escrito en inglés
“when you stand up too fast and start seeing your ancestors.”
– jalain page,
january 9th, 2022.
INT.
a young woman sits on the carpet with the intricate pattern. her eyes are screwed shut, her legs criss cross applesauce – you know, the way they taught you how to sit in elementary. she wears what most young ladies wear in this day and age – a cropped, oversized white t-shirt, jean shorts, and black socks.
beaded earrings adorn her, as do twin braids.
–
she sits before the ofrenda
empty mind,
closed eyes,
and a smile so wide.
– – –
that young is me –
in the deepest glory,
raw fucking glory.
when i close my eyes,
i get transported to the most vivid places –
places where my ancestors fought:
[ when the native hawaiians stabbed james cook in his colonizing fucking neck, when the “merciless indian savages” rode their horses along the sunset, defending their home, when the mexicans raised their guns, rejecting the colonizing demands of the whites – órale! ]
beautiful things.
–
but then,
upon the arrival of the red moon,
i’m transported into the most daunting places –
places that only evil should see…
[ the bodies of native hawaiians on the beach, washing away like shells,
(shells that are now sold in tourist shops, purchased by white people who just love paradise!) the “merciless indian savages” being exterminated like roaches,
(indian men hung, indian women raped and displayed like trophies, children abducted and forced to conform to WHITE MAN’s ‘culture’ with cut hair and lashes)
the mexicans, the raza threatened
(mexican work exploited, mexican men demonized, mexican women sexualized, mexican children in cages, mexican humanity questioned…) ]
horrendous things.
–
i open my eyes,
hastily swatting away the tears that roll down my cheeks –
the tears of my people.
[ tears of rage
tears of grief
tears of trauma ]
these images…
vivid images
inscribed in my broken heart
branded across my bloodshot eyes.
–
i stand up,
looking at the pictures of my ancestors.
i exhale
praying the fragments of my pain (and theirs) release.
then i inhale
praying that the bit of heart i have left can relish in the beautiful moments.
–
i step away from the ofrenda,
numb.
the smile i wore is gone,
but i’m not frowning.
i’m just… here,
lips as straight as the separating line in my heart,
which divides my internal pieces –
mexican, hawaiian, and indigenous.
–
ancestors,
rest in peace.
–
colonizers,
may you lay in the blood, tears, and perspiration of those souls you tried so valiantly to steal – and of course,
may mother earth torment you,
as each sun rises.
burn, internally.
M.S. Blues is an 18 year old writer, editor, mentor, and advocate from San Jose, California. She’s one of the most decorated figures in the literary magazine community, having been published over 140 times and serving on multiple staff boards; The Amazine, Adolescence Magazine, The Elysian Chronicles, Hyacinthus Zine, Chromatic Stars Review, Low Hanging Fruit, Sister Time, DICED Online Magazine, The Mixtape Review, The Mirrorball Magazine, My Dearest Aphrodite, The Cawnpore Magazine, The Beaulieu Gazette, Sorry! Zine, and Voices of Asylum. She’s also the Founder & Editor-in-Chief of The Infinite Blues Review. Her Instagram is @m.s.blues_
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