mestiza mulatta
My father’s father once ran away from the draft
fled to an unknown country from the whispers of freedom
aqui no tendras que matar, hijo, aqui solo hay mujeres y trabajo
do you think he knew that he would be killing us all the same?
he met her, a quiet girl from the mountains, brown skinned and beautiful
he knew what he wanted
so he took, as he was taught to do
te llamare laritza, por que seras el origen de mis hijos
do you think she knew what he was saying?
brown skinned and beautiful, so young and unknowing
a language unshared, a culture unknown
a womb, untouched by Periboriwa
no seas dificil, puta
she soon learned what he meant, losing her own speech as she learnt his
her and her children watching as he took and took
took till there was no more, till a new origen was sought
ya no te necesito, dejadme en paz
My mother’s mother taught her to do whatever it took to survive
mija, straighten your hair, don’t go out in the sun
si te preguntan de tu abuela no hables
nobody can know about how la visabuela Carmen
was one of the last daughters
stolen from the towns of Nigeria as a child
shivering on boats that smelled like death
si quieres sobrevivir en este mundo, te haras una gringa
hidden in the recesses of mud houses
whispers of brujeria happening at the house of old Carmen
Yoruba, they called her, la negra del barrio
married to el viejo Andres, real name long forgotten
taken from the Warao to work on the petroleum fields
my mother’s mother pointed a gun at a rich man in a bar
tu vendras a tu casa y criaras a tus hijos, que me los distes
‘como criare los hijos de una negra?’
my mother learned to wrap her hair under her mother’s careful touch
curls never tightened, skin never revealed to the son
brujeria long hidden, secrets of my grandmother
who refused to see her daughter be abandoned like she once was
vaya a la escuela mija, y aprenda. no te preocupes por tu papa
how many lies does it take for a child to catch on?
the answer is too many
tu papa fue un hombre bueno, amable, y blanco
my father fled from the memories of his mother’s rape
and her oncoming dementia from years of abuse
to America, the land of the free, of opportunity, of diversity
a land of sweet drinks and cool cars like the movies showed
in the drive in theaters of Caracas
my mother followed, carrying my brother and sister
how excited they were to let their children live free
how terrified they were as they watched a man the same color as
their first born son
be violently beat by four Los Angeles policemen on national television
tenemos que protegerlos
straighten your hair, look presentable, don’t go out in the sun
eres mas blanca que tu hermano, si lo mantienes asi pareces mas Española
told to value our heritage, what the Spanish gave us
the beauty of the language, the stunning colors of the dresses and the food
good children always listened.
tu abuelo era Española, mija. entonces eres Española
school children laughed at me
“you’re not white, dummy”
i couldn’t figure out what they meant
the smell of burnt hair was my daily prayer
sunscreen my salvation
and silence my redemption
eres blanca, mija. tu abuelo es Español.
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WE'RE IN ☆ welcome to the end of launch week and the beginning of Me Doing Things on the Internet. thank you SO MUCH for supporting me and this, I see you, and it means a whole lot to me that of all the things you could be doing you spend time looking at and clicking on things I've made. Here's a brand new shiny place to do that if you're interested! jump on over to patreon.com/deathhairball (link through deathhairball.com if that's easier, on the shop page) and have a nose, I'm really excited to be able to share this with you. Prices are in USD because of The Internet, but check what's on offer, there's some cool shit coming if I say so myself. I'm working on a couple of sketchbook tour posts that will go up in the next day or two. I never share my sketchbook stuff with anyone. 👀 AND every single person who signs up this month gets an original art thing by/from me (delivered digitally because covid) and I will embroider your name on my jacket. There is a patch tier which I'm fucking excited about, if you jump on that I will mail you a patron-exclusive (in either design or execution) patch Every Goddamn Month. Those of you who've been with me a while might remember many rambles about vulnerability and process and attempts to post more in-progress stuff instead of just nice finished things, and then I sorta disappeared? That was the depression and some life stuff, but fuck we're back in force now. Instagram will stay as it has been coz despite crowing about vulnerability I feel weird writing such long captions, insta feels like more of a visual place. patreon lends itself better to multimedia blog type stuff, which is def more my scene look at this fucking caption. thank you so much for reading. I love ya. This feels like a new journey and I'm hyped. Thank you for being here. x || #patreon #newpatreon #launchweek #theend #thebeginning #fuckit #indigenousartist #māoriartist #takatāpuiartist #irakoreartist #niueanartist #graphicdesigner #māoridesigner #indigenouscreators #imouttahashtagenergy (at Dunedin, New Zealand) https://www.instagram.com/p/CCIcR7yj36c/?igshid=6cl67fq8lsjs
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