1. "Our Children Are Not Anchors" by Susana de Jesus Huerta
2. “To the Elders” by Hedy García Treviño
3. “One Dream / Un Sueño” by Francisco X. Alarcón
4. "What Kind of Indian Do You Think I Am? (For Poet Responding to SB-1070)" by Diana Joe
5. “Semillas” by Odilia Galván-Rodríguez
Our children are not anchors
like the ones dropped in Atlantic waters to
unload African corpses en masse.
We don’t just drop our babies onto this land
the way bombs were dropped on Hiroshima and
Nagasaki.
The way words and promises are dropped from treaties.
Our children do not drop like collapsed lungs
from small pox in clean bodies under
wool blankets and thick air.
Our children are not the weights used
in that system of pulleys, noosed ropes
over Oak and Magnolia branches tied to
the gravity of brown and black bodies.
They do not fall hard like strong brown
soldiers on front-lines holding
their breath to be made
citizens while pledging patriotism and pride.
Our babies do not keep us
on these furrowed fields of crouching backs
under summer heat the way
threats to hire another force us to stay
even without running water, even without
a paycheck.
Our children are not anchors.
They do not fall.
They are already the root,
complex connections centuries old, aflame
with the power of history, knowledge
of collective pain and promise.
They become. They bloom. They unfurl like
lavender flowers and protest signs under desert
sun. Even as seedlings they push through
concrete, poisonous policies, and
the sting of barbwire borders.
Our children are the pulsating sky that sings
thunder and bleeds
to break open and burst forth
like monarch clouds
returning home.
© Susana De Jesus Huerta 2010
To the Elders
by Hedy Garcia Treviño
To those that came before
to those that were confronted
by storefront windows signs
that read no Mexicans or dogs allowed.
I placed his walking stick into the ground
I waved his walking stick at the moon
and cried out for justice.
To those that came from the other side of the
mountain.
To the ancient ones that never spoke English
or carried a drivers license
I shutter to think how you would
be treated today in Arizona.
I remember the lanterns
the ringing of the bells
the river flute you carved for me abuelito.
The heart of my people beats like a tight drum
we will not stumble we will not fall we must hold steady the line
for those that came before are walking ahead they
have arrived in full armor and
are waving the lantern of truth and justice.
In the moon light I see your face
that face of abuelito the gentle one
with the big beautiful brown hands
weathered from working the land.
He never walked on stage
he never wrote a sonnet
but his very life was a poem.
Abuelo the man who taught me to kneel and ask
the rivers permission before crossing.
Abuelo the man who scattered cracked corn
to replenish the Winter dens of mice and deer who's
winter supply of food we had stolen
when we gathered pinon nuts in the forest.
When you take from the earth you put back an offering
he would say.
Those simple seemingly insignificant deeds
the lessons learned and yet he raised me an orphan child
the child of his child whom he took into his heart.
To the people that could stop a dangerous storm cloud
with the wave of a hand
To those that understood the call of the owl
To the people that could cure with herbs roots and flowers
To those that understood the weather the birds the moths the butterfly's
they knew his name and he knew their flight plans arrivals and departures and
what it meant for the harvest or the coming of Winter
or the crops when the butterflies left or arrived and in which direction they headed
or the density and the color of the foliage of the leaves upon the trees
all this told them about the pending winter storms and how and when
to gather the harvest.
They had survived the depression
they had had survived the common hangings and so called
repatriations of brown people in the 1940's.
These were the people of the corn
the children of the man god that could fly
Over there from the other side of the mountain
the man who showed me where the buffalo herds
were slaughtered.....
the man who whittled me magic flutes
from river willows
Over there he would say, we came from over there,
from the other side of the mountain.
ONE DREAM
to Gaby, Carlos, Felipe, Juan, and all other Trailers of Dreams after the “Dream Act” failed to pass in the US Senate 55 to 41 votes on December 18, 2010
by Francisco X. Alarcón
where
will we go
from here
the doors
have been
now closed
can dreams
be deferred
to nowhere
the will of
the majority
frustrated
by those
so stubborn
so dim
choosing
to be blind
deaf, mute
not wanting
to see, hear
speak up
swearing
to turn off
all lights
scheming
a wall of terror
and darkness
now rain
and snow
cover most
our nation
in a Winter
cold blanket
but we are
the Spring
of this land
the green
new leaves
sprouting again
everywhere
from bushes
and trees
our collective
dream will rise
like the Sun
giving us all
a warm day
of Summer
you are Moses
–the very young–
facing Pharaoh–
your are sisters
and brothers
our familia
innocent from any
transgressions
by parents
your tears
are our tears
never in vain
we will recall
the names of all
those turning
their backs
on our gente
in most need
your thirst
is our thirst–
we will draw
water from
indifferent
desert stones
none of us
is no longer
all alone
we are as
numerous as
the night stars
we are writing
up in the sky
the future
the dream
of this land
this nation
made out
of the broken
dreams
of so many
that no dam
no wall
can ever
contain
or erase
your dream
is our dream–
one dream
flying free
like the wings
of an eagle
December 18, 2010
* * * * * *
UN SUEÑO
a Gaby, Carlos, Felipe, Juan y todos los otros Caminantes del Ensueño tras no pasar el “Acta del Ensueño” en el Senado con 55 a 41 votos el 18 de diciembre de 2011
por Francisco X. Alarcón
a dónde
iremos
ahora
que nos
han cerrado
las puertas
se pueden
deferir a nada
los sueños
la voluntad
de la mayoría
frustrada
por ésos
tan tercos
tan apagados
escogiendo
estar ciegos
sordos, mudos
no queriendo
ver, oír
hablar
prometiendo
apagar
toda luz
tramando
un muro de terror
y oscuridad
ahora lluvia
y nieve cubren
la mayor parte
de nuestra nación
con una colcha
invernal fría
pero somos
la Primavera
de esta tierra
las verdes
hojitas nuevas
retoñando
dondequiera
en arbustos
y árboles
nuestro sueño
colectivo saldrá
como el Sol
Uds. son Moisés
–el muy joven–
encarando al Farón–
Uds. son hermanas
y hermanos
nuestra familia
inocentes de toda
transgresión
de padres
sus lágrimas son
nuestras lágrimas
nunca en vano
recordaremos
los nombres
de los que dieron
la espalda
a nuestra gente
más necesitada
su sed es
nuestra sed–
sacaremos
agua de piedras
indiferentes
del desierto
ni uno de nosotros
está nunca más
todo solo
somos tan
numerosos como
las estrellas
escribimos
en el cielo
el futuro
el sueño
de esta tierra
esta nación
hecho de
los sueños
rotos
de tantos
que ninguna
presa o muro
podrá nunca
contener
o borrar
su sueño es
nuestro sueño–
un sueño
volando libre
como las alas
de un águila
18 de diciembre de 2011
WHAT KIND OF INDIAN DO YOU THINK I AM?
(FOR POETS RESPONDING TO SB-1070)by Diana Joe
WHAT KIND OF INDIAN DO YOU THINK I AM?
A DEAD ONE WITHOUT THE RIGHT TO VOTE, HUH?
A SAVAGE ONE?
AN UNTEACHABLE ONE.
ONE WITHOUT LAND.
WITHOUT A RESERVATION.
WITHOUT WORTH FOR AN EXPLANATION.
ONE WITHOUT A PLACE IN YOUR NATION?!
WHAT KIND OF AN INDIAN DO YOU THINK I AM?
A CONQUERED ONE.
THATS THE KIND OF INDIAN YOU THINK I AM.
YOU SAID GO MY SON GET AN EDUCATION.
AS IF I DIDN'T ALREADY HAVE ONE.
WHAT KIND OF AN INDIAN DO YOU THINK I AM?
A CONQUERED ONE HUH?
THE DREAM ACT MIGHT BE SOMETHING YOU USE
AGAINST MY CHILDREN BECAUSE
THEY ARE VULNERABLE AND YOUNG.
BECAUSE YOU LIE!
YOU LIE
LIAR.
WHAT KIND OF AN INDIAN BACKGROUND
DO YOU WANT ME TO HAVE
A COLORLESS, TASTELESS ONE?!
JUST BECAUSE YOU HAVE TAKEN OUR NATURAL LANDS?
YOU HAVE STRIPPED US OF OUR IDENTITY AND GAVE IT TO SAM.
WHAT KIND OF INDIAN DO YOU THINK I AM?
THE RIGHT ONE?
THE GOOD ONE?
THE DEAD ONE?
THIS IS THE DAY YOU MADE THE DREAM DIE.
YOU MADE THE DREAM APPEAR LIKE AN ACT.
LIKE THE SORCERY THAT YOU HAVE ALWAYS USED AGAINST US.
THIS IS THE DAY YOU MADE THE CHILDREN CRY.
WITHOUT A SOUL IS HOW YOU ACT.
WITHOUT A CONSCIENCE WITHOUT MERCIFULNESS.
WHAT KIND OF AN INDIAN DO YOU THINK I AM?
DO YOU THINK THAT BECAUSE YOU HURT MY CHILDREN
YOU WIN?
DO YOU THINK THAT BECAUSE YOU PLAY WITH THEIR HEARTS
YOU TEAR AT MINE?
REMEMBER THIS SAM, I STILL HAVE ACCESS TO THE CHOCMUL.
I AM MAYAN,TOLTECAN,ZAPOTECAN,P'UREPECHAN,YOEMERAN..
BEFORE I AM YOUR AMERICAN.
I AM THE DREAM IN THE MAKING.
WHAT KIND OF AN INDIAN DO YOU THINK I AM?
A CONQUERED ONE HUH?
WRONG.
I AM THE LEADER THAT PROTECTS THE PLAN DE TENOCHTILAN.
THE ONE THAT JUMPS THE FENCES LIKE A TOXTLI TIMES FOUR HUNDRED!
I AM CUETZPALLI INDITA IN ACTION, I AM AZTLAN, I AM ANAHUAC... LIVING BREATHING.
THIS FIST UPRISING EVERY MINUTE TOWARDS THE SUN.
A BEACON SEEN FROM SEA TO SEA FROM OCEAN TO OCEAN.
SO LONG AS I AM THE INDIAN... THEN WE ARE ALL FOREVER IN LIBERATION.
*in solidarity for the children of the persecuted underdocumented..from all over Latina america.
Diana L.--joe
Navajo rez\Tsaile,Az
Semillas/Seeds
a poem for two voices by Odilia Galván Rodríguez
una madre
a mother
con hijos muriéndose de hambre
with children starving
una madre
a mother
con hijos que tienen mucha hambre
with children who are very hungry
una madre que nunca aprendió
a mother who never learned
cómo leer ni escribir
to read or write
como leer ni escribir
to read or write
un día la madre
one day the mother
encuentra un paquete
finds a package
un paquete con una imagen
a package with an image
una imagen de bellas flores
of some beautiful flowers
una imagen de bellas flores
of some beautiful flowers
flores
flowers
ella abre el sobre
she opens the envelope
y adentro hay semillas
and inside she finds seeds
y piensa
and she thinks
mis hijos están tan hambrientos
my children are so hungry
mis hijos comerán estas semillas de bellas flores
my children will eat these beautiful flower seeds
es todo lo que tengo para darles de comer
it is all I have to give them to eat
mira las semillas y piensa,
son tan pocas y son para los niños
she looks at the seeds and thinks,
there are so few, they are all for the children
les da las semillas
she gives them the seeds
para comer
to eat
para comer
to eat
a sus tres hijitos
to her three little children
les da semillas para comer
she gives them seeds to eat
sus tres hijos se enferman
her three children become ill
y después de mucha agonía
and after much agony
después de agonía terrible
after terrible agony
fallecen
they die
la madre es acusada
the mother is accused
de matar a sus tres hijos
with killing her three children
por darles semillas
for giving them seeds
semillas venenosas
poisonous seeds
por darles semillas venenosas
for giving them poison seeds
no semillas bellas
not beautiful seeds
llenas de vida
full of life
semillas de muerte
death seeds
les dio a sus hijos semillas de muerte
she gave her children death seeds
¿cómo podía haber sabido
how could she have known
que el sobre con las semillas bellas en el frente
that the envelope with the beautiful seeds on the front
eran un nuevo tipo de semilla envueltas en su propio veneno
were a new kind of seed wrapped in their own poison
una semilla de demonio que sólo crece un cultivo
a demon seed that only grows one crop
este cultivo es la muerte y la codicia
that crop is death and greed
el paquete que ella no pudo leer decia,
"Monsanto"
the package she could not read said,
"Monsanto"
©Odilia Galván Rodríguez, 2010
BIOS
1. "Our Children Are Not Anchors" by Susana de Jesus Huerta
2. “To the Elders” by Hedy García Treviño
3. “One Dream / Un Sueño” by Francisco X. Alarcón
4. "What Kind of Indian Do You Think I Am? (For Poet Responding to SB-1070)" by Diana Joe
5. “Semillas” by Odilia Galván-Rodríguez
Susana de Jesus Huerta
I am a first-generation Chicana, born and raised in San Jose, California, where I currently live with my husband, muralist/artist, William Moran. I come from Mexican parents who talked politics and justice at the dinner table and took us to union rallies and farm worker strikes as children. My mother taught me to speak up and be active. My father introduced me to liberation theology, which has greatly influenced my work as an educator. Though I have always been an activist at heart, I didn’t actually begin organizing until I started my college career at San Jose State University. In the shadow of Propositions 187, 209 and 227, I learned how to work with people in my community to bring change to our often ignored and segregated neighborhoods. I marched against the hateful propaganda and political lies that enabled the passage of such backward, racist policies. And I found my voice in community action that addressed injustice at the local level. It is this history that feeds me as an educator and has recently opened me up to the transformative power of poetry.
Today I teach at Foothill College, a community college in Los Altos Hills, California. I am blessed and grateful to have the opportunity to work with inspiring students who struggle with dignity and fight for their right to learn and become leaders in their own way. I teach writing, but it wasn’t until recently that I considered myself a “real” writer. Thanks to the encouragement and support of a few close friends who have believed in my writing, I applied to and was accepted into the VONA (Voices of Our Nation) writing residency program out of the University of San Francisco this past summer. It was in this program that I truly understood the value of being part of a writing community, and I am humbled to be surrounded by such passionate artists who dedicate themselves to creation. I am proud to declare myself a work in progress, relishing in my own revision.
Hedy García Treviño
Hedy M. Garcia Treviño. Has written poetry since the age of eight. Her first poem came as a result of being punished for speaking Spanish in school. Her poetry has been published in numerous journal's and other publications. She has performed her poetry at numerous cultural events. She continues to write poetry, and inspires others to use the written word as a form of self discovery and personal healing.
Francisco X. Alarcón
Francisco X. Alarcón, award winning Chicano poet and educator, is author of twelve volumes of poetry, including, "From the Other Side of Night: Selected and New Poems" (University of Arizona Press 2002), and "Snake Poems: An Aztec Invocation" (Chronicle Books 1992) His latest book is "Ce•Uno•One: Poems for the New Sun" (Swan Scythe Press 2010). His book of bilingual poetry for children, "Animal Poems of the Iguazú" (Children‚s Book Press 2008), was selected as a Notable Book for a Global Society by the International Reading Association. His previous bilingual book titled "Poems to Dream Together" (Lee & Low Books 2005) was awarded the 2006 Jane Addams Honor Book Award. He has been a finalist nominated for Poet Laureate of California in two occasions. He teaches at the University of California, Davis. He is the creator of the Facebook page POETS RESPONDING TO SB 1070 that you can visit at:
http://www.facebook.com/pages/Poets-Responding-to-SB-1070/117494558268757?ref=tsDiana Joe
I am Diana Joe.
I am a native of Brownsville,Texas.I presently reside on the Navajo reservation in a little town called Tsaile,Arizona. I am a grassroots Cultural Consultant,my experience and career counts with over 25 years of exchange on different fronts,mainly veered for the empowerment of traditonal education of tribal peoples . I work primarily in the United States but my work has taken me to the international community In various parts of Mexico,mainly with the indigenous communities of our Mexican tribes. I have many interests and hobbies,which I incorporate as part of my teaching and exchange methods,in and for my consultant facilitations.
My story-telling ability is also very important to me, as it brings my own personal indigenous background into perspective,especially when I do present to the local tribes here in the Southwest. I have been writting poetry since I was about eight years old. I love poetry. I have found that my writing enables me to free myself of the pains and troubles that come to people of color and or of economic disadvantage.
I am a product of farm worker generational families. I write a whole lot about the earth and nature as I became very near to the earth in my many years as a migrant. I am very active in human rights and earth protection issues. I am an activist from as far back as I can recall. I began working first with the migrant peoples in the farm labor camps and later went on to become involved in frontera issues along the US/Mx. border. I write about all these issues as well. I write to raise awareness and consciousness. I am an active curandera as it was passed to me by my mother and grandmother. I enjoy working with diverse people. I advocate for the rights of indigenous people so as to empower ourselves with the rights to practice freely our migratory rights.
Odilia Galván-Rodríguez
Author, Odilia Galván Rodríguez, is of Chicano-Lipan Apache ancestry, born in Galveston, Texas and raised on the south side of Chicago. As a social justice activist for many years Ms. Galván Rodríguez worked as a community and labor organizer, for the United Farm Workers of America AFL-CIO and other community based organizations and served on various city/county boards and commissions. She is the author of three books of poetry, of which Migratory Birds: New and Noted Poems is her latest edition. Her creative writing, both fiction and poetry, has been published in Reinventing the Enemy's Language: Contemporary Native American Women's Writings of North America; New Chicana / Chicano Writing: 1& 2; Here is my kingdom: Hispanic-American literature and art for young people, and in many other literary journals, and anthologies.
From 1998 – 2000 Odilia taught creative writing at the East Bay Institute for Urban Arts in Oakland California an art program for young people ages 15 – 23 whose goal it was to empower inner-city youth to become artists and activists; she has most recently worked as the English Edition Editor for Tricontinental Magazine, in Havana, Cuba under OSPAAAL an NGO, a non-governmental organization, with consultative status to the United Nations. She is also one of the facilitators of Poets Responding to SB1070 a Facebook page dedicated to calling attention to the unjust laws recently passed in Arizona which target Latinos.
Ms. Galván Rodríguez is hard at work on two books of poetry and a collection of short stories, and offers Empowering People Through Creative Writing workshops internationally.
