Inspired by Juan Felipe Herrera’s estilo.
By: Chuey P. Newton
Because curandismo should be a required course for all health-science majors.
Because you can buy diapers with Grant money.
Because you can pay rent with Scholorships.
Because it’s been 39 years since Chican@ students took over the administration building at the University of Texas El Paso.
Because Chicanismo has become a genre of the arts.
Because Aristotle is taught in every class.
Because Plato is taught in every class.
Because Greek history is called humanities.
Because the Mayan’s are considered primitive.
Because Netzalhualcoyotl, the Poet King is taught in anthropology.
Because the green movement was created by Meso-Americans.
Because architects still can’t figure out how we built our temples.
Because the Toltecs were the greatest Mathematicians.
Because our ancestors genetically engineered corn.
Because the word Raza is a cliché.
Because word tierra is a cliché.
Because gabacho is a cliché.
Because Governor Rick Perry was re-elected.
Because John Crook is still in office.
Because La Raza Unida has more members then the Tea party.
Because we got President Kennedy elected.
Because we got President Obama elected.
Because sí se puede.
Because every Chican@ art student goes through a Virgin de Guadalupe phase.
Because you need to teach your spell-check to read in Spanish.
Because Pancho Villa is still considered a villain in the academic world.
Because we need more teachers.
Because you can get a Student Visa.
Because hippies are hosting all the political rallies these days.
Because you can get a B.A. in Chican@ studies.
Because Sandra Cisneros is only one of many, Feminist Chican@ writers.
Because we need sleeper agents in the Federal Government.
Because you can use the “frequent crossers” line at the Puente.
Because you can take “Code-Switching” as a second language.
Because you are a descendent of Nezhualpilli.
Because La Rana is a poet.
Because Benjamin Alire Sáenz is a poet.
Because you’re a Poet and you didn’t even know it.
Showing posts with label Poems. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Poems. Show all posts
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
2. Examine your values.
2. Examine your values.
Maegen Ramirez
You won't hear this mentioned much, but it's important. Why are you writing? (If you answer "I don't have any choice, I've written since I was little. I'm just driven to write" then you should examine not only your values but your weakness for cliché.)
- Thomas Christensen, How to Get a Book Published In 10 not-so-easy steps
Thomas Christensen, I don’t know who the hell you are, or who the hell you think you are, but fair enough.
I write because I’m lodged between two cultural spheres.
Because I never figured out if I was supposed to take the wafer and wash it down with wine or swallow Shabbat soups.
Because neither the crucifix nor the Star of David ever reached out with a loving hand.
Because I’m driven into pen and paper’s arms when Spanish trips clumsily off my tongue.
Because I could’ve penned Angela Chase’s musings much better than “My So-Called Life”’s writers.
Because we’ve all had our very own Jordan Catalanos.
Because I don’t look like Claire Fucking Danes.
Because My Love Song is madder than Sylvia’s.
Because self-deprecation and insecurity only work when they’re fictional.
Because there’re fewer things more beautiful than Truth dressed in Fiction’s clothing when Fiction is posing as Truth.
Because I can’t admit to dropping my clothes and lying back set and ready with the taste of cheap booze on my lips.
Because the women I write can do all those things and still be taken seriously.
Because no one wants to hear about that time Mom got pregnant and Dad had to leave the seminary to marry her.
Because literary revenge tastes and feels like sweet mango juice dripping down my chin.
Because I still haven’t answered the riddle, “Why is a raven like a writing desk?”
Because Lou Dobbs, Keith Olberman, Ann Coulter and Bill Maher are all full of shit.
Because I’ve yet to hear anyone of any color accurately describe what my experiences have been.
Because passing by the Klassic Koffee Kafe and Kountry Korner on Texas road trips is scarier than crossing the Arizona state line.
Because even if those places never existed, I probably would’ve had to invent them.
Because Ramirez determines what people think I should write.
Because I’ll drink 10 Dixie cups of The Kool-Aid before I’ll write what you tell me to.
Because I’m still arrogant and naïve enough to believe what I’ve just written.
Because death is only a disease and the cure is in my keyboard.
Because you’ll never know what the best machaca in the world tastes like unless I spell it out for you.
Because I’ll never be as good as Faulkner.
Because I’d rather write than “hone my craft”.
Because deep down, really, really, deep down I love honing my craft.
Because it’s going to take a lot more than a man to bring out the stand-back-white-bitch in me.
Because I want people to remember the west side before it became The West Side.
Because I know I can’t have been the only brown girl in Dr. Martens getting my groove on Brit Pop.
Because the nuns didn’t beat me.
Because I gave Lupe a chance and she let me down.
Because I’m through with being angry at Mommy ‘n Daddy.
Because all of the above is too much and yet not enough.
Because sometimes I have to have written in order to understand what I value, smartass.
Because if I didn’t shut the fuck up and return to the white, open spaces I might not have anything to say.
Maegen Ramirez
You won't hear this mentioned much, but it's important. Why are you writing? (If you answer "I don't have any choice, I've written since I was little. I'm just driven to write" then you should examine not only your values but your weakness for cliché.)
- Thomas Christensen, How to Get a Book Published In 10 not-so-easy steps
Thomas Christensen, I don’t know who the hell you are, or who the hell you think you are, but fair enough.
I write because I’m lodged between two cultural spheres.
Because I never figured out if I was supposed to take the wafer and wash it down with wine or swallow Shabbat soups.
Because neither the crucifix nor the Star of David ever reached out with a loving hand.
Because I’m driven into pen and paper’s arms when Spanish trips clumsily off my tongue.
Because I could’ve penned Angela Chase’s musings much better than “My So-Called Life”’s writers.
Because we’ve all had our very own Jordan Catalanos.
Because I don’t look like Claire Fucking Danes.
Because My Love Song is madder than Sylvia’s.
Because self-deprecation and insecurity only work when they’re fictional.
Because there’re fewer things more beautiful than Truth dressed in Fiction’s clothing when Fiction is posing as Truth.
Because I can’t admit to dropping my clothes and lying back set and ready with the taste of cheap booze on my lips.
Because the women I write can do all those things and still be taken seriously.
Because no one wants to hear about that time Mom got pregnant and Dad had to leave the seminary to marry her.
Because literary revenge tastes and feels like sweet mango juice dripping down my chin.
Because I still haven’t answered the riddle, “Why is a raven like a writing desk?”
Because Lou Dobbs, Keith Olberman, Ann Coulter and Bill Maher are all full of shit.
Because I’ve yet to hear anyone of any color accurately describe what my experiences have been.
Because passing by the Klassic Koffee Kafe and Kountry Korner on Texas road trips is scarier than crossing the Arizona state line.
Because even if those places never existed, I probably would’ve had to invent them.
Because Ramirez determines what people think I should write.
Because I’ll drink 10 Dixie cups of The Kool-Aid before I’ll write what you tell me to.
Because I’m still arrogant and naïve enough to believe what I’ve just written.
Because death is only a disease and the cure is in my keyboard.
Because you’ll never know what the best machaca in the world tastes like unless I spell it out for you.
Because I’ll never be as good as Faulkner.
Because I’d rather write than “hone my craft”.
Because deep down, really, really, deep down I love honing my craft.
Because it’s going to take a lot more than a man to bring out the stand-back-white-bitch in me.
Because I want people to remember the west side before it became The West Side.
Because I know I can’t have been the only brown girl in Dr. Martens getting my groove on Brit Pop.
Because the nuns didn’t beat me.
Because I gave Lupe a chance and she let me down.
Because I’m through with being angry at Mommy ‘n Daddy.
Because all of the above is too much and yet not enough.
Because sometimes I have to have written in order to understand what I value, smartass.
Because if I didn’t shut the fuck up and return to the white, open spaces I might not have anything to say.
An Occurrence in Eastridge
Maegan Ramirez
An Occurrence in Eastridge
The bronzed man
stands on his lawn
in his immaculate cardigan
and frowns when I say,
“Good morning, Mr. Giner.”
“It’s G-EYE-ner.”
The leather-faced white lady
in fake pearls and pink velour
jogging suit pat-dries the sweat
from her Chanel-scented brow
before shouting across the street,
“Hey Mr. G-EYE-ner,
if you mow my lawn, I’ve got
a ten dollar bill
with your name on it.”
An Occurrence in Eastridge
The bronzed man
stands on his lawn
in his immaculate cardigan
and frowns when I say,
“Good morning, Mr. Giner.”
“It’s G-EYE-ner.”
The leather-faced white lady
in fake pearls and pink velour
jogging suit pat-dries the sweat
from her Chanel-scented brow
before shouting across the street,
“Hey Mr. G-EYE-ner,
if you mow my lawn, I’ve got
a ten dollar bill
with your name on it.”
Rasquache Gas Station
Rasquache Gas Station
vacant buildings now
pawn shops
mexican restaurants farmer’s insurance
traffic ticket offices
out of work so he buys a gas station
for lease re-doing the inside-outside
with buckets of paint
curandera brown
and vanilla white
new floors tiled like stained
glass windows as he
cracks white peppered linoleum
with a mallet
Diamond Shamrock made
turned Treinta tres eatery
and tropical curtains and palms
finish the scene
it’s in his blood to see this
‘cause El Pasoans’
are hybrydity we know how to do it yourself
out of a grim situation how to collect that American
dollar with hustle
its this burning sensation
that climbs the bones in our feet
to our spine occupying both heart and left lobe
‘cause when the ability to buy groceries
diminishes like ash from burnt paper
a drive in our nature kicks in
a supernatural power
than anybody with mexican
in their genes can call upon
maybe it was a mexican
that inspired Stan Lee
to create stories
of super abilities
yes humans know how to survive
when they need to but
we do it better
and innovate with what we have
in Mexico we ate ants with tortillas
in Mexico we eat pan fried ants with tortillas
in El Paso we re-design gas stations
into something new
we re-imagine the blueprint
that was first imagined
we give a new symbol
to these once gas pumping
corner stores
once painted tricycle red
now wedding cake pink
pumps dressed up
with cantina lights
green yellow white
corona extra signs
replaced budwieser
the cosmic race in live action
for our family selfless acts
keep us moving because we want
our kids to trade Little Debbie snacks
at recess with their friends
because they know they can
do something more with the crackers
and hot sauce than schoolmates so we sell
tacos in reborn pump stations
new life sold at 4.99
a lunch plate with a drink
-- A.J. Lechuga
vacant buildings now
pawn shops
mexican restaurants farmer’s insurance
traffic ticket offices
out of work so he buys a gas station
for lease re-doing the inside-outside
with buckets of paint
curandera brown
and vanilla white
new floors tiled like stained
glass windows as he
cracks white peppered linoleum
with a mallet
Diamond Shamrock made
turned Treinta tres eatery
and tropical curtains and palms
finish the scene
it’s in his blood to see this
‘cause El Pasoans’
are hybrydity we know how to do it yourself
out of a grim situation how to collect that American
dollar with hustle
its this burning sensation
that climbs the bones in our feet
to our spine occupying both heart and left lobe
‘cause when the ability to buy groceries
diminishes like ash from burnt paper
a drive in our nature kicks in
a supernatural power
than anybody with mexican
in their genes can call upon
maybe it was a mexican
that inspired Stan Lee
to create stories
of super abilities
yes humans know how to survive
when they need to but
we do it better
and innovate with what we have
in Mexico we ate ants with tortillas
in Mexico we eat pan fried ants with tortillas
in El Paso we re-design gas stations
into something new
we re-imagine the blueprint
that was first imagined
we give a new symbol
to these once gas pumping
corner stores
once painted tricycle red
now wedding cake pink
pumps dressed up
with cantina lights
green yellow white
corona extra signs
replaced budwieser
the cosmic race in live action
for our family selfless acts
keep us moving because we want
our kids to trade Little Debbie snacks
at recess with their friends
because they know they can
do something more with the crackers
and hot sauce than schoolmates so we sell
tacos in reborn pump stations
new life sold at 4.99
a lunch plate with a drink
-- A.J. Lechuga
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
What does it mean to be rasquache?
Rasquache was a foreign word to a concept I knew well.
Cuando le pregunté a mi mamá que significaba Rasquache,
ella me dijo que lo vivio toda su vida en el
rostro de su papá.
What does it mean to be rasquache?
by Alma Dalia Rojo
Rasquache is decorating the living room with color-blind eyes
Rasquache is buying paint on clearance and combining the colors at home
Rasquache is using esScotch tape instead of a lint brush
Rasquache is tattooing your mother’s name with crooked letters
Rasquache is whistling at the skirts who trot through the barrio
Rasquache is overusing the words “no manches” “guey” o “simon”
Rasquache is collecting aluminum can tabs inside a Coca Cola can
Rasquache is insisting on helping someone to park for a fee
Rasquache is washing someone’s windshield with a filthy rag
Rasquache is a basic form of survival, donde tú mereces vivir
Rasquache es conquistar a tu amor sin derecho
Rasquache es convencer a tu mujer a tener más y más hijos
Rasquache es una promesa hueca que vas a cambiar
Rasquache es venir a la casa con manchas rojas en tu cuello
Rasquache es beber el dinero que tus hijos necesitan
Rasquache es comer carne en frente de tus hijos quienes comen frijoles
Rasquache es hablar con mentiras entre los dientes
Rasquache es ver a tu esposa suplicarte y aguantarse
Rasquache es ignorar a tus hijos y dejarlos que se hagan vagos
Rasquache es divorciarte de tu mujer pero no dejarla que viva con felízidad
Rasquache es amarte a ti mismo y durar años solo
Rasquache era toda tu vida
Cuando le pregunté a mi mamá que significaba Rasquache,
ella me dijo que lo vivio toda su vida en el
rostro de su papá.
What does it mean to be rasquache?
by Alma Dalia Rojo
Rasquache is decorating the living room with color-blind eyes
Rasquache is buying paint on clearance and combining the colors at home
Rasquache is using esScotch tape instead of a lint brush
Rasquache is tattooing your mother’s name with crooked letters
Rasquache is whistling at the skirts who trot through the barrio
Rasquache is overusing the words “no manches” “guey” o “simon”
Rasquache is collecting aluminum can tabs inside a Coca Cola can
Rasquache is insisting on helping someone to park for a fee
Rasquache is washing someone’s windshield with a filthy rag
Rasquache is a basic form of survival, donde tú mereces vivir
Rasquache es conquistar a tu amor sin derecho
Rasquache es convencer a tu mujer a tener más y más hijos
Rasquache es una promesa hueca que vas a cambiar
Rasquache es venir a la casa con manchas rojas en tu cuello
Rasquache es beber el dinero que tus hijos necesitan
Rasquache es comer carne en frente de tus hijos quienes comen frijoles
Rasquache es hablar con mentiras entre los dientes
Rasquache es ver a tu esposa suplicarte y aguantarse
Rasquache es ignorar a tus hijos y dejarlos que se hagan vagos
Rasquache es divorciarte de tu mujer pero no dejarla que viva con felízidad
Rasquache es amarte a ti mismo y durar años solo
Rasquache era toda tu vida
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