Showing posts with label migration. Show all posts
Showing posts with label migration. Show all posts

Sunday, October 26, 2014

The human story that turns against herself




The human story that turns against herself: forced migrations. Humanity became humanity when she rose up and started walking, following the rhythms and flows of the natural world.

The first migrations were forced by the changes that occurred in the relationship between humans and the natural world. These changes in turn affected and transformed the relationships between humans and humans and those relationships in turn affected the natural world. Our skin, our pigment, tells the story of longer and shorter stays along the longitudes and latitudes of the world. Movement was indispensable till someone, a woman or women, more than likely, among the humans took note of the seeds and caught them at the headwaters of the natural world.

My ancestors walked toward the horizons cut by the rising and falling of the sun. The earth tilted for its seasonal bows to the sun, creating longer and shorter days, shifting the human settlements.

Human movement has been an indicator of social, economic and cultural development. The only borders the earliest human migrations knew were bio-regional, geophysical and followed the movements and migrations of other earthly species more in tune with the gravity of the world. Migration is a shared story among all two-legged, four-legged and other species who like humans were connected to the magnetic fields of life herself.

Along with movement and migrations, all species share the water to live and procreate life and her cycles and her plants and offerings among species to share the energy of the constellations of earthly life in all her shapes and forces. Movement, water and plants are now subjugated to the dominant industrial modes of human settlements.

To be human is to be a nomad.

The most human of humanity today are migrants, who have been forced to leave or flee for their lives, to survive, a cosmic spiral of sorts that links migrants to her first ancestors, who changed their relationships and became more human by walking together.

--arnoldo garcía

Saturday, April 05, 2014

I am tumbling | day five poetry month

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I am tumbling
in the debris of space
going backwards, lunging forward
paralyzed by the electric sun.
my ancestors
for generations
studied the sky's movements
to determine
our place
in the cosmos,
they were not lost or seeking gold and power.
what sun is it
they would ask

how did we end up with the moon's bellybutton
they asked
what lands do our hands traverse
where is
the root of our songs
a journey in community
to find the place
where the sun had been born
to become undivided again
to become the breath of gods and goddesses
ants each carrying a grain of maize on their backs
going into the darkness of the soil
to gestate
to sew
to inhale
to ingest
to uphold
the sun's dust
at this time
when autumn begins stroking my hair
when the rivulets of cries have hewn my face
when suffering is ordinary
and laughter extraordinary
i ask:
is that the same sun of our ancestors
is the belly-button of the moon infected
where do I belong
how can i stand when I am against myself
the pollen makes me sick
i am alone under the sky of wars
where is my place
filled with sea-shells and the old man's ceremonies
I have become a molecule
on the edge of a knife
in a crazed hand
stabbing at the longest night
The scientists peer through cosmic telescopes
photograph the dancing explosions
the incandescent snails spinning out of our control
the Hubble telescope dangles between microwaves and quartz
and what are their conclusions
are we in place
are we where we belong
does the moon have the final say of the sea
can we return to rub, massage, mingle once again
in the belly-button of our mother
how do we turn back
the turbines' threshing of water, salmon, tribes, wind, migrants,
the human deformation of the rivers' spinal cord
who can have enough with just the other's love
who has had enough


Sunday, January 12, 2014

Recipe for a new humanity

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How to cook a Mexican-American [1994]

First, pre-heat oven at slightly over five-hundred years.

Second, destroy languages, monolingualize, monoculturize, monocropize,
harangue the people who speak them,
erase the lands they named,
give them names from other lands,
force them to flee,
make them forget their history my any means necessary,
make them speak languages which don't respect the lands,
make them die surviving,
make them believe they are ugly, everything they stand for,
every syllable, consonant,
every gesture,
the rough-hewn hands, their wrinkled hearts,
their ancient lungs,
the wind they create,
every iota of their ugly being,
steal their foods, seeds and soil and call them yours,
steal their finest words and call them yours,
steal their dances that stamp the dust into the sun and call them yours,
steal their music and call it heinous, heathen, devil-inspired,
burn their corn, their flowers and songs,
make them
forget how to treat their dead,
forget how to treat their elders,
forget how to treat the young,
forget how to treat the lovers,
make their sacred profane, their profane sacred,
the flight and wind of birds go north instead of south,
divide up life into hours, hours into money, money into life.
(If you cannot get fresh, unspoiled peoples, you can use the colonized as a substitute. Taste will be a little more historically stale than original recipe.)

Third, bring some dirt from the valley.
Pour into the water you erin.
Walk many miles to work.
Be too tired to rest, dream or be passionate.
Now you are ready to begin mixing the ingredients:

Gather:
1 Palestinian worker
1 Indigenous woman (origin unknown)
1 Yemini woman
1 Purépecha family
1 mestizo, like yourself, but one who is a fervent Catholic (they are called by various names: half-breed, mixed blood, mongrel, mud people, greaser, indio, wetback, illegal alien, immigrant).
They must all be landless and in some state of statelessness, homelandlessness, but not lost.

Tenderize by deliberately dragging them across oceans, suffering wars, disease, death of families, villages razed, make them work miserably in the fields and deny who they are to avoid problems.

Set aside for at least five generations.

You will also need:
English
Spanish
Arabic
Stunted purépecha sprinkled with swahili, nahuatl, pocho and German
No more than two years of formal education
Alcoholism, perfect pitch, ability to work long hours and withstand lynchings
Awe for nature, migrant campus, being stopped constantly by bosses, police and other state agents, harassed by landlords or anyone else who thinks they have more power than you or actually have more power or they're of lighter skin.

Make sure at least half, if not more, of the ingredients are women folk or else the taste will not be as bitter.

NOTE For a delicious variation of this recipe also add any of the following:
The Texas Rangers
borders and border patrols
greedy contratistas
greedier landowners
"No dogs or Mexicans allowed" signs
Teachers who beat anything that moves like a Mexican
Offspring that are kicked out of schools between the third and sixth grade and are made to work in the fields and aspire to nothing else.

Now, bring back the main ingredients when they have two children, name them Manuela and José.

Manuela is the perfect blend of mestiza. She is a curandera, a priestess who baptizes illegitimate children, knows the Bible backward and forward, knows plants, herbs, seeds, knows how to cook at least fifty dishes without measuring anything once, can hear tomatoes, chiles, frijoles, green beans, avocados, onions (any plant she cooks) sing on her comal (griddle), cooked all meals, worked full-time in the fields, took care of her own children, grandchildren, neighbors' children, would use our innocence to fight evil, ward off storms, nuclear holocausts, hurricanes and lightning storms with her chants, prayers and knives while we kneeled in prayer, cure newborn'smoyeras, massaged away any pain stomach ache, fever; she would absorb all the dangers her sons and daughters faced on any night out at work or at play meditating for hours on end. She hardly slept; would go outside very night to pray in the still of star-filled skies; she would always remind us not to be afraid of ghosts, the dead, spirits when she was outside in the dark but be very afraid of living persons who could harm us. No one could lie to her; her eyes would make you stutter, weaken your knees. She always forgave, always loved; was a master of discipline. she had twelve children (six girls/six boys); took care of animals, constantly nursed birds, gave water and planted nectar for hummingbirds. In the fields, snakes would always appear in her row. She would shriek then laugh at her own surprise while the rest opus would jump up and away in fear. She has a man's name because her mother lost all her female children except the last five when she gave them men's name to fool death. From this she learned to name things by their names. She knew that one's name was the heart of culture and life, the blood of gods and goddesses and without your real name you would die before your time. When she dies she promises to come back, appear and give us guidance only in the dreariest of times; and she keeps her word.

José is an indio, an Indian, who has lost everything except being an Indio: A purépecha, cultured, cuadri-lingual (spoke purépecha, Spanish, later English; and then created a language with a landowner who only spoke what we believe was German -- because we knew it was not Engish -- and because he taught the landowner how to take care of the land he was rewarded a job).

José begins working in the the fields at five years old, he has the duty of burying the dead of his community during one of the many epidemics that hit his people in the mountains. His family is decimated; with his father he becomes part of the displaced indigenous communities forced into indentured servitude becoming farmworkers or like the Chinese in the U.S., forced into mining and building the railroad lines that run north into the U.S.

With his father, they reach the border and work in the U.S. several years. José is undocumented, illegal, Indio, witnesses wars and revolutions, lynchings, works every single day of his life, helps build churches wherever he lived in communities, knows how the plants grow, how the land is alive, how much tilling, how much walking among the plants is needed before the harvest is ready, knows how to live anywhere, find work anywhere, knows how to find any field in the middle of nowhere at four o'clock in the morning darkness, never complained abut anything only about not having enough time to be with us and he always lets us sleep as long as possible even though he gets up hours ahead to prepare the meals, the tools and pray for the day light. Patience, tranquility, meditation with a rosary every night counting the stars as his beads; he works every day until he dies in a field in the Lomas Coloradas, dies a painful death caused by pesticide poisoning.

NOW MIX these together while traditions and their peoples are being ravaged:
He's almost 25, she's 14. They are married for mutual life: everyone around them is dying from famines, war posing as revolution, pestilence. There is no one his age; she's married off to him so that her mother and sisters can hope to survive.

Bring to a boil and simmer for fifty years. Make sure the offspring number twelve before turning off the heat.

Serves to feed at least five constellations of families living in two different countries, five different regions, speaking in tongues, with varying degrees of recognition and monolingualism: U.S. citizens, Mexicans, Hispanics, indio coffee with varying mixtures of milk, sugar, cinnamon and fatigue, undocumented, pasaporteadossouthern accents, tejanos, dispersed North and South, midwest, northwest, southwest, migrants all...

[1994 | El Presidio, San Francisco]


Sunday, April 15, 2012

Poetica declaraciones y denuncias | Statements & Protests



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Arnoldo García

Poetica declaraciones y denuncias | Statements & Protests

A mi abuela y mis hermanos mayores
Manuela Ochoa
John Trudell
Mahmoud Darwish
Vladimir Mayakovsky
Adonis
y otros y otras
porque mis madres y padres
creían en el amor libre
Es decir,
el amor libre de amar y cuidar
sus cultivos,
sus tierras,
las semillas,
las familias
que eran la misma relación,
la mismita cosa
y aún después de ser desplazados a fuerzas
las siguieron cuidando en sus sueños y peregrinajes
Trataban a las tierras ajenas como suyas
las tendían de semillas de ternura
sabían que la tierra se movían según su corazón
y teníamos que ponerle mucha atención a ella
cuando la trabajábamos.
A mi abuelito le dolía tener que usar un tractor
arrastrando el arado,
era demasiado sólo para sembrar semillas
sí era más rápido
pero prefería que le metiéramos las manos
hundiéndolas hondas
en el lodo
en el polvorienta cuerpo
hundirlas hasta sentir el calor de la sangre de ella 

Mis abuelitos rozaban sus cuerpos
contra las hojas de las plantas
Mariposas-migrantes con sus alas
repartían el polén y se sentían pájaro volador
no pájaro-trabajador migrante que el patrón arrastraba sobre sus campos

*

Books say my skin is a symbol for ruin, for decline.
So? Their skin is a symbol for genocide, enslavement, wars, atomic annihilation, the nuclear winter we are entering, zombies, alienation and western civilization? (Gandhi would say, "that would be a good idea.")

My skin is an attitude of altitude,
a relationship of love to the sun
I have been walking for 155,000 years
And since 1492 continuing on the longest walk yet.
Will the molecules of my desire survive their self-destruction?
Will we meet again and again in the big curve of space and time
condemned to repeat the process till they get it right?
My teeth, my skull, my bony bones are on full display in the museums of the world, with total disregard for my sons' and daughters' souls that visit me every once in a while. (It costs a lot of money for my descendents to come visit me in this prison they call a museum. My sons and daughters cry that the whites hold my descendents in prisons too, called prisons and reservations in the north....)
Even though I'd like a burial and ceremony to take me closer to my ancestors and elders
they will only agree to repatriating all of our descendents and ancestors in one big chain reaction of nuclear strikes.
Ah, the wonders of western civilizations!

I propose that we all go back to the first circle,
where we all started
and remind our selves through communal dreaming
that when we meet again in, say, 2012
we reconvene into the original circle,
now in a spiral
hug each other
laugh, cry, get drunk on our community
act like long-lost brothers and sisters
that finally reunite to become a healthy family once again
Avoid the wars, give each other food and love abundantly
share our stories from the long walk
remember and remember how the stars were constant in our eyes
how the rivers, the oceans and her waves, the moon, Quetzalcoátl, and the animals and the plants
all guided us, made us who we are and that we owe them our lives to take care of ourselves as we take care of them
and not destroy, not consume, not fear more than we can hold in our arms.

The big bang does not need to end with a small human poof.