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Reminiscing La Niñez

“Her next appointment will be Friday, the 26th, at 3:30 p.m.”

Dice que su próxima cita será el 26, día Viernes, a las tres y media de la tarde.

“Pregúntale si no puede ser más temprano? Es que en el trabajo no puedo llegar tarde.”

She asks if it can it be earlier? She cannot be late to her job.

Y así es como algunos crecemos. Saltando back and forth between los dos idiomas

Uno que aprendimos desde nacimiento and the other el que tuvimos que aprender a fuerzas

No solo porque lo necesitamos para la escuela pero because our family depends on that limited vocab.

A veces pasa que the correct word won't come to you en el instante que la necesitas

And it seems like the world, the little world you know, va a derrumbarse por tu culpa

Pero de repente te acuerdas que the cartoon characters on TV mentioned it once and yes, resulta que la palabra sí te la sabes

So cuando llega el land lord y pregunta que if something's not working, you proudly say "the washing machine" and he nods his head, makes note, and wonders why this little girl está tan contenta

-By Daisy Almonte

source: http://www.thebridgeis.com/what-we-think/2017/9/7/reminiscing-la-niez

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THE LAST DAY MY FATHER SPENT IN MEXICO

Antonio day-dreams under el guamúchil, its thorny pods shield him from the deformed bricks his parents hurl from home. The thud against the wall, that separated the backyard y los labores, echoes inside this adobe-cotta soldier. The shrapnel of their words, “Lárgate ya,” cut at his heart. In his mouth lies the taste of the night before, of the flakes of a brown concha that still paste his chin. The latest spoil of the ongoing civil wars of pan dulce, among ten hermanos that ended in truce because he negotiated with Nita the last of the Azucaradas for it. He sighs the last exhaust from hitching a 6 am camión whose tail pipes iban hacía Pajacuarán to la secundaria; from siphoning the sun for diez pesos under Doña Olga’s fresa fields. He sighs to remember the taste of meat. El campo después de la cosecha is barren; only shriveled cornstalks litter its piso. They suckle his tears, so that by the end of the week-long border crossing, they are drowned out by the sounds of el norte’s July 4th cuetes. At eighteen years old, he’ll clean tables at Hyatt restaurants with imported sweat. He’ll bite his tongue under every “pick it up,” and “excuse me,” and “Hey, you,” grunted amidst clanking silverware. He’ll see the chalk of clients’ white fingers snapping the outline of crime scenes, on streets still spelled in Spanish but with different shades of the burnt tortilla. He’ll smuggle his wife and two children into Sunday brunch, so that as a black-vest waiter pours orange juice over a wine glass, I’ve learned, with a nun’s piety, to stop calling him papá in public. He’ll learn the underside of an aguacate bears the same texture as un cuerno de chivo, of auto-defensas and warring carteles patrolling the plazas of El Paracho, where he’d awkwardly dance with novias. Meanwhile, on this side of North America, he sees the avocado is trending, hollowed out so white people can mine its green gold to make caramel lattes. He does all this, so that thirty four years after leaving, every morning, a Chevy suburban stacked with papeles in inglés is vehicle-marshalled by his father, who now spends his mornings walking down Haley St., who naps while we huddle over the bonfires of an almuerzo in a small apartment with three plastic chairs but six different pictures of the Virgin Mary. He knocks on his parents’ apartment door with a sack of masa, laughing how otherwise, your abuelita will say she can’t tortillar. This morning, apá pours greasy caldo over a casuela of chiles rellenos, while his mom tugs at a lid of gelatina. Its tricolor custard slows her nervios over the upcoming visita to el USCIS oficina, pa’ arreglar su residencia, lest her frail body keep swaying to the harsh seasons de la visa. As she struggles to peel away the Jello’s pegamento, she sighs how he’s “El único hijo que manda dinero,”  how the older women are tired of praying for the México they once knew, how curfew is now when an AK-47 dips from behind the cerros, and stands over the town square’s pink gazebo. As we leave, he takes that same hunchbacked brick, and lowers it as a doorstop. So his parents can shuffle their feet across the carpet to open the door. So they can cross the threshold, and properly despirse de él.

-Antonio Lopez

Source: http://www.trackfourjournal.com/antonio-lopez--the-last-day-my-father-spent-in-mexico.html

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“Stereo-types of a black girl misunderstood… And it’s still all good ” . .. Instagram @xomandymoore

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Shamone Edwards by Zack McDowell

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Gerhardt Isringhaus  -  Pancho Villa with Rainbow Bandoliers

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Desde las manos de David Alfaro Siqueiros, pasando por las frías y grises paredes de Nueva York, hasta las pancartas y consignas del Movimiento Estudiantil de 1968 en México, el esténcil, ha contribuido con su aparente facilidad de adopción, a la creación de las más diversas expresiones, desde lo político formal, hasta la resistencia social, elevándose en lo contemporáneo a todo un lenguaje del arte.

#3erEncuentroEstencilMéxico ya tiene primera parada, #Guanajuato, chequen los detalles y aparten la fecha: http://ow.ly/HmdT30eqMYk

#ArteUrbano #MadeinMexico #HechoenMexico #HandMade #Esténcil #Stencil #ArteMexicano #StreetArt #StreetArtMX #StreetArtMexico #EstencilMexico #LoveArt #Love #Mural #Murales #Retrato #Art #Mexico #México #InstaArt #Estencil #retrato #MexicanArt #Wall #ArtWall #Artstagram

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photo by seyi akindale. 

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THIS PHOTO JUST MAKE ME FEEL GREAT

This photo was taken on the remains of the city hall of Juchitán, Oaxaca, one of the most affect cities.

They recovered the Mexican flag from the remains of the city hall.

This is my country, it can fall apart but it will always try to recover!!

Este es mi país, se puede caer a pedazos pero siempre tratará de recuperarse.

VIVA MÉXICO

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“I fight for freedom being a woman who can not be free. I am Mexican but I’m not stupid as many of them. To me nothing or especially men boss me around, nothing that I stay at home darning socks or washing dirty underwears. They say that Fashion involves you to shave, put makeup on, use modern dresses. Well, I leave my eyebrows and my mustache, I wash my face, I use my blouses! In a society frowned upon women who smoke, drink, or say bad words and especially those who sleep with anybody they wish too. Well, I drink and smoke, say shit and I sleep with who I want! Only those with the devil can be fucking Communists they say. I am, Ball of bastards! I am free to paint as I wish too and not as others tell me, starting with my chubby. I am free to get drunk with tequila when my ovaries feel like it. I am free to have sex with women and men. I am free to choose between eating mole or strudel. I am free to accept death at a young age.I am free to give me in the fucking mother.” -Frida Kahlo

“Lucho por la libertad siendo una mujer que no puede ser libre. Soy mexicana pero no soy pendeja como muchas de ellas. A mi nada que me manden los hombres, nada de que me quede en mi casa remendando calcetines o lavando calzones cagados. Que la moda dice que te rasures, que te pongas maquillaje, que uses vestidos modernos. Pues yo me dejo mi cejas y mi bigote, me lavo la cara, uso mis huipiles! En sociedad es mal visto que las mujeres fumen, que tomen, que digan groseras y menos que se anden acostando con quien se les antoja. Pues yo tomo y fumo, digo chingaderas y me acuesto con quien quiero! Que solo las que tienen el diablo metido pueden ser comunistas. Yo lo soy, bola de cabrones! Soy libre para pintar como quiero y no como me dicen los demas, empezando por mi gordo. Soy libre para emborracharme con tequila cuando se me hinchan los ovarios. Soy libre para acostarme con mujeres y con hombres. Soy libre para escoger entre comer mole o strudel. Soy libre para aceptar morir siendo joven. Soy libre para darme en la madre a mi misma”. -Frida Kahlo

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Joey Terryll - Queer chicanos

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Colores de México Talavera de Puebla

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