I saw him
And I wasn’t ready
Busy taking mental notes, conveniently detached
Sorrowful, yet safe
I saw him
I close my eyes
I see him
My soul took a picture it won’t discard
He never saw me, never saw us, never saw it coming
They say he’s 14
His face reads 9
His handcuffs make him a man
Late 20’s, burned out, beaten, and betrayed
I can still see him
Through him
To him
But I’ll never know him
I see his present, his future, see his past
He can’t see me, so close, reaching out with my soul
An empty gesture of sympathy
A burning desire to rescue
A powerlessness only topped by…
His
He can’t see me, can’t see peace, can’t see freedom
So close to him
Breathing down his neck
Enough to torture
Enough to numb
He sees tears,
The boy in him crying for his momma
The man in him wiping them away
Knowing
Not thinking
But knowing
There’s no use
Not here, not now, probably not ever…
And who am I to argue?
The spectator
Observing from the warm chair of detachment,
Who has known pain, fear, and violence
Who has known how to hide it, deny it, reframe it, rephrase it
Minimize it
Minimize it
Minimize it
Minimize it
Til it died…
It’s all a game of survival, getting our bumps and bruises
Some more so than others
But then again who can compare absence
Dearth
Death
Yeah, I saw him
Hell, I see him
Through him
To him
Through me
To me
I called to him
Tried to warn him
My soul cried sooo that I thought I would explode
The pain
The rage
The same
“Run beautiful boy, run, you have to get out of here,
because they hate you
aim to kill you
aim to destroy kill that light
that fire
that soul that will not die
that rises each day
even when the sun shines for someone else
when the rain knows your ache and cries with you
when the cold has to remind you with each piercing blow
that you are alive,
don’t let them kill you
not yet
not like this
you have to live
love
grow
learn….
Learn that you are more than this
Learn that you are stronger than this
Braver than this
I know you are TiReD of this…”
But why can’t he hear me?
Already beaten and burned far beyond his years
Already numbing
hiding
denying
re framing
re phrasing
minimizing
I see him
But he won’t see me
I saw him
But he never saw me
I see him
Through him
To him
Through me
To me
And the difference between us is virtually

Unknown….

the criminal INjustice System

People sometimes wonder why or how anyone could fear the police. "they're there to protect you; they just want to make society safe; their hearts are in the right place" And then I look at my client who is about 50 years old and speaks no English, who's chronically sick with two diseases I won't name for confidentiality reasons, who shows me bruise after disgusting bruise on his body after being incarcerated for a weekend. His charged sin-possibly attacking a police officer, his real sin-being monolingual in a non-dominant language, being brown, being poor and welfare dependant, living in a 'bad' neighborhood, you name them, he's probably guilty... as I read his charges, i want to scream, I want to scream because I know those who have sworn to serve and protect, will only serve you an ass whipping and protect their societal investments in whatever way they see fit, i know that this man who has no record and is smaller than I am (I'm 5'4), could no sooner whoop a police officer's ass than could he fly. I know that his injuries are thankfully non-threatening, but have scarred his sense of safety, trust, and calm, I know that he is embarassed each and every time he has to tell this story and share his wounds, I know that he is angry and scared, I know that he wants and needs justice, I know he will likely not get it--and I know he won't be the last...

Testing, testing, 1,2,3

so, i started this blog more than 2 weeks ago, i believe, and while I had a purpose for its beginning, I am reminded everytime I sign in (and by my best friend http://www.journey2enlightenment.blogspot.com/), that I have yet to post...anything. So now, let's start from the beginning...

if you read the running description under the blog name, you get a little of what this about: who's Latina like me, what does that mean, and does it even matter? I should probably clarify what I mean by that. It's not that my intention is to find out who is just like me, personally or culturally, it is the closer to the opposite. I'm an avid reader (when I can fit it between grad school, interning, and working) who is sometimes puzzled by what appears to be a lack of latina voices in literature. Those that exist are quite powerful, make no mistake about it, but when I'm scanning the B&N aisles, I feel like we're (collective we) are missing in print. So part of me wants to find those voices who are perhaps, not missing, but 'elsewhere', not mainstream, not 'relevant' to everyone else's (everyone being the almighty gringo(a)s life, and thus, invalid. The other part wants to figure out how to combine various readings and voices in a way that I feel represents my life and its struggles. How to combine Almost a Woman by Esmeralda Santiago with Killing Rage by bell hooks with The Latino Wave by Jorge Ramos in a way that makes me understand why I am so...angry or frustrated or disappointed or a word I don't even know just yet. Whatever the word is, it would explain how I feel as an intern in a public defenders office in nyc watching the system hash and rehash the beautiful black and brown people that make New York what it is, that represent its true spirit, that enhance its portrayal of the ultimate place to be/live/work, and yet ultimately mirror the greater system's hatred of our refusal to just DIE.

my intention was to start this blog by posting some of my spoken word on those types of feelings, unresolved emotions, or experiences, you know, and seeing how that goes...but as I searched every inch of my place for my notebook, i realized that I'd lost it forever as a result of a car theft a couple of months ago, as I tried my hardest not to cry, I felt as if I had lost my personal words and feelings, words and feelings that were so hard to put on paper as it is, and yet could so easily be removed...

I remember one of those writings was on words that appear to be frozen from one language to another (in this case, English to Spanish), not that they ceased to exist; they were just incapable of reproduction because I couldn't remember a Spanish phrase...I guess I would say I feel like that right now, even as I type...those words and feelings do not cease to exist, they are just temporarily incapable of reproduction...I could try to remember them, but a vague memory of these writings wouldn't do them justice, what I felt at those moments, I can't pretend to feel now, but maybe this will be the motivation to try again....


so, yeah, all of this, is why I wanted to start a blog...