounds by groups of children in school uniforms. I learned early to wait until the other children were home eating dinner before I climbed the fences to empty playgrounds. In inner city neighborhoods in Seattle, I bore the hate of the African American children who saw a middle finger when I raised a hand or rolling eyes when I looked at my brother, justification to gang up on us six to two. White guys like me because I am an accessible Asian with big breasts. I actually caught a guy I dated bragging to a buddy of his when he thought I couldn’t hear, “Dude, she’s Asian, but she wears a D cup. I’m not shittin’ you.” That one ended about as soon as it started. So, I’m an Asian/Hispanic/White, Buddhist, Liberal, single mother and a member of the working class. In the realm of my sexuality, I am physically bisexual, but emotionally straight because I have never explored that part of my personality. For multiple reasons, I was too afraid to. I exist in a strange place on the spectrum. I have never told anyone that as a child I wanted to be a boy. That I found women’s bodies to be sexually stimulating long before I taught myself to desire a male body. I witnessed what happened when my oldest brother was kicked out of the home for coming out of the closet. My mother openly spoke of gay men deserving to be shot on sight. No one close to me will ever know this about me. I am enough of an oddity in this small rural White community I live in where I get chewed out at bus stops for being Native American and not having to pay taxes. Despite some tentative experimentation, I suppose I have swallowed and internalized hegemonic heterosexuality. I am privileged in the sense that I behave White. I am an American, I have no accent and my norms are typically the norms of those around me. I may be half Asian, but I am U.S.-born and partially White, knowing next to nothing of my Hispanic heritage other than my grandmother came to America on a boat with her father as servants of an immigrating family. I am one of the racial groupings that exist in that middle ground between privilege and oppression, and I’ve assimilated well. I guess in many ways, I fit the “Model Minority” stereotype. If anyone noticed I am Asian, anyway. I wish they would because that is a big part of who I am. Unlike when I lived in Seattle, I don’t talk openly about my Buddhist beliefs where I live now in this little rural town, at least not until I know someone very well. For a place with a population of just over 19,000, there are 27 churches and no open Buddhist communities that I have been able to find. I do wear a Buddha tile on my necklace from a temple in Tibet and keep lotus symbols on my desk. Once, several years ago while spending time with an old friend sipping drinks at her favorite bar, I made a joke using the old taxonomy, mainly for my own amusement at the sounds of the word, “So, if my mother is Mongoloid and my father Caucasoid, does that make me a Mongolocauc?” A young man who had been hanging drunkenly near us suddenly became irate, “Why do you guys always have to throw your ethnicity in our faces? What do you gain for making me feel bad about being White?” And then he went on about being so-manieth generation “Oregonian” and how he never felt the need to rub anyone’s nose in it. It drives me a little batty when White people get upset and say, “Why do we have to focus on our differences? This is why there’s a problem!” I want to rattle them and say, “But I am different, and that’s what I love about myself, because I am not you.” White people have reminded me my whole life about how I am different, and now, when I agree, when I have come to love how I am different, they get angry and want me to ignore it and embrace their standards of “similarities.” Growing up, I spent my life as the other with my mother telling me, “Don’t be American” and my father telling me, “Don’t be Korean” (he slammed his hand on the table when I suggested applying for a scholarship as a Korean-American, “You’re American:you were born in America!”), then on top of it all feeling ashamed at being this strange girl-boy creature. I had to carve out my own little realm of identity, this in between place that I saw in the mirror every day in which I existed completely alone. There truly is not one piece of me from which I identify more than the others because I am all of them. While I have been fortunate to not have lived under the same persistent threat of violence because of my skin that marks the life experience of other women of color, I have had to live in a place where the existence of my self, in part or all of its forms, was denied existence. I can certainly identity with Audre Lorde, who because of her multiple identities always found herself being defined as other or feeling forced into a fragmented existence. I wanted to stand up and shout when I read, “My fullest concentration of energy is available to me only when I integrate all the parts of who I am, openly, allowing power from particular sources of my living to flow back and forth freely through all my different selves, without the restrictions of externally imposed definition.”[1] By simply smacking a label on an individual either by their race or their gender or any one piece of them and ignoring the rest denies their humanity, the complexities that define us as human and dismisses a unique contribution to the overall body of knowledge of the human condition. What would happen if all landscape painters wandered into the desert and painted only tumbleweeds on a sunny day? Would people who had never visited the desert have any indication of what a desert was like from their paintings? Absolutely not. People could develop all manner of misconceptions and miss the vast diversity of desert landscapes and the variety of life that exists there. They would never know the fearsome beauty of a desert thunderstorm. Or what if a doctor focused only on your moodiness as PMS, completely missing symptoms of diabetes? Derived from generalities, this could lead to misdiagnosis and treatment of a severe condition. A friend of mine was misdiagnosed twice, dismissed as a moody teenager and wound up in diabetic coma. Once an MIT scholar, due to major cognitive damage, she had to relearn basic math. By not taking the individual and their experiences in their entirety, no matter how complex, we commit the same sort of sin of generality and stereotyping; “the primary cause of all oppression, forgetting other distortions around difference.”[2] Neglecting to explore multiple identities places a limit on our ability to learn and grow. Our capacity for change will be stunted. We would not understand how racism and classism interlock in supporting negative stereotypes for poor people of color. We might never know how sexism within the Asian community can affect the overall opportunities for Asian women in America who deal with a double whammy of sexism as women in American and women in their own communities. Much less, we would never bother to peer through the window long enough to see how that can be further exacerbated by racist sentiments when they are immigrants with limited ability to speak English fluently. What happens when poverty limits their ability to learn English? Or how all these can converge when dealing with an interracial marriage when a White husband imposes sexist and racist edicts with an immigrant woman who has internalized her own culture’s sexist ideology. Without knowing the full spectrum of oppressions that someone can experience, our efforts towards equality will be misinformed and, like the misdiagnoses of my friend, the potential fix in its ignorance has the potential to be disastrous. As people of color, it is just as important that we not fall into the same good versus bad mentality even when dealing with people who are White. We have to take care not to treat White people as a homogenous entity. By focusing solely on White privilege and the image of Whites as racist ignorantly dismisses instances of racism that can actually occur between minority groups. We should not assume their existence is homogenous while resisting homogeneity ourselves. White people can experience forms of oppression, as White may not be their only identity. They are just as vulnerable to sexism, classism, ableism, and ageism. In fact, the main predictor of police brutality is class, even above race.[3] People ask if I am offended when people assume I am Native American. Not enough to get very angry. I choose to see it with humor. That is a status I cannot escape. Besides, for the most part, it indicates that someone is curiously knocking on the front door of my identity, and, instead of slamming it in their face, I can choose to invite them in and show them around. It is a teaching opportunity that may have elements of misinformed stereotypes and even ignorance, but is most often not hostile. So I will continue to choose to not be too offended when people assume, because then I get to talk about being Korean and maybe I can tilt someone’s perspective just enough so some stereotypes slide off the table and make room for knowledge. [1] Lorde, A. (1984). Age, Race, Class, and Sex: Women Redefining Difference. In M. Anderson & P. Collins (Eds.), Race, Class, and Gender (7th ed., p. 509). Belmont, CA: Wadsworth. [2] Lorde, A. (1984). Age, Race, Class, and Sex: Women Redefining Difference. In M. Anderson & P. Collins (Eds.), Race, Class, and Gender (7th ed., pp. 506). Belmont, CA: Wadsworth. [3] Walker, S., Spohn, C., & DeLone, M. (2011). The Color of Justice: Race, Ethnicity, and Crime in America. (5th ed.) Belmont, CA: Wadsworth. Luz al Final del Túnel
by Catalina Zabala In November 1974, my parents emigrated from Zacatecas, Mexico, leaving four children behind. I was seven-years old, my baby sister four months. My other two sisters were four and three. As I close my eyes, I can still see my baby sister wrapped in a blue receiving blanket, peacefully sleeping. My dad had been working in the United States and came back when my sister was born. My mother and father bought a house, and we lived comfortably. I did not see my dad often, though he would frequently write and send pictures of himself, as well as money, to my mother. Now, as I look back into the tunnel of memory, I can understand my mother needing my dad. She was young and already had four children to care for. She was not a loving mother; instead, she was cold with us most of the time. When my father came back, everything seemed different. My mother was happy and more caring. We were a family. Oh, but it lasted so little time. One time after my father left, my mother said, “Next time that your dad comes, I will leave with him. Without him, I’ll die.” She also would say, “Mija, it’s your responsibility to care for your sisters because you are the oldest.” Then my father returned again. One day at the dinner table my dad said, “Soon I will go back to the United States, but this time your mother will travel with me.” My parents faced a challenge, however. They asked family members, but no one wanted the kind of responsibility that came with four children. Unable to find a caregiver for us, they decided to leave us with a stranger. Her name was Josefina, a widow who had seven children and had recently lost her husband. With us four, that made a total of eleven children, a lot of children to care for. Even I knew that. I thought at the time, that my parents didn’t realize that. Still, it was their choice. What could I do? A day before their departure, my parents had a long talk with me. One said, De ahora en adelante tú serás como una mama para tus hermanas. Tú eres la mayor y es tu responsabilidad de cuidarlas porque ellas son mas pequeñas que tú. “Yo soy una niña,” les conteste a mis padres. Yo les dije pero eso no les importo a ellos. “Tú cuidaras de tus hermanas” dijo mi madre y eso fue el fin de la conversación. “From now on, you are going to be like a mommy to your sisters. You are the oldest, and it’s your responsibility to care for them because they’re smaller than you.” “I am just a child myself.” I replied, but that didn’t matter to them: “You will care for your sisters,” said my mother, and that was the end of the conversation. She wanted to leave with my dad. I understood why my dad had to leave. He was the family’s provider. How could I understand my mother’s reasons? Yo nunca mas jugué igual que los otros niños, o tampoco tuve juguetes. I still remember saying good-bye at the bus station. It was crowded; there was a lot of smoke and a terrible smell. People were crying as they said goodbye to their loved ones. I cried and begged to my parents not to leave. Dad told me Mexico was a poor country and did not have enough opportunities. As I saw the enormous bus leaving, I felt lonely and unprotected. All I could hear in my head was my parents’ voices saying, “It’s your responsibility to care for your sisters.” On the way back, Josefina said, “Things will change; tomorrow, you will go to work with me in the field.” I did not answer. In my mind, all could think about was my parents leaving me and my sisters. Next morning, I was awakened by Josefina’s loud words, “Everybody up. It is time to go to work. From now on, you will share everything you have with my children.” Our personal things were soon taken by her children, leaving us with just a few items. Time passed. I tried to adjust. I would get up in the morning and go to work in the field. Most days were cold in the morning and hot the rest of the day. I would be so thirsty, and the only water was in a nearby creek. When I knelt to drink, my reflection would sometimes start crying. Picking peppers and tomatoes was my favorite kind of work because I could eat while I was working. That was a good thing, considering I was hungry most of the time. I liked the smell of tomatoes. Even now as I write, I can still close my eyes and recall that smell of fresh tomatoes. By the time of the tomatoes, my shoes were worn through. My feet were bloody most of the time, at least until the skin hardened. My clothes were old, and my hair was full of lice. I hardly took a bath, nor did we have a private bathroom. If we wanted to take a bath, it had to be in a canal that passed by the house or in the river that was nearby. For five years, I never saw myself in a real mirror. When I would look in the water, I knew my physical appearance was not pleasant. I remember seeing a sad child. I don’t recall my permanent teeth filling the gaps in my mouth. My sisters were hungry most days, even after working in the field. So I begged for food and milk for my baby sister. There were three people that would always help me with food and milk. Oliva, who was one of my sisters’ godmothers, had a restaurant. I knew her very well when my mother was still with us. I would go and ask for things to eat. On some occasions, I would ask for food more than once during the day. She always said. “As long I can help you, Dear, I will.” I never saw her sad or fed up with me, but I did not understand why she would always talk to me with a sad voice. I can still remember my exact words, “Comadre,” as I used to call her, “I’m so hungry. May I have a pan dulce and a soda and, of course, the same for my sisters? I’ll pay you back when my parents send me money or when I grow up. I promise you I’ll pay you.” Oliva would smile and say, “Like I told you before, for as long as I can, I will help you.” Sometimes she would ask for my parents. I never had an answer. I did not know what was going on. She would point me toward the light at the end of the tunnel: “Be patient, my dear. Remember, God will provide for you and your sisters.” Another dear lady was Carmen, my half-brother’s mother; of course, she was a humble person and could usually only help me with tortillas. “Carmen, podrías ayudarme? Tengo mucha hambre. Carmen, would you help me? I’m very hungry.” "Por supuesto, pero solamente tengo tortillas recién hechas. Of course, but I only have fresh tortillas.” I consider myself fortunate because, even though Carmen and my mother had problems, Carmen would still help me. Fresh tortillas…to you, Dear Reader, it might not sound too appetizing, but, believe me, when you are hungry, tortillas sounds good. Being hungry is like if your stomach is twisting inside. On some occasions, I would ask for salt to give the tortillas flavor. Sometimes, when I was too tired to go see her, Carmen would send tacos with my brother, who was only six months older than me. The other dear lady, Juanita, my grandfather’s sister, had cattle and made her own cheese. But it was a long walk to see her. Considering that my sisters needed the milk, especially my baby sister, I had to visit her regularly. I remember the first time I visited her. I had worked all day. I was tired and very dirty. When I knocked on her door, she said, "Caty, what a surprise. I’m so sorry that your parents are gone. What can I do for you?” Immediately I answered, “Yo tengo mucha hambre y mi hermanita pequeña no deja de llorar, y yo no se que hacer. I am very hungry, and my baby sister keeps crying: I do not know what to do.” She said “Caty, come as often as you want, and I’ll help you with food and milk.” I remember that I ate fresh cheese, frijoles and drank fresh milk. I did not eat much because I wanted to save some food for my sisters. My aunt said, “Now, you eat. I’ll give you more for your sisters.” As I was leaving, her husband came in, I did not raise my head to see him. I was embarrassed to be begging for food. For five years, these three beautiful women helped me and my sisters. I used to look at my sisters as they played, feeling the pang of a desperate responsibility. On one occasion, as I was boiling milk for my baby sister, and one of Josefina’s children pushed me toward the fire. The boiling milk burned my torso. I was unconscious for a long time; I remember waking up on the dirt floor; we did not have regular beds. The floor was cold and hard. At the beginning, it did not hurt that bad, but, after a while, it was an excruciating pain. A neighbor prepared home remedies. Some of her remedies included the heart of the cactus: she had to peel the cactus and just use the middle part. I remember a cool sensation, and it relieved the pain. I also remember the burning pain as she changed my bandages. The nice woman would say as she touched me softly, “Mija, pronto estarás bien. Your wound will heal soon.” I would clinch my teeth as she cleaned my blisters. I considered myself lucky because this person did not have to help me. She was very caring, and I do not even remember her name. Josefina let me stay home for a couple of days, but then she said she needed hands to work in the field. Josefina was a heartless woman and would punish us if we did not do what we were told. On several occasions, if I disobeyed her, she would whip me either with a thin branch or a thin rope. Sometimes, I wanted to run away, but what would happen to my sisters? I preferred to be punished instead of my sisters. If that woman was going to hit my sisters, I would hug them, covering them with my body. Some days, I had more pain than others, and the sweat and the burning sun did not help much. I used to feel very weak, and I would pray to God that I would die in my sleep, but the next day it was the same thing; I was alive. We were in risk, not only of physical abuse, but also sexual abuse. I will not relive those memories for you now. There was a school nearby. Sometimes I would go to the window and listen to the teacher during the class. I used to think that, one day, I would also be in school, learning a lot of things, like how to read. Sometimes, the teacher would invite me into the classroom, but I was embarrassed and afraid of feeling out of place. On most times, I would wait until the class was over and would walk with the teacher back home. Eloiso was his name. He would talk about letters and how easy it was to learn how to write and read if I really wanted to learn. I wanted to go to school so bad that, on one occasion, I asked Josefina if she would let me go. She said, “I do not even let my own children go to school. Why would I let you go?” Every night, I would write on the dirt floor with a stick, so I could teach myself how to write. I started by writing my name. As I progressed in writing, I felt proud of myself. Most of the time, however, when I wandered the streets asking for money and begging for food, I felt torn apart on the inside. It is a terrible darkness to be little and not to have anyone that you can trust to look after you. I used to wish that time would fly or that I could have wings to take my sisters away. I would go to my parent’s house and pray to God that my parents would come back for us. I felt so devastated to see my house so empty; I would sit in a corner and cry. Most nights, I would cry myself to sleep. It turns out my parents sent money so my baby sister and I could travel with Josefina to the United States and later bring my other two sisters. Josefina lied to my parents, and, instead of my baby sister and I traveling with her, she brought two of her own children. Leaving us with her oldest daughter, Ofelia, was horrible. Ofelia received the money from my parents to take care us. Ofelia did not want that to stop. She talked to me, saying, if one of our relatives would come and wanted to take us away with them, I had to say we were happy living with her. She manipulated me by saying someone else was going to treat us even worse. She said that she was only hard with us because she cared about us. She even said, “Nobody wanted to care for you or your sisters and, now that you are older, your relatives might want to take you away, so you can work for them.” The whole time she was talking I stayed quiet. Ofelia was so mean that she did not even let me pick fruit from my parent’s house. We had oranges, grapefruits, peaches, and limes there. If she found out that I had been picking fruit, I was punished. On rainy days, she would send me out to pick up wood for the fire. I wanted to run away. Sometimes, I would make plans on how to escape, but I could not leave my sisters behind. It did not pass much time when, one day, we were taking a bath and playing in the canal. As always, I had my baby sister close to me. My other two sisters were farther away. We heard loud voices. A man and a woman wanted to see us. Ofelia was upset. She kept saying that they were not going to take us away, even if they had a letter from my parents authorizing them to do so. At that time, I told my sisters to get out of the water and to follow me. Grabbing my baby sister and our clothes, I got out of the water and started running. I remembered Ofelia’s words: now that we were older, people might come to take us away. I climbed over the fence to a corral and then to the street, carrying my baby sister with me. I kept calling for my sisters, but I did not see them anymore. I hid the rest of the afternoon. I knew that two people were looking for us. I did not recognize their voices, so I did not know who they were. As the night approached, we were cold, hungry, and tired, and my sister started to cry. I kept telling her “Por favor mija no llores. Please, sweetie, don’t cry.” Around midnight, I went back home. The people were still looking for us. As I approached the house, I saw Ofelia who immediately said, “Your uncle and aunt want to take you and your sisters away just like I told you it would happen.” I said to Ofelia “I don’t want to leave with them, and where are my sisters?” She answered, “Your sisters are in the room with your aunt, and your uncle is looking for you two.” She said, “I can help you” “I don’t want to leave with them.” She put us in a barrel and put some covers on top of the barrel. It was pitch black. We were there for a couple of hours. My baby sister kept on sobbing wanting to cry. I don’t remember her talking that much. All she did was cry a lot. After a while, I could not hear no more noises. It was late at night. When Ofelia’s husband took us out the barrel, he said, “You two are coming with me. We are going to a friend’s house who is going to help you. I will come in and pick you guys up when your uncle leaves.” I did not say a word. I was tired. I had to carry my sister since she was sleeping. I guess, in a way, she felt protected knowing I was there for her. After a couple of days, I came back home. I remembered that the house seemed so lonely without my other two sisters. I did not want to work anymore. I just wanted stay with my sister, and, if I went out, I took her with me. I knew how the other children treated my sister and how it would be even worse because she would be alone. Ofelia did not bother us that much at that point. Now that I have children of my own, I realize that I defended my sisters and loved them like if they were my own children. Early one morning, while we were preparing breakfast, I was making tortillas. I was kneeling on the dirt floor preparing masa for the tortillas. My sister was close to me. Oh, my parents had done a great job of making me believe that my sisters were my responsibility. I can remember that time as if it were right now. My baby sister was not wearing any clothes or shoes. The only thing she was wearing was dirty underwear from sitting on the dirt floor. She hardly had any hair. Her belly was swollen. Just then, a tall well-dressed man came in the house and was talking with Ofelia. I could hear that he was upset because he was demanding to see us. Ofelia said, “No, you cannot take the children out. They are my responsibility.” The man said “I am their grandfather. I was living in Piedras Negras, Mexico. I did not know that my granddaughters were living here with you.” Ofelia said, “I try to do as much as I can, but it is not enough. I have a lot of children to care for.” Ofelia was nervous and afraid that my grandfather was going to take us away. She finally allowed my grandfather to see us. When he saw us, he was very upset. He said, “You call this caring for them? Please, let me take them out. I promise I’ll bring them right back. “Well,” Ofelia said, “first I wanted to talk to you about your house? The one that is close to mine.” “What about my house?” my grandfather asked. “I spent a lot of time caring for your granddaughter that I have not saved any money, and yet I want to buy your house.” My grandfather said, “Oh, you want me to pay you for having them here? After your abuse of them? Just look at them!” he said in a harshly upsetting voice. “Does my son send you money?” She said, “Well, not enough.” Then Ofelia said, “Sell me your house.” My grandfather said, “What can you give me for the house? She said, “I have a cow.” He said, “Of course you do, you have made a lot of money from taking care of these children. The money that is sent for their care, you use that for your own benefit. You have bought land and a lot of cattle. I’ll take the cow, but I’m also taking the children. She said, “If you promise to bring them back.” He said, “Of course.” I was afraid of leaving because I had never met my grandfather. But, as he carried my sister with his strong arms, I heard him sobbing and saw tears in his eyes. We did not look like ordinary children. He took us with him, promising to take us back in the afternoon. As we were in the taxi cab going to the city, he did not say a word. He just hugged us; for the first time in a long time, I felt a sense of protection. Once we got to town, he took us to eat. Then he took us shopping and bought us clothes and shoes. I cared more about the shoes. In the store, my grandfather asked the owner if she could find someone to give us a bath before putting on the new clothes. “Of course,” she said, “my daughter will do that for you.” After leaving the store, he called my mother and asked her if she knew how we were being treated. My mother said that we were being well cared for. My grandfather said, “I can assure you that your daughters are not being cared for.” My grandfather gave my parents one month to resolve the situation. He said, “If you do not send for your children, I will take care of them but you will not be a part of their lives.” During the time we lived with my grandparents, it was like coming back to life. Things started to lighten up. I remember looking in a mirror and understanding why my grandparents would cry when they talked to me. I was very dark. The whites of my eyes contrasted with my dark skin. My teeth were yellow and dirty. My grandparents said that my teeth were yellow because of the minerals in the water. I was short and underweight for my age. My grandparents kept asking me my age. I had lost track of time and learned that five years had gone by. I was already twelve, and my baby sister was five. Since I was used to waking up early and going to work, my grandparents would keep reminding me that the nightmare was over. But sometimes, I would go with my grandfather to the field. I wanted to help him. He used to say, “No, Caty este es trabajo de hombres, tú trabajo esta en casa. No, Caty, this is a man’s job. Your job is at home.” I loved the smell of land as we were watering the field. I still have very vivid memories of my grandfather working in the field. He would say, “You are very good at planting seeds.” It’s a matter of fact that my grandfather worked in the field just a couple of days before he passed away in 2007. He was 109 years old. Now, as I write and I look back, I realize my grandparents had a great compassion and love for us. Their care for their grubby little grandchildren showed how much they loved us, even though they barely knew us. My parents called my grandfather, saying that they only had enough money to bring just two of us and not for all four. My grandfather said, “I’ll care for your other two daughters.” So that is how my two sisters, who were already eight and nine years old, came to live with my grandparents. I did not see my sisters until eight years later. They were raised by my grandparents. Perhaps, it was better this way. They both always talk about how fun it was to be with our grandparents. They were fortunate because they were able to go to school. Even though my sisters were only my sisters, I always felt responsibility towards them. I would argue with my parents frequently, asking why they would not bring my sisters to the United States. My parents would always tell me that it was not my problem, but they were wrong because, several years earlier, they had given me that problem when they told me it was my responsibility to take care of my siblings. Soon after my grandfather had called my parents, a person who was an expert in bringing illegal immigrants to the United States (a coyote) was sent. Coming to the United States as an illegal immigrant was another nightmare. First, my grandfather had to bring us to Ciudad Juarez, Mexico, and then we had to wait a couple of days. My grandfather would say, “If something goes wrong and are unable to reunite with your parents, I’ll take care of you and your sisters. You are not alone anymore. I promise that I’ll care of your other two sisters.” Then, we met the person that was going to take us to our parents. My grandfather said, “If you are not sure whether you want to go or not, you don’t have to go.” I had nothing to say. My parents had sent for only two of us. It was hard to understand what was going on in my parents’ minds. The person in charge said we would cross the border during the night. My grandfather said, “I will stay here for a couple of days until I hear news that they are with their parents.” We had to walk during the night for a long time. Then, after the walk, a car was waiting for us. We were put into the trunk. My sister was afraid and kept crying. I wanted to cry myself. The person in charge told me, “I don’t care what you do, but keep that child quiet.” I was trying everything, even putting my hand over her mouth. Finally she fell asleep. After a long journey, we were reunited with our parents in November 1979. It was time to start a new life. My parents never asked how we were treated or what happened during all that time. On one occasion, my mother and I had a discussion. She said that she did what she had to do. I can still remember her exact words: “Who are you to judge someone else’s decisions?” I answered, “I am a child who lost her childhood trying to stay alive because you were not there.” Now, I am forty-years old, married, and have three children. I work and go to community college full time. I cannot say I have recovered from those horrendous years. Maybe I will never recover. I still have nightmares and scars that remind me of my past. The events helped shaped my life, and now, I appreciate what I have. Every day after school, my children and I do homework together. These times together are important for me. Education is one of the most important things in my life. It has helped me understand myself and to become a better parent. Perhaps, I will never reach my whole potential, but it’s alright as long as I keep on trying. I am a strong believer that these things, Dear Reader, happened for a reason, or, as some people say, it was destiny. I believe everything had to happen so that my children would live in a better place with better opportunities in life. For me, that is the light at the end of the tunnel. Dear Reader,
I take great pleasure welcoming you to the first edition of Critical Civitates: A Journal of the People. CC explores social issues and remains now and forever devoted to exposing hypocrisy, cruelty, and other forms of social illness while celebrating the potential of the human will to overcome adversity. We are disciplined and opposed to hedonistic frivolity: we strive for things mindful, respectful, and protective. We openly honor the subjugated. We accept and celebrate the pluralistic nature of human experience, the “multi” in multilingual, multicultural, multigendered, and multiregional. Art and ideas within Critical Civitates unabashedly reveal the vulgar prose of life through the concept of 仁爱 (Ren Ai), so we might all as much bear witness to oppression as strive for and glorify the possibilities of actualized liberation. This is not a blog. Critical Civitates is an online publication, a multimedia artistic journal expressing ideas radically opposed to New World Order corporatist sensibilities. In terms of publishable mediums, we currently seek essays, poems, and photo documentary, though we will consider other works. Topics remain fairly open: education, liberation, union matters, nature, social reality, religion, participation, emancipation, and other such contemplations appeal to our interests. We are okay with pointing fingers, but we expect scholarship. You may publish in any language, multiple languages, or in translation. We ask for editorial assistance when the range of variation exceeds our versatility. We are but humble scholars. We won't publish the work until a reliable reference has read it. At the end of the day, we expect submissions to represent sustained contemplations, and we have no problem publishing,multiple works in multiple volumes representing a single author or group. We are open and supportive. We don't own the copyright: the author owns that. We do ask, politely, that you cite Critical Civitates if the ideas expressed here add to your scholarship. The construction of Critical Civitates is progressive. The editorial staff and I look forward to presenting and displaying artistic expression of that perspective in myriad forms as well as works generally considered academic in tone: Multimedia presentations, speeches, essays, poems, plays, photo documentary, music, film, and painting are a few mediums within the scope of this endeavor. In terms of our progressive process-oriented approach, forgive us as we construct and publish and develop at the same time. Our first step was to create an online presence, which we did through social networking and this website. We will work toward hardcopy representations as time allows. And that brings me to the introduction of the first essay we have the privilege of publishing, a work representative of what Critical Civitates strives to present and why it is a journal of the people. “Lu al Final del Túnel” is a narrative written by Catalina Zabala. We are in this together: this is her first published work as well our first publication. "The Light at the End of the Tunnel" is world systems theory playing out in the lived experience of a little girl from Zacatecas, Mexico. It's an immigrant’s story. Through Catalina’s story telling, memory is exposed and expressed for readers who become witnesses to layers upon layers of oppression that end in what might or might not be a kind of liberation: You must decide for yourself what you think when you reach the light at the end of this tunnel. Remember, Catalina's is one story. There are many, many others. What of those other children? That is the kind of questioning Catalina’s essay and the art of Critical Civitates compel us to ask. The second work in this first volume flows from the heart of Pacific Northwest writer, Viola Ware. In " Why Not Take All of Me?" (alluding to the Sinatra song) readers have a chance to perceive the possibility of pluralistic reality in ways far beyond anything Sinatra's generation might have imagined. We discover through this essay that perceptual damming cannot long withstand the torrential rush of identity awareness and understanding. We will see more of Viola Ware in later volumes. As revealing as this first essay is, Ware has so much more to share with readers. Her talents as a photographic artist and poet are bubbling creeks in otherwise quiet mountains: the editors here at CC believe you will enjoy her contributions over the course of the next few years. A short, more narrative poem by Gordan R. Livingston moves readers through a childhood transformation. As editor, the call for me to tell you something about every work keeps harkening. But the loss here is my own. I just don't have words to describe Livingston's message. I can't say more to you than the author of this poem. I can't express more than these cryptic remarks. I can't provide more than this stumbling commentary: Livingston's poem are the words and the thoughts of a man just entering the winter years of his life, a man who witnesses the sorrow of a child and relates to us the horrific power of unintended hedonism to derail human potential. Finally, it is an honor to introduce a writer I've been paying attention to for the past twenty years or so, Solo Greene. Solo is an enrolled Niimiipuu (Nez Perce) tribal member. He is Titoquin. He lives on the reservation in Lapwai, Idaho where he served on the city council. You won't find people like Solo in the mainstream publications. His authentic reality is not honored by the New World Order. You have to dig deep to find the work of somebody like Mr. Greene. Several years ago, I read Solo's essays in Tatz Titoquin, the tribal newspaper for the Nez Perce Nation, and I have made the effort to see him presenting in various locations all over America. He is a quite doer, a writer/speaker who maintains his cultural traditions and keeps presenting a positive message in his writings and presentations. Most every day, he goes to work and then goes to the sweathouse. Then he goes home to be with his family. He writes and presents in his spare time. Solo works for the love of his people, and his essays call on all of us to do the same. He is the real deal, an enrolled tribal member whose educational and athletic accomplishments fit naturally with his traditional lifestyle and his devotion to family and to a community-oriented focus. His essay, "The Little Things," seemed fitting for this first edition of Critical Civitates since we are a small publication with a small audience, but we have such big hopes. Solo reminds us that our big dreams are nothing if we don't remember all the little things. It is the little things, after all, that make our lives meaningful. As with the work of Viola Ware, readers will have the opportunity to read more of Solo's work as time goes by. Readers will notice this introduction comes at the end of the line. We wanted it that way. There is no reason to subordinate the artists' work to my position as editor or to the role of the editorial staff here at Critical Civitates. We don't need or really want what we say to be remembered. We strive for our authors and for the Agathon. We do our best to edit the work collaboratively for the sake of consistency and to diminish distraction. The humble words of introduction come last because we prefer you remember the words and stories and images the artists present. We believe the artists' message is clear enough without our introductory intrusion: injustice, inequality, oppression, violence, and any other forms of domination are wrong; consequently, what we have to do is pay attention to the artists who show us the vulgar aspects of life and teach us how to be just, how to seek equality, inclusion, kindness, and how to act with benevolent compassion. And that is what all of the artists in this first volume of Critical Civitates have done for us. We look forward to presenting the works of other artists with the same message. We believe peaceful transformation is possible, and we, like the artists in this first volume, are willing to work toward that revolutionary outcome. With respect, AM |
Volume 1
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