By Sharon Díaz
La Tertulia 49 “Adiós, malezas y flores / de la barranca del río, / y mis noches del bohío, / y aquella apacible calma, / y los viejos de mi alma, / y los hermanitos míos.” Luis Llorens Torres, Valle de Collores My “abuela” always used to say “Mija, a donde vayas la mancha de plátano nunca se altera”. Through my veins, and through the years, this phrase has deeply corrupted my heart, in a good, painful way. Your heart pumps but your brain lays still as you take a plane looking for a better life, saddening your grandma’s poem line “Mija, la mancha de plátano nunca se altera”. As you move along the line, your soul starts to tremble in fear of the new circumstances. “No, I will not turn back!”; it establishes a feeling of discomfort and discontent. Living in Puerto Rico and being Puerto Rican are two lonesome but relatable gleeful tracks, where politics and the wishful thinking of statehood become null every four years. Where being “prieto” or “jíbaro” merge together to become the most devious paradox. Browsing my family’s photo album, from my mother’s side I ask myself “Well, then…how immortal can my identity be?” -“ Dad, who are these?” -“Chica…esa es la gente del campo”. -“¿Del campo?...tell me about it”. -“It’s a long story…you see, your mother’s family…they all come from Spain, my family as well”. Sitting with my dad is like opening a book with many disjunctives…but within these, emotions may startled him as the past awakes many powerful images of sadness. Pictures that may compete with diaphanous representations of poverty and realism. Sand, transparency, dirty pants, footprints and barefooted. Mesmerized by these I pointed at one… “that’s your mother and this is your grandfather.” As I looked at these my sensibility arose, a feeling of tenderness entrapped me. These were yellowish with a smell of old. My mother’s little smirk, my grandfather’s feet shadowed with dark mud and other cousins represented perhaps the happiness of the era. They were hungry and poor, but they were right on the shore, palms touching the sun and the crystal clear water, quoting my mother “a picture never imagined”; but they were happy. Behind them there was a house, not in brick or cement, but made of straw supported by four concrete blocks. As my grandmother used to recall it, “éramos pobres pero nunca nos faltó nada”. Fourteen children they had, my mother was the oldest and her mother’s main support. My grandfather, he was a harvester, sweat and pain collapsed with moonshine every night, but he certainly provided for his family, and this fact my mother, aunts and uncles never denied. In fact they are so proud of my grandfather, we called him our hero. Behind my mother in this picture I was still captivated with, was my grandpa. He was a tall, thunder black figure, tangled with coffee bean smell. Like the king and queen they were for us, my mother would visit them every evening, every day. I would sit in the balcony for long hours just listening to him. His tongue would only express the nostalgia of the times. -“Porque mija, el Partido Popular es lo que nos ha dado la Fortaleza, y la confianza de que todo saldrá bien”. -“Abuelo, things have changed…”. -“Para nada. Cambiarán cuando por fin respetemos lo que nosotros mismos hemos condecorado y luchado”. -“Abuelo, but…how can we change?”.
-“Native American Ms. Carson?’
-“Oh yes of course, aren’t you indigenous?” Having familiarity with my ancestry never seemed curious, but her words stuck with me in my conscience; I still decided to bite my tongue. I got home and instinctively bombarded my parents with many questions while the chairs weren’t enough to sustain their bafflement. Answers came in, I understood. My parents kicked back, defensive and strong willed. They spoke with the dean: “porque la ignorancia se mata con educación”. I wore the costume proudly; I found my essence. The plane arrived, applauses signaled the beginning of a new existence. Between asphalt and pits, rivers and dumps, I had to uncover my dichotomy; who I have yet to become. However, life and destiny had other astute and calculating plans for me. I have learned, that your “mancha de plátano”, the dichotomies from which we’re born from, the unanswered questions, and uncertain future, will always be with us, unwillingly. Carrying us back to that Berlin Wall of strangeness and forced struggles. I can still remember the smell of everything Puerto Rico; Christmas, the food, the smell of Church on Sunday mornings…even the smell of the beach on Saturdays. These…are the images of nostalgia, the diasporican’s cry of freedom…and forgiveness. “Bueno mija, recuerda llamar a tu abuela…no te olvides. Y a mí me esperas allá que voy a llegar pal’ pavo”.
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By Sharon Díaz
La Tertulia 49 I woke up from a nightmare….a dreadful nightmare. I saw his face one afternoon, I greeted him as his smile reminded me of the impact a teacher can have in someone else’s life, perhaps we never realize how losing a cherished heart will forever leave an open wound, waiting to heal. I asked him “So nice to see you Simon!”, “Hello Miss! I’m ready for graduation!”, “I’m so happy for you!” “Va a estar allí, ¿verdad?”, “Of course, why wouldn’t I?”. I walked away, one last time I turned my back, I glanced back at him and he waved his last goodbye. I would’ve never thought, not once in a million years, that one of my birds, carefully designed, perfected, intellectually seeded and grown and formed by my hands momentarily, ….would fly away from this world unexpectedly, as quick as thin air leaves a soul. Perhaps, this world is not for us to bleak upon, perhaps there are only a privileged kind, chosen to gracefully lighten up obscure days upon us. I went back to my office, I felt so proud of all battles he and many others have won, against odds, against society’s biased hatred and confusion. Between love and forgiveness, Simon won, I am sure he won with colossal delight and dignity. Pulse…our home, my home. Many nights of peace, love, friendship, kindness, music subliminally entwining us to dance, obliterating all traces of judgement; Pulse was the only place angels disregarded colors, religions, sexual preferences…none of these were existent. We just danced, without fears, our spirits felt perpetual. June 11th, 2016: I brimmed the day; we had dinner, we went to the movies. Unexpectedly, my pulse longed for one night, of paradise in Athens. I could not resist the urge, as I looked at her face, her eyes presume the love we have for each other. Those sweet eyes, always looking at me with confidence, and forgiveness. I thought ,it is the perfect timing, let's dance the night away, my love. I texted my flower friend, Laura. "Hey, let's go to Pulse", "ok". As we walked to the car, we recalled all the wondrous nights we have had in our home, with friends, family, even foes. I still remember, the last trip I made with my mother to Orlando, before she passed away, a year later. On one of those nights, my brother took me and my sister to PULSE Nightclub; "oh the music! The people dancing! The queens performing their ballads! How much love I can breathe!"; these were my sister's remarks. We arrived home by 4:00am, my parents were asleep, but my brother, my sister and I kept dancing around the living room fooling around with his pink corset, his husband's tiara and his feather boa...the energy filled us, completely. Years later, I could still felt the love emerging, nothing had changed. June 11th midnight: We sat in the car, drove away. As we stopped on the red light, my stomach knotted, I felt as the unimaginable would happen, a sense of awareness. She kept driving, took the highway and arrived at Paramore St. Laura texted me back "hey, I think it's too late, there are no chairs at this time". We kept driving around, we arrived at Church street. June 12th 12:30 am: We drove by PULSE...the music was loud, and only cheerful, ecstatic faces were coming in and out the club. "Hey, I'm hungry, should we stop by IHOP first? We can grab something to eat and then come back", "good idea". Call it fate or déjà vu, something told me this was not the night to feed our urge of dancing. Laura texted me again, "listen, something don't feel right, rain check me for tomorrow". Laura, one of many of my life's guardian angels, confidant and dare to say, alter ego, shook up even more this feeling of uncertainty. "Baby, let's go home, let's come back tomorrow. Sundays are more mellow" , "yeah, let's go home". We fell asleep. The moon was full, I felt it trembling on the unexpected dark timeline about to happen in a couple of hours. Nemir Matos Cintrón reads her poem "Pulse Orlando".
June 12th 7:30am: Text messages became our alarm for the day., we did not answer, an hour has passed...my sister called, I answered "are you guys ok? Why haven't you call us? We were worried sick!", "but, why? What's wrong?" "didn’t you post last night you were going to PULSE?" "well, yes...”, "then, watch the news!!". I jumped from my bed, I turned on the TV...
Only darkness and fear...is all I could see..."Iliana!!!!" We were in awe...our hearts shattered in uncountable pieces...I grabbed my phone, my hand was shaking uncontrollably, 15 unread text messages to be exact. My dear friend Antonio...three unread text messages...Laura, 4 unread text messages, my brother, 6 unread text messages, my dad, my sister, my aunt, my mother in law, my sister in law...the list of many loved ones' unanswered texts... "We are ok", I had no words...nothing else I could say...but "we are ok". Five hours later, the list of victims and wounded showed up... One name..."No! It cannot be! Simon, there is one Simon! Last name, what's the last name! Carrillo! No!" A sudden instant pain got ahold of me...I could not grab the chair, I felt I was living a nightmare from which I couldn't wake up. Everything around me suddenly paused. They say our life's precious moments will replay in your head on your last breath of life, but for me my first replay moment happened on June 12..."estará en mi graduación, ¿verdad?" "of course, why wouldn't I Simon?" Once again, he waved goodbye. I'm sorry Simon! I'm sorry for destiny's foul play, I'm sorry it took your bright future away, I'm sorry your family couldn't see your graduation day, I'm sorry for the pain, suffering, and agony you went through those last hours. Orlando and my community will never be the same again. This attack shook our soul, a year later it is still remembered. Against all odds we became stronger and our purpose now is to bring awareness of our presence, we are here and we will fight. The warriors and soldiers of this battle are the writers, artists, teachers, politicians, college students among many others; these are the harvesters, planting the seed of love and acceptance in our future generation. Sharon Diaz reads her poem "Scarlet and P.U.L.S.E." |
La Tertulia 49Photo by Rawpixel on Unsplash Categories
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