Hard

I am surrounded

by hard homegirls. 

Unmothered homegirls.

Abandonded homegirls.

Emotionally neglected homegirls.

Alcoholic mother homegirls.

Abused mother homegirls.

Orphan homegirls.

Single mother, working 24-7, live off of frozen dinner homegirls. 

We were kids. We were brown.

We sucked at school.

We didn’t give a fuck about school.

We were emotional basket cases.

We were emotional iron curtains.

We ended up with abusive men, cheating men, controlling men, no man at all, fathers to the babies we had in high school, women lovers (who treated us bad too), no man at all, good men and women that we have been able to build magical and solid lives with.

Somehow

in the midst of the chaos

we dragged our young and tired souls

to college.

And somehow,

while

mother’s passed away,

and our brothers were murdered,

and we got pregnant during our junior year,

and our families phoned of their eviction and homelessness,

or our parents got deported,

and our sisters went to prison,

and our mom’s called with the latest news of our 55 year-old

father moving out with his girlfriend 

who goes to the same church as us,

Some mother-fucking-how,

we paid our dues

we put a cap and gown on

and we crossed that puto stage

at

UCLA

Occidental College

USC

Cal State LA

East LA College

Mount St. Mary’s (In Brentwood, bitches!)

Los Angeles City College

Phoenix University
Pasadena City College

Cal State Long Beach

National University

Harvard University

Stanford University 

UC Santa Cruz 

fist in the air.

Tears in our eyes,

because we did it!

¡Somos chingonas!

And yes. The day after came.

And we still have to face,

our PTSD,

our tattered lives,

of struggle and perseverance,

but at least,

we’re alive,

at least, we have our degrees,

at least we’re free (and not locked up),

at least we’re substance free,

and our kids are safe and thriving,

at least…

we

are still

here. 

In pieces,

but we’re here,

and we have each other,

hermanas. 

c/s

Inside the Schoolhouse: Hallowed Ground #4

A conversation between two kindergarten students over breakfast:

“Who is more important, George Washington or Martin Luther King?”

“Martin Luther King.”

“No.  George Washington is more important.”

“Why? He’s just a dollar bill? Martin Luther King made us all friends.”

“But George Washington is in the background of the supreme court. And he’s on all the coins!”

“But that is not changing the world.”

"Maybe he did. I'll find out and let you know."

My Undocumented Neighbor

• This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

I was checking my mail, when she passed by and gave my sidewalk patch a disapproving look.  “You should pull up those weeds.  They’re going to invade my side.” I give her an apologetic smile and say, “I know, I know.”

I’m used to her grouchiness.  One day she is mad at me, and the next day, she comes over with a bowl of albóndiga soup.  “How’s your mom, after all?”

Her eyes light up, “She’s good.  They sent her home!”

“Where is she again?”

“Michoacan! I told her, Mamá, you have to wait until I come and visit you to die.”

“When is the last time you were there?”

“Seven years ago.”

“That’s a long time ago.  How often do you visit?”

“In twenty-five years, I’ve only been there 4 times. You know, with the kids being small and my husband working, it wasn’t easy going back and forth. I was able to go seven years ago, and my kids tell me to go and visit, but if I do, I don’t think I’ll ever come back.”

“I understand.  Life here isn’t the same. I’m sure you live with nostalgia for the lifestyle there. I’m sure it would be wonderful for you to retire there.”

“Oh. I wouldn’t come back because it is so hard to cross the border now without documents.”

“¿En serio Doña Magdalena? ¿No tienes documentos? ¿Pero desde cuando estás aquí?”

“I’ve been here 25 years.”

I was floored.  I’ve known Doña Magdalena for 15 years.  She is an active member of our chamber of commerce and our neighborhood council.  She has two children who are homeowners in the neighborhood. I had no idea she was undocumented.    

It turns out she didn’t get into the amnesty program of the 1980s, but remained in the country.  Her children, who are now college graduates and homeowners, crossed the border with her as toddlers, and were able to obtain their documents through immigration legislation enacted during the Obama administration.  They have had their documents for five years now. 

We stood at my chain link fence, as the sun was setting over our ever-gentrifying barrio, her sharing about being undocumented and probably not seeing her mother before she passes away, and what that means to her.  She shared how conflicted she was, feeling like she had to choose between her own children here, and her own mother.  Who needed her more?  And she had to make her decision based on the fact that she knew she could never manage to get back across the border without her papers this time around. 

We were officially at dusk when she looked back at my sidewalk patch and said, “Pull up those weeds m’ija.  Don’t make more work for me, on my side.” 

“Ok. Doña Magdalena.  I will. “

I still haven’t done it. 

Inside the Schoolhouse: Hallowed Ground #3

I am with my kindergarteners

for 6 hours a day. 

Most of them have been on this planet,

for about 60 months. 

I am sensitive

to the transition,

from daycare, or home, or preschool,

small class size, low student to teacher ratio,

shorter days,

more self-directed activities,

to being in kindergarten.

To being in a room,

where 70% of the room,

is occupied by desks and chairs.

This is where they spend,

95% of their time. 

And during that 95%,

they are listening to me,

working at their desk,

following directions,

probably daydreaming,

trying to listen,

doing their best,

to learn how to hold a pencil,

shape their letters between the lines,

remember all there is to remember,

about what to do with the book in

their hands,

or the paper in front of them,

or the math story I just asked them to solve. 

They are earnest,

defying their wild and curious nature,

and being loyal,

to me and my teaching,

and they are doing their best,

to grow up,

at five years-old.

But today,

they weren’t having it. 

I could not get them to settle down,

so I said,

“Alright, we’re going out to play.”

We went down to the yard.

Towering trees bordering the playground,

chaparral hillside in the background,

soft Los Angeles, January breeze

carrying the monarch that was fluttering

around us. 

The children were unleashed,

on the concrete pavement. 

Suddenly, they were puppies and kitties,

crawling on all fours, pretending to purr and cuddle.

The boys became ninjas, wielding imaginary

swords, jumping at each other,

and crouching like tigers.

The tether ball game,

whose rules they don’t know,

was a gathering place,

for swinging the ball,

and ten kids falling over each other,

to try and catch it. 

Two girls were telling a secret,

in the shade of the pepper tree,

while a group of boys and girls,

were teasing each other and squealing,

in that old-fashioned game of tag. 

Others were hiding from zombies,

while a line of girls were calling out like sheep,

to a few girls on the other side of the yard,

and with some invisible cue,

they all started to run,

at the same time,

in different directions,

screaming from the top of their lungs. 

I don’t disparage, the mostly academic work,

that I dedicate my life to everyday.

I am a mother, of children who attend public school,

with the same curriculum and the same limited physical play,

that makes up my own students’ day.  

I am not interested in paying some inordinate amount of money,

for my kids to spend most of their day playing,

instead of doing academic work. 

I am interested in public policy that honors

children’s need to play and imagine. 

But I’m honestly not working on that.

So I’ll just mind my own,

public school teacher business. 

Sometimes, when I’m encouraging my students

to engage and pay attention,

I tell them that home, is where they can be wild,

and themselves, and do all of their shenanigans.

School is where they need to collect themselves,

pull themselves together, and control themselves.

But this afternoon,

with the warm winter sun shining on us,

and with our laughter and joy,

riding on the wind,

I couldn’t help but think,

that I’d like to say to them,

“School is where you can be wild,

and yourself, and we welcome,

all of your shenanigans.”

Let the children play…

Dejen que jueguen los niños...