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Tag Archives: Malinche

Soundless Song of the Corn Maiden

She stood there
at the top of the mountain overlooking the valley
The city and all its people inside.
A skin tight black dress flowing
flowing,
breathing,
as she stares up to the cosmos and brings down her
clenched fists- and soon the sky burst forth and you heard
that first damning sound of thunder while the acidic scent
of moisture in contact with earth entered your nostrils,
as she cries out in pain,
“Bring on the storm!
I, simply known as Malinche, who rides the winds as swift
as justice, am opening up these vaults
of pure and utter chaos!”
Forever ripped apart to the seams by the fires of judgment,
silence and betrayal- she held up her staff and the
darkness roared as the murderous heavy clouds
made their way towards each and every individual
down below the valley.
Swiftly.
Hearts panicked, breathing stopped, thoughts reconsidered-
Those who heard in the distance that tell-tale sign
of the coming storm.
She alone-
this lonely, lost, little girl-
all by herself
Caused this anxiety in men among men
For the truth.
Her truth-
would eat everyone alive with her.
But silently- like an echo,
like a kiss
She sees the valley below and sees the deep shadows surrounding it,
deeper than her own.
Perversely anticipating that first rip.
Sticky, oozing, iron and uranium shadows.
Parasitic shadows
that would strive off the chaos of the storm-
ride these winds untouched to later feast upon
the rotting carcass of this once vibrant community down
below the valley.
She stops,
she breaths,
she lets go.
She flies. Away, away, away and beyond.
Her fabrics turn amber and her smile is that
of the sunset now- the most beautiful time of light
before it disappears to the night.
The mysterious, shifting, reinventing and forgiving night.
She is at peace with her mountain, with her valley
with her storm.
As the clouds slowly disperse
to welcome in a cleansing rain that soaked
into the minds of those with parched souls. 
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Posted by on March 27, 2013 in Her stories

 

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Puga Nini Sha’de Butterfly Dance

She thinks, ‘I can do it,’ as a vibrant, deep and fluorescent butterfly floats over her head.
‘I shouldn’t have to hide who I am.
This is my reality- this is my truth.
Just my presence alone brings with it the entire weight of the mistakes of the Movement and the reason why true liberation has not yet been achieved.
So my truth now becomes your truth.’
This tragedy alone has morphed me into a new being.
Like the violent hacking of the wood, the splintering and breaking apart of its body- for all to watch in deep fascination-
when that metal blade slices into the once piece of forest.
Over and over again.
That piece of wood- birch wood- in its painful alteration from one being to another, thought the knife was deforming her as she’s
 
cut,
 
    and cut,
 
               and cut.
 
But when she opened her eyes after the agony was finally all over, she looked down upon herself and saw she was now a beautiful kachina doll.
A butterfly maiden.
And soon her Creator painted colors on her base; vibrant, deep and fluorescent.
She looked at the new world around her in amazement as she sat in the sun to let her colors dry.
Some of her hues were dark- to represent all the past pains done on her body that morphed her into this new figure.
And bright- to represent all the days in her future, for she has survived the hardship and is still here to see another sunrise.
After she dried the woodcarver breathed life into her.
And then she flew away.
 
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Posted by on March 9, 2013 in Her stories, Tucson movement

 

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To My Daughter

Mijita,
 
we are the in between
neither black nor white
 
we are the mud
the mix between the menstrual flow of the planet
and the machismo ground beneath our feet
 
we are the brown
the piece of construction paper that is thrown away
the ugly created when mixing too many colors
the only crayon chosen when coloring Martin Luther King
or dirt
 
we are the cockroaches
despised and disgusted
but even with the bam of a stomping manly foot
we refuse to die
 
we are the voice of the wind
loud and undesirable
yet never failing to predict future weather
always pounding, always screaming
always wailing
like a mother at a funeral
hands clasped in prayer, jesus on her neck,
father, son, holy wombyn
 
we are the broken
puzzle pieces on the floor forgotten in a disarray
of politics and pride
 
we are the proud
never to falter
always to blame
forever changing, but our love
remains
 
we are revolution
we are malinche
we are beautiful
and we have voices
 
mijita,
don’t ever be silenced.
 
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Posted by on February 3, 2013 in Her stories

 

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Anonymous is a Woman

Why do (some) people keep complaining that those of us writing original work for this blog are choosing to remain anonymous? Why are you so uncomfortable? Is it a problem because we don’t need credit for our words? Are you disturbed because our egos don’t need stroking with pats on the back and high-fives? Does it bother you to not have a specific target to aim at when you disagree? Are you afraid that it’s your sister, your girlfriend, your mother who’s writing — and you don’t know?

We speak collectively because of our politics. We do not claim authorship for each individual piece because our experiences are shared by many women. We are creating safety for ourselves and our sisters by speaking our truth. We are unnamed because we are everywhere. You should assume that every single piece that has been published so far was written by a different woman. That’s a lot of voices rising in unity!

The other day, I heard someone call this “K’s blog.” Well, it’s not K’s blog, or A’s blog, or B’s blog. Dozens of women — an entire alphabet of mujeres — have already contributed, and a collective is staffing the submissions email addy, the Twitter feed, the FB page, and the Tumblr. This is not the work of one woman, no matter how awesome she may be. This is the work of many, and we are moving like wildfire, burning away patriarchal debris and illuminating a woman-centered landscape.

Just so you know — I’m not a member of the editorial collective, and my view on why anonymity is important may resonate with them, but it may not. You don’t know who I am, your assumptions are probably wrong, and you don’t have any say about what is going on here. You can’t bully us, and you can’t beat us. But you should definitely listen to us.

 
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Posted by on January 29, 2013 in Her stories

 

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Chicana Anger

People might not understand my anger, my rage. They see a white girl with vaguely dark features….she could be Hispanic or Greek. Well motherfuckers, I am both Chicana and Greek! And a mescla of some bastardized white bastard. The color of my skin doesn’t do me justice. I’ve assimilated into two cultures I was born into; I am a mutt, a mulatta. But to my gente, I am someone to look at cautiously, even when I’ve been vouched for. Then they realize I’m as dark as they, but still translate things to me. ¡Comprendo putos! Are you not listening to my Southside accent and vernacular? To his people, honky, liberally spoon-fed NAFTA corn by conservatives, I am the result of breeding with Mexicans. I am a defiant, loud, gender-smashing, animal loving stranger. A stranger. Una Malinche…eerr Maryanne.
 
I am angry because everyone paternalistically lied to me: teachers, police officers, my aunts and uncles, mis abuelos, my parents, my church, my government, my society, myself. I internalized, as we all internalize, values, morals, and beliefs set to be the status quo, docility reigns. I did what they told me to do and went to college. I wasn’t angry, I was scared. I did look like, act like, know like most of my “peers.” I spent $100 on a new phone so not to be so embarrassed by the Nokia Brick circa 2002. I hated myself. Ms. Powers told me my vanity is not vain. The contradictions should not freeze me—we all have them. Dismantle from within. Lie to those motherfuckers like they lied to you. Put on your smile, get the power, then dismantle. The Brooklyn Bridge and my best bud are my last memories of that Power. If she jumped off, the ripple of her powerful body hitting the cement water finally reached me. I am a warrior now too.
 
I am an angry Chicana Warrior. I know this now. The veil is gone.
I see the world how I see the world and not how I was told to see the world.
You do not see the world as I see the world. And that’s fine.
I will lift your veil if you want. I will expose the violences and you will hate me for it. And that’s fine.
And you will ache, cry, scream, laugh, and want to die without your veil, but your body, mind, and soul will not be docile.
Then you are free.
 
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Posted by on January 23, 2013 in Her stories

 

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I am the Malinche

I am the malinche
 
Bitch who took the ‘good fork’ with flowers etched on the ends
This selfish act justification for sharp points (plain… no flowers) thrown at my skull [bitch]
‘Mijita, give him the nice one’
Your fault
[bitch]
 
I am the malinche
 
Bitch hiding in my room because our hallway is too small for us both and he is above me
I need to move. Make room.
[bitch]
Plus I got shit to take care of in here
Skin red, slits of color, marks from rusted razors—get it out before you go out.
Make no noise
[bitch]
 
I am the malinche
 
Bitch behind closed doors
Give it up and don’t talk shit.
Pain will be mirrored and our scars match. You will hurt yourself and I will hurt myself.
[bitch]
‘You are to blame— crazy’
Raise your voice and there will be holes in walls—doors with splinters.
Because ‘I love you so much’
[bitch]
 
I am the malinche
 
Bitch, I will tower and look over your shoulder because you cannot be trusted.
[bitch]
‘I am oppressed so I cannot oppress you’
‘We are brown familia and I know you’—‘Know this is important work’
Keep quiet, small, stupid, passive…
[bitch]
That’s easy…
 
I am the malinche
 
We shout and are in ‘the lucha’. Together. Solid. United.—
But ‘don’t fucking wear that. You will fall’
[bitch]
‘Don’t be cute. Watch for men, They are dogs…’
‘You don’t know truth till we hear the mujer’
But mujer ‘shut the fuck up if the truth involves men [me]’
 
I am the malinche
 
    FUCK your kitchen table war zone
          FUCK your lines in my flesh
                FUCK your destruction of caress
                      FUCK your take down
                            FUCK your revolution built on bullshit
 
I AM THE MALINCHE
 
I
 
WE
 
Will continue moving out of your hills of ego and fucked up, silenced, picked at stories.
Tailored and poured atop our beautiful semillas.
Drowning, pushing, muscles sore… We continue…
Until we reach some sun
And that sun will be HOT
Can’t deny
 
ME
 
WE
 
MALINCHES [fuck you]
 
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Posted by on January 21, 2013 in Her stories, Tucson movement

 

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La Malinche

Yo soy la Malinche.

My people called me Malintzín Tenepal
the Spaniards called me Doña Marina

I came to be known as Malinche
and Malinche came to mean traitor.

they called me—chingada
Chingada.
(Ha— ¡Chingada! ¡Screwed!)

Of noble ancestry, for whatever that means,
I was sold into slavery by MY ROYAL FAMILY—so
that my brother could get my inheritance.

… And then the omens began—a god, a new civilization,
the downfall of our empire.
And you came.
My dear Hernán Cortés, to share your “civilization”
—to play a god, … and I began to dream …
I saw
and I acted.

I saw our world
And I saw yours
And I saw—
another.

And yes—I helped you—against Emperor Moctezuma
Xocoyotzín himself.
I became Interpreter, Advisor, and lover.
They could not imagine me dealing on a level
with you—so they said I was raped, used,
chingada
¡Chingada!

But I saw our world
and your world
and another.

No one else could see
Beyond one world, none existed.
And you yourself cried the night
the city burned
and burned at your orders.
The most beautiful city on earth
in flames.
You cried broken tears the night you saw
your destruction.

My homeland ached within me
(but I saw another).

Mother world
a world yet to be born.
And our child was born …
and I was immortalized Chingada!

Years later, you took away my child (my sweet
mestizo new world child)
to raise him in your world
You still didn’t see.
You still didn’t see.
And history would call me
Chingada.

But Chingada I was not.
Not tricked, not screwed, not traitor.
For I was not traitor to myself—
I saw a dream
and I reached it.
Another world………
la raza.
La raaaaa-zaaaaa …

Carmen Tafolla Infinite Divisions: An Anthology of Chicana Literature

 
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Posted by on January 4, 2013 in Historical radical pieces

 

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