Hostos Review / Revista Hostosiana no. 21

HOSTOS REVIEW REVISTA HOSTOSIANA

LANDSCAPES OF HUMOR PARAJES DEL HUMOR

HOSTOS REVIEW REVISTA HOSTOSIANA

AN INTERNATIONAL JOURNAL OF LITERATURE AND CULTURE

REVISTA INTERNACIONAL DE LITERATURA Y CULTURA

LANDSCAPES OF HUMOR PARAJES DEL HUMOR

HOSTOS REVIEW / REVISTA HOSTOSIANA

Chief Editor / Editora en Jefe

Inmaculada Lara-Bonilla

No. 21 Cover Image / Imagen de portada

©Rosaura Rodríguez / Días Cómics

Layout Design / Diagramación

Benchmark Signaats Printing Company

Hostos Review / Revista Hostosiana es una publicación internacional dedicada a la literatura y la cultura.

Hostos Review / Revista Hostosiana is an international journal devoted to literature and culture.

La revista no comparte necesariamente la opinión de sus colaboradoras/es. Articles represent the opinions of the contributors, not necessarily those of the journal.

HOSTOS REVIEW / REVISTA HOSTOSIANA

Esta publicación es posible gracias al apoyo de / This publication is made possible with support from:

Daisy Cocco De Filippis President

Hostos Community College, CUNY

Andrea Fabrizio

Interim Provost & Vice President of Academic Affairs

Hostos Community College, CUNY

Esther Rodríguez-Chardavoyne

Vice President of Administration and Finance

Hostos Community College, CUNY

Humberto Ballesteros

Chair, Humanities Department

Hostos Community College, CUNY

Mailing Address / Dirección postal:

Instituto de Escritores Latinoamericanos

Latin American Writers Institute

Hostos Community College, CUNY

Office of Academic Affairs

500 Grand Concourse

Bronx, New York 10451

U.S.A.

Hostos Review / Revista Hostosiana would like to thank the Office of the President and Office of Academic Affairs at Hostos Community College, CUNY, for their support in the publication of this issue.

ISSN: 1547-4577

Copyright © 2025 by Latin American Writers Institute

Todos los derechos reservados / All Rights Reserved

CONSEJO EDITORIAL HONORARIO/

HONORARY EDITORIAL BOARD

MARJORIE AGOSÍN (Wellesley College)

CARMEN BOULLOSA (City College, The City University of New York)

MARIO BELLATIN (Author, Mexico/Peru)

MARÍA JOSÉ BRUÑA BRAGADO (Universidad de Salamanca)

NORMA E. CANTÚ (Trinity University)

CARLOTA CAULFIELD (Northeastern University)

RAQUEL CHANG-RODRÍGUEZ (City College, The City University of New York)

JACKIE CUEVAS (University of Texas, Austin)

ARIEL DORFMAN (Duke University)

ALICIA GASPAR DE ALBA (University of California, Los Angeles)

MARGO GLANTZ (Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México)

ISAAC GOLDEMBERG (Author, Founder, Latin American Writers Institute and Hostos Review/ Revista Hostosiana, Hostos Community College, The City University of New York)

ÓSCAR HAHN (Academia Chilena de la Lengua, Fundación Huidobro)

STEPHEN HART (University College London)

YLCE IRIZARRY (University of North Carolina, Chapel Hill)

GISELA KOZAK ROVERO (Instituto Tecnológico de Monterrey, Mexico & Universidad Central de Venezuela)

ELENA MACHADO-SÁEZ (Bucknell University)

LOUISE M. MIRRER (New York Historical Society)

FRANCES NEGRÓN MUNTANER (Columbia University)

JULIO ORTEGA (Brown University)

EDMUNDO PAZ SOLDÁN (Cornell University)

EMMA PÉREZ (The University of Arizona)

CRISTINA RIVERA GARZA (University of Houston)

GIOVANNA RIVERO (Author, Bolivia - U.S.)

ALEJANDRO SÁNCHEZ AIZCORBE (Southwest Minnesota State University)

RÓGER SANTIVÁÑEZ (Temple University)

MAYRA SANTOS FEBRES (University of Puerto Rico, Río Piedras)

JACOBO SEFAMÍ (University of California, Irvine)

MARÍA ANTONIA OLIVER ROTGER (Universitat Pompeu Fabra)

SAÚL SOSNOWSKI (University of Maryland)

ANTHONY STANTON (El Colegio de México)

ILÁN STAVANS (Amherst College)

SILVIO TORRES-SAILLANT (Syracuse University)

VÍCTOR TOLEDO (Universidad Autónoma de Puebla)

SANTIAGO VAQUERA-VÁSQUEZ (New Mexico State University)

SHEREZADA (CHIQUI) VICIOSO (Author, Dominican Republic)

HELENA MARÍA VIRAMONTES (Cornell University)

ÍNDICE / TABLE OF CONTENTS

consejo superior de ganimedes, por Q-kito

to The Ganyemede High Council, By Q-Kito

NOTA EDITORIAL

Hace más de un año, durante una reunión del consejo asesor del Instituto de Escritores Latinoamericanos (LAWI), una colega propuso dedicar un número de Hostos Review / Revista Hostosiana a la literatura humorística latina de Estados Unidos. El comentario resonó, no solo debido al auge de esta vertiente literaria en el país, sino también a la asombrosa escasez de antologías o números especiales dedicados a ella. Esta escasez se convirtió en catalizador del nuevo número, cuya llama se propagó para incluir la escritura del Caribe hispano, una región siempre presente en la ciudad de Nueva York y en otras tantas ciudades del país. El resultado es la vibrante, impredecible, y necesaria compilación que ahora tienen en sus manos, así como nuestro renovado compromiso con el estudio y la celebración del humor en nuestro campo y en nuestro tiempo.

La década de 2010 suele considerarse una “época dorada” de la sátira en la literatura cómica estadounidense1, un modo ciertamente apropiado en el cambiante panorama político y cultural de los años prepandémicos, y muy apropiado también ahora. Sin embargo, como evidencian las páginas de este número, la escritura latina de Estados Unidos, de sus zonas fronterizas y del Caribe despliega hoy modos de comicidad e ironía de una amplitud y un variedad fascinantes. Esta obra se nutre de fuentes compartidas (ironía angloamericana, irreverencia, absurdismo performativo…), pero también hereda otras tradiciones: crónicas fantasiosas e hiperbólicas, escepticismo anticolonial, testimonios ficcionalizados, autobiografía simulada, farsa política, lo carnavalesco, la bufonería, performances paródicas, narrativas anacrónicas, intraducibles juegos lingüísticos bilingües, etc. Este humor y sus variantes, a menudo tejido en español, inglés, spanglish o en una sintaxis propia, se nutre pues de siglos de subversión literaria. Lo que emerge es un cuerpo de escritura que nos obliga a repensar las formas y los límites de la cultura, del idioma, el idealismo, la noción de pertenencia… La rica complejidad de tal paisaje exige no solo atención, sino celebración, y ciertamente mucho más que este número bilingüe (y translingüe) de Hostos Review / Revista Hostosiana.

Aun así, nuestro volumen reúne una fascinante constelación de textos. Compilado por dos excepcionales editores invitados y

1 Caron, James E. “Introduction to the Special Issue.” Studies in American Humor, Vol. 5, No. 1, 2019.

autores —Edgardo Machuca Torres y Santiago Vaquera-Vásquez— y, en una rara excepción, también por esta editora general, el número es necesariamente inconcluso, inevitablemente provocador y, sobre todo, una invitación. Está concebido como un racimo bilingüe (incluida la introducción), un conjunto caleidoscópico, un tapiz viviente. Los textos se presentan deliberadamente abiertos, con sus hilos entrelazados suspendidos y en movimiento, listos para ser retomados, extendidos, desenredados y rehechos en futuras obras. Confiamos en que este entramado permitirá a lxs lectorxs conectar con los matices cambiantes del humor latino y caribeño, que disfrutarán de momentos de aguda perspicacia cómica, de felices encuentros con códigos inesperados, de la complicidad del pensamiento crítico compartido, de la emoción de reconocerese en algo colectivo y, si no de la risa (ese santo grial del humor), al menos de una sonrisa que se esboza a pesar de la ferocidad de nuestros tiempos.

Si el humor es un terreno particularmente controvertido en nuestra época, quizá se deba precisamente a su excepcional poder no solo de iluminar y escrutar la realidad histórica, sino también —y sobre todo— de generar diálogo, de influir, e incluso de infundir una sensación de esperanza. El humor no solo genera nuevas formas de narrar, sino que también ofrece refugios y nuevos caminos. Une a lectorxs o público en torno al desconcierto, la perspicacia, la ironía, oel desencanto. Esperamos que encuentren alguno de estos tipos de cobijo en estos textos.

Mi profunda gratitud a quienes hicieron posible esta publicación en el señalado año de 2025, y especialmente a las autoras, autores, e ilustradoras que contribuyen a este cónclave literario. Gracias por invitarnos a recorrer los sinuosos parajes de su imaginación e ingenio.

Cordialmente,

Inmaculada Lara-Bonilla, PhD

Editora en Jefe, Hostos Review / Revista Hostosiana Directora, Latin American Writers Institute

Hostos Community College, CUNY Nueva York, NY

EDITORIAL NOTE

Over a year ago, during a meeting of the Latin American Writers Institute’s advisory board, a colleague proposed that we devote an issue of Hostos Review / Revista Hostosiana to U.S. Latinx/e comedic literature. The comment struck a chord. Not only did we notice that this writing was in ascendance, but also the shocking dearth of anthologies or special issues devoted to it. Such absence became a call—a catalyst, the flame extending to include the writing of the Hispanic Caribbean region, always present in New York and so many other cities throughout the country. The result is the vibrant, unpredictable, and necessary compilation you now hold in your hands—as well as our own renewed commitment to the study and celebration of humor in our field and in our time.

The 2010s are often referred to as a “golden age” of satire in U.S. comedic literature2—a mode well-suited to the shifting political and cultural landscape of the pre-pandemic years, as well as nowadays. Yet, as this issue demonstrates, Latinx/e writers across the United States, its borderlands, and the Caribbean are now crafting comedic literatures of an astonishing breadth and range. Their work taps shared wells—Anglo-American irony, irreverence, performative absurdism…—but it also inherits other traditions: mock autobiography, anticolonial skepticism, parodic performance, political farce, imaginative and hyperbolic crónicas, carnivals, buffoonery, anachronistic narratives, and untranslatable multilingual language games, among other sources. Their humor, often woven in Spanish, English, Spanglish, or a syntax of their own, draws thus from centuries of literary subversion. What emerges is a body of writing that compels us to rethink the shape and limits of culture, language, idealism, or belonging... The complexity of such landscape demands not only attention, but celebration—and certainly much more than what this bilingual (and translingual) issue of Hostos Review / Revista Hostosiana.

Still, our volume brings together a remarkable constellation of texts. Compiled by two exceptional guest editors and authors— Edgardo Machuca Torres and Santiago Vaquera-Vásquez— alongside this chief editor (in a rare appearance), the issue is necessarily inconclusive, inevitably provocative, and most of all,

2 Caron, James E. “Introduction to the Special Issue.” Studies in American Humor, Vol. 5, No. 1, 2019.

an invitation. It is conceived as a bilingual racimo (including the introduction): a cluster, a kaleidoscope, a living tapestry. The texts remain deliberately open-ended, their interwoven threads suspended and in motion, ready to be picked up, extended, unraveled, and respun in works to come. We trust that this method will allow readers to connect with the ever-evolving hues of Latinx and Caribbean humor, that you will enjoy moments of sharp comedic insight, encounters with unexpected codes and signals, the complicity of shared critical thought, the thrill of collective recognition, and if not humor’s holy grail of laughter, at least a smile a that arrives while facing the ferocity of our times.

If humor is a particularly contested terrain these days, it may be precisely because it holds the rare power not only to illuminate and scrutinize, but also to generate dialogue, persuade, and even to instill a sense of hope. Humor not only sparks new forms of chronicling but can also offer a refuge and new paths forward. It draws readers and audiences together around bewilderment, insight, irony, disenchantment... We hope that you will find such havens in these pages.

With deep gratitude to those who made this publication possible in the significant year of 2025, and especially to the contributing authors and illustrators who joined this literary conclave: thank you. Thank you for inviting us to traverse the sinuous landscapes of your wit and imagination.

Sincerely,

Inmaculada Lara-Bonilla, PhD

Chief Editor, Hostos Review / Revista Hostosiana Director, Latin American Writers Institute Hostos Community College, CUNY New York, NY

INTRODUCCIÓN/ INTRODUCTION

Inmaculada Lara-Bonilla Edgardo Machuca Torres Santiago Vaquera-Vásquez

INTRODUCTION

:O: Somewhere in Zoomlandia

ESTABLISHING SHOT.

Three colleagues—editors X, Y, and Z—log into Zoomlandia from different corners of the globe. The agenda: the journal issue on Latinx humor they are co-editing. Z proposes opening the introduction with a joke. Without hesitation, they launch into one—a long, winding barroom narrative halfremembered from years ago about a man having to choose to spend eternity in either Heaven or Hell. X and Y wait for the punchline. And wait. The silence lengthens as Z, knowing that the joke is too long but refusing to pull the ripcord, trudges on toward the punchline. Finally, the joke sputters to an end. Nothing. Two blank screens, two blank stares. A pause. In Zoomlandia, Z thinks, as in outer space, no one can hear you scream. The colleagues shift uneasily.

Y finally breaks the silence: Me gusta el ascensor. The elevator was not even the point of the joke.

FADE OUT. END OF SCENE.

Opening with a failed joke may seem an odd way to introduce an issue dedicated to Latinx and Caribbean humor, but failure itself can be generative. A bad joke teaches us something—about timing, about context, about the fragile contract between teller and audience. Failure, after all, can be puzzling and knowledge producing. A failed joke can also underscore one of the central problems of a project like this: what counts as funny? what counts as funny across diverse cultural and political worlds? Humor is mercurial, culturally specific, and unruly. It may not even be able to keep up with the incongruous, outlandish nature of our current reality. So, why even attempt a special issue gathering literary humor?

Moreover, to catalog Latinx/e and Caribbean humor is less like assembling a neat taxonomy and more like wrestling with a puzzle whose pieces won’t quite fit, yet may still create surprising pictures when brought together. And that is precisely the challenge—and joy—of this issue of Hostos Review / Revista Hostosiana. Humor resists being pinned down, but

when placed side by side, these varied texts create sparks, resonances, and contradictions that illuminate more than any single frame could. Editing such an assemblage a seis manos was at once rewarding and maddening— something like telling a joke across time zones in Zoomlandia.

{} Ensamblaje

No simple task indeed was to think in a comedic key and attempt to anthologize humor as it is used today by U.S. Latinx/e and Caribbean writers. To refine the scope of the project, we decided to focus on writings produced within, or closely related to, the United States, where the journal is published. Within this frame, we envisioned a collection that would compile some of our most contemporaneous literature, in which humor might permeate writing, a literature where perhaps a sense of hopeful witticism could be the dominant tone for a historical moment in which a hopeless perplexity abounds. We asked ourselves: how is this moment being perceived and understood in Latinx/e and border literature in the United States; how in the nearby Caribbean and its diaspora; what attitudes and positions result in comedic genres; what humorous tools are used in times of crisis, division, or polarization? Historically, parody, satire, farce, burlesque, slapstick, pastiche, comedia costumbrista, absurdist narratives, and other forms of literary humor have functioned as a safety valve, as mirrors, as vehicles for analysis, or as sources of pleasure and lightheartedness.

The possible kinds of texts were innumerable; we did not expect any particular genre, and authors could use any number and forms of comedic resources. One-liner zingers or long-winded narrative jokes; dichos and juegos de lenguaje; satire, parody, slapstick, texts full of puns, wry observations, dark humor, dry humor, tragicomedy—the list trailed off because the possibilities were endless. We hoped to capture some of this rich contemporary repertoire and contribute to what was a pending assignment in our field. We were familiar with anthologies of Latinx literature from the 1990s, and some compilations of the work of well-known comedians.1 Others wonderfully compiled the comic as a genre2 (which is not always humorous). There were also important edited collections of academic essays on humor in Latinx literature and an attractive book of conversations between two prominent Latino scholars and writers on Latin American and

1 The Latino Kings of Comedy and The Latino Queens of Comedy (both published by Uproar Entertainment, 2001) are audiobooks gathering the best known Latinx stand-up comediennes and comedians in the U.S. to date.

2 See, for instance, Tales from la Vida: A Latinx Comics Anthology (edited by Frederick Luis Aldama; Ohio State University, 2018), the YA collection Mañana: Latinx Comics From The 25th Century (Power and Magic Press, 2022), or From Cocinas to Lucha Libre Ringsides: A Latinx Comics Anthology (edited by Frederick Luis Aldama and Ángela M. Sánchez; Ohio University Press, 2025).

2 See, for instance, Tales from la Vida: A Latinx Comics Anthology (edited by Frederick Luis Aldama; Ohio State University, 2018), the YA collection Mañana: Latinx Comics From The 25th Century (Power and Magic Press, 2022), or From Cocinas to Lucha Libre Ringsides: A Latinx Comics Anthology (edited by Frederick Luis Aldama and Ángela M. Sánchez; Ohio University Press, 2025).

Western European humor in literature, philosophy, and popular culture.3 We also found volumes dedicated to specific cultural landscapes, such as Puerto Rico4 or the border and Chicanx literature/culture of the US Southwest.5 But we were lacking a compilation of literary writings using humor as a key resource in the broader U.S. Latinx/e and Caribbean context. So, we set out to create such a collection in English, Spanish, and their combinations. Soon, a lively, unclassifiable set of texts began to form and entered in a conversation of sorts with each other. Writers of diverse languages and from different geographies contributed pieces to an exchange from the border culture of Mexico to New York, California, other regions of the US, Puerto Rico, Cuba, or the Dominican Republic. El resulting número especial became an assemblage, a construction of texts fitting together in unexpected but exciting ways. As curators, rather than corralling the contributions into neat thematic or stylistic cajas (the kind that get labeled, shelved, and forgotten), we chose to present this issue as such assemblage—a reunión, tal vez a piñata, of texts that brush against each other at odd angles, spark improbable connections, and occasionally side-eye or wink at each other. A piece that shouts its humor loud and clear might find itself paired with one that whispers under its breath. The result, esperamos, is less a clash than un flow—a current where sharp contrasts generate sparks, where the whole hums with the syncopation of laughter arriving on different beats. We do not pretend to offer a master plan or a single punchline. Instead, this issue assembles a set of jokes, gestures, ironies, and provocations whose resonance emerges in their juxtaposition. And at a time when we seem to speak different languages when speaking the same, we bring together the two main tongues of the United States, English and Spanish, and their in-betweens, in originals and translations, as exchanges between the centers of culture and politics and what those centers perceive as peripheries. Hopefully, the issue will resonate and inspire new conversations recognizing the artistry and the vast potential of Latinx/e humorous exchanges.

<> Caleidoscopio

The literary map drawn by our experiment will, thus, be assembled by each reader. It can be composed as an awkward puzzle, or as a kaleidoscope of perhaps discordant colors. The issue is certainly not an exhaustive compilation, but rather a brief snapshot of the radically diverse horizon of humorous genres and instruments employed by a group of writers dedicated to cultivating them. Readers may notice how the texts address, in different tones, some of the personal, social, and political ills of our time. Humor here operates as a form of intervention in current debates about our embodied and disembodied lives, about blindness, ingenuity, and deception, or the

3 Aldama, Frederick Luis and Ilan Stavans. Laughing Matters: Conversations on Humor. SDSU Press, 2016.

4 See, for instance, Salvador Tió. Amor, humor y literatura. San Juan: Editorial EDP University. 2012.

5 See, for instance, Hernández, Guillermo. Chicano Satire. U of Texas P, 1991.

need to understand and connect, about sexuality, gender, labor, freedom of expression, public figures, political oppression, or about literature itself. Some will notice how these conversations, while global, also connect with specific local, regional traditions and settings. All in all, the gesture of bringing together these diverse forms of humor in a single volume not only draws a labyrinthine map of styles and strategies, but also underscores how comedic resources, in their multiplicity, transcend linguistic, cultural, and geopolitical boundaries.

If one were to choose a linear reading of this compendium, we first encounter two texts by Giannina Braschi, a contemporary maestra of provocative and profoundly ingenious writing who calls for new thinking frameworks and a revolution in aesthetics, politics, and philosophy. The initial pages of her “Palidode,” the first part of her latest published work, Putinoika (2024), summon Antigone, Ismene, Oedipus, and other characters from classical Greek tragedies to converse with Giannina, the author’s alter ego, about debts and the financial, political, cultural, and spiritual implications of capitalist thinking. Gianinna is a poet and thinker who reflects on the abundance of life, while the ancient classical characters, in their new incarnation, rebel against their imposed destinies and proclaim freedom from inherited family crimes and debts. This excerpt and Braschi’s Fray Luis de León Prize acceptance speech—also included here—remind us not only how ancient political ills persist in our time, but also of how, even when burdened by the most irreconcilable contradictions or aberrant legacies, a powerful emancipatory vitality lies in the transformative force of creativity.

Not everything is spirited and inspiring humor, however, in this issue. We observe—not surprisingly—that the gaze can become somber and unsettling before the eyes can foresee a hint of liberation. Sylvia Aguilar Zéleny’s “Maquila” draws on a dark, ironic humor that exposes the everyday absurdities of factory life through a matter-of-fact, almost conversational narration. The humor often comes in a deadpan register, as the narrator recounts harsh labor conditions and strict rules with a casual tone that makes their severity all the more striking. At the same time, the story satirizes the maquila’s structures of control and exploitation by highlighting small, supposedly “generous” perks—like soda machines or surprise holiday baskets—alongside invasive practices such as locker checks and pregnancy tests. This wry comedy unsettles as much as it entertains, turning humor into a form of social critique that underscores the precarity and contradictions of maquila labor. Also crossing from the EEUU to México, Marcos Pico Rentería’s “Los acarreados” [“The Acarreados”] employs humor in a satirical and ironic register, poking fun at both political spectacle and the absurdities of today’s mass travel. The narrator frames his return to Mexico City with comedic exaggeration and layers this with wry observations about

mass mobilizations and bureaucratic rituals. The story’s humor lies in its blend of parody, cultural wordplay, and biting social critique in a portrait where political sheepishness and gastronomic passions coexist. Inexplicable human incongruities and habits stubbornly embedded in social realities also appear in other texts. Talking and thinking animals emerge to expose human tendencies in absurdist, surrealist allegories and fable-like writing. Ahmel Echevarría’s pig, Robespierre, engages in thoughtful exchanges with a human narrator who attempts to unravel uneasy paradoxes about sexual desire and identity. Through the limitations of language, and in an often-oppressive interior setting, the narrative evokes the exterior of a Cuba that we don’t get to see. In his otherness, the pig—a well-known character in Latin American and Caribbean literature—stands as a powerful figure who, bordering on the grotesque and despite his grunts and clumsiness, is intelligent to the point of manipulation and illumination. Other—more benevolent or jovial—personified animals are protagonists of the quartet titled “Poemas chiquitos para reír” [“Little Poems Just for Laughs”] by Geraldine de Santis. In the form of a fable, her verses swing between funny, musical children’s poetry and restless leaps of the imagination. Here, the human or animal characters make a commotion with humor that seeks to relieve loneliness, weave imaginary worlds, untangle mischief, and play with the sound of words. In these poems, laughter can be loud, provoked by occurrences that do not allow for boredom, but rather may lead to bursts of laughter. As a whole, the brief, scattered bestiary featured in the issue invites us to notice behaviors that make humans resemble birds, mammals, or crawling creatures as our close relatives. Whether through musical fable or surrealist narrative, animals underscore, ironically or grotesquely, our kinship with them, as they expose human qualities that range from the wise to the bestial, from the mischievous to the absurd, including the bouts of doubt and ignorance that are possible in our species.

Our blindness in the face of delusions and simulations is precisely at the core of some other of the compiled texts. The short story “La mujer del pastor” [“The Pastor’s Wife”] by Haydée Zayas Ramos presents us with a satire where the distorted interpretations of a Protestant pastor are the central strategy to take advantage of the naivety of the parishioners. The pastor’s wife criticizes her husband’s actions and his lack of cleverness to act for his own benefit, and seemingly for the benefit of the community, and decides to form a new church. The story thus criticizes the abuse of religious power, a fertile ground for corruption woven with a constant and exaggerated humor. Other religious figures emerge in the issue—not necessarily as protagonists—, inviting us to reflect on our narrow-mindedness, obsessions, or the power of appearances. The thrones of the heads of official religions, such as a rabbi, a pope, or a Buddhist monk, are incisively stripped of their sacred halo in the micro-stories of Isaac Goldemberg, the blog posts of Josefina Báez, or the poetry of Rolando Pérez, for instance. Placed in

contrast to social realities or the quotidian, these characters often come across as trivial or hardly venerable.

Our compendium seems to affirm, moreover, that perhaps there is nothing like looking at everyday life to find an inexhaustible fountain of humorous inspiration. Never without political undertones, the apparent “normality” of the daily offers an endless source of anecdotes and commonplaces in which error, delusion, or incoherence are not difficult to come across. Memory and humor are combined in “Me parió mi abuela, la de la chancleta voladora” [“My Grandmother Gave Birth to Me, She of the Flying Flip-flop”], a chronicle by Yolanda Arroyo Pizarro, an ode to her abuela’s chancla. Sprinkled with nostalgia, the story celebrates grandmothers as great maternal figures, and rethinks the concept of parir, or birthing, in connection to upbringing and the construction of identity stemming from these superpowers. In the story, the clever gaze of the grandmother detects and sends messages from afar, since she knows her granddaughter as if she had “given birth” to her. The author does not romanticize past habits of adults hitting children but recasts the old practice of the flying flip-flop as a symbol of resistance. The matriarch’s corrective strategies are roadmaps of life, tools for bringing us into this world. Her figure means struggle, action, and courage. Also immersed in daily grind “La carrera” [“The Race”] by Sylma González García is a young adult short story that humorously narrates how two high school students face their lack of interest in sports. Both characters must participate in a track and field race as part of their Physical Education class. Even though athletics will not be the route to reach his goal, the clever way in which the story ends may bring the audience into a burst of laughter or pavera, in Puerto Rican Spanish. The story seems to suggest that one should not abandon a task until it’s completed. The shortcomings and desires inherent in day-to-day decision-making also take center stage in “Tierra y aire” [“Earth and Air”] the short story by Awilda Caez, which moves from the lightly ridiculous all the way to the outright absurd. This parody of letter-writing narratives captures the conversation between a desperate boyfriend and a couple’s pop therapist. We are led into the adventures of the lover, his desperation to please his girlfriend, and his lack of communication with his partner. The story will soon reveal how the intolerance of one and the inflexibility of the other frustrate communication, impeding a healthy relationship that may allow for difference.

In a poetic turn and also settled in an urban daily life of failed couples and powerful mothers and grandmothers, we arrive at Angelina Sáenz’s earnest, unaffected poems, published here in Spanish and English, with translations by the author. The solid voices and bodies of Sáenz’s women are filled with life, history, fearlessness, and—whether in first or third person—all speak against prejudice associated with immigration, indigenous experiences, language, gender, or motherhood. Lastly, the science fiction parody “Informe Secreto remitido al Consejo Superior de Ganímides, por Q-Kito” [“A

Secret Report submitted to the Ganímides, by Q-Kito”] by Elidio Lagares, imagines an extraterrestrial immersion in daily life in Puerto Rico. The linguistic feast that threads the story is filled with an inventory of idiomatic expressions that bring humor to the text while exploring identity and the social and political struggles that the islanders experience. The extraterrestrial character reports to its galactic superior about its social experiences, its assimilation into colloquial expressions, as it tastes the traditional food of the locals while delighting itself with the essence of local cultural festivities. Humor here serves to highlight the vicissitudes of a country that laughs at itself so as not to cry.

Also quotidian is our use of language, a “normal” part of daily life, except when we pause, as we must in Lagares’s piece, to consider the profound strangeness and arbitrariness of our codes. In several other texts of our compilation, the capriciousness of language appears as a centrifugal point of comic and critical intervention, inextricably linked to its public and its literary dimensions. A playful use of words and sounds in English, Spanish, or Spanglish unfolds like changing outfits of an ingenious content in ironic, refined texts aimed at disrupting what we assume to be a language, literary speech, or even culture. Freed from both the expectations of monolingualism and the literary impositions of genres, performance-oriented writings such as those by Josefina Báez, Guillermo Gómez-Peña, Urayoán Noel, or Susana Chávez-Silverman immerse us in the world of translingualism as a path to explore humor and aesthetic realities that disintegrate the attachments and expectations of monolingual readers.

Josefina Báez presents the “bucle interminable” of her Levente no. Yolayorkdominicanyork alongside blog posts published by its protagonist, la Kay, whose voice fills the digital stage to document everyday life in her New York City building. At the beginning of the text, la Kay presents herself as a literary force in an urban, vulgar register, with a colloquial Dominican-york rhythm and translingual sassy humor. The blog entries that follow allow her to continue commenting on present local and global issues—her building part of, and an allegory of, the entire world. Guillermo Gómez-Peña’s “Selected Poems” also deploy humor performatively and translingually, in this case through parody and absurd exaggeration, blending pop culture, politics, and performance art. His poems often use irreverence and satire, mixing English, Spanish, and Spanglish to destabilize authority and poke fun at cultural anxieties. The humor is at once playful and biting, transforming pandemic worries, border politics, and technology into ironic, surreal comedy. Urayoán Noel, for his part, transports us through a sonic, playful code to an orality in which technology meets a critical contemplation of diaspora and of poetic practice itself through a “language of sargassum.” The metaliterary text overflows with insights on the overwhelming sociocultural and economic energies of colonial expansion, but also on the resilience and constant struggle for survival of the Puerto Rican people. As

a continuum of resilience, and in a register replete with orality and destined for performance, we find “Vengo, María, dito!” by Carlos Manuel Rivera. In this performance poem, we delve not so much into linguistic play between Spanish and English, but into the dialectal slang of a voice that at all costs attempts to make sense of the dystopian migrant experience in New York. Interestingly, knowing the stage practice of these authors, we imagine all of these mixed-genre and mixed-language writings being performed before an audience that can connect to the topics not only through humor but also through language, be it Chicanx, Espinglés, Dominicanish, or Spanglish.

Finally, and with a definitive vocation for lively and public dialogue, we find excerpts from plays written by two well-established Chicano playwrights. Herbert Sigüenza’s Bad Hombres/Good Wives uses humor through parody and farce, blending Shakespeare, Molière, and telenovela melodrama. The play thrives on exaggerated characters, slapstick, and witty dialogue, poking fun at machismo, narco-culture, and toxic masculinity. Its humor is both playful and satirical, using laughter as a tool to critique power, gender roles, and cultural stereotypes. On the other hand, Carlos Morton’s On the Border a Mysterious Stranger Arrives uses humor as biting political satire, parodying both classical drama and contemporary politics. The play exaggerates real-world figures into absurd caricatures whose antics mock authoritarianism and global power struggles. Through farce, parody songs, and outrageous dialogue, the text deploys comedy to critique border policies, imperial ambition, and the spectacle of politics itself.

The issue closes with the incisive translingual “Toy Story/The Gang’s All Here Crónica,” by Susana Chávez-Silverman. Both personal and political, the chronicle flows like a torrent of contemporary references woven into a brash and daring Spanglish. The speaker searches family archives for the humor that may allow us to write about our political moment and concludes with a eulogy to the virtues of erotic love and its profoundly healing properties in a forward-looking present. Such is the closing of this special issue, which may perhaps also be read as a chronicle, as a momentary and collective narrative that recounts how some authors like Chávez-Silverman are thinking, writing, and experiencing our turbulent times through the prism of humor in a Latinx/e, a Caribbean, a borderlands, or a diasporic key.

~ Coda

The collection of texts that we have gathered thus displays a range of comedic topics and registers, from sober and deadpan irony to the most savage political satire and over-the-top theatrical farce. Stories that narrate everyday life with mordacity and exaggeration, highlighting the absurdities of work, politics, and intimacy, coexist here with texts that use performance and Spanglish as tools of parody, destabilizing the “serious” aspect of official

culture. At the same time, this volume opens space for voices that experiment with playfulness in a childlike way—wordplay, laughter, boundless imagination—or that recover intimate memory and Caribbean popular culture with a critical, nostalgic, and irreverent twist. There are also satires that denounce the cunning of religious power, absurd epistolary pieces about love and communication, and youthful stories that transform an “attack of the giggles” into creative resistance. Together, these stories, poems, and plays trace a vibrant map of contemporary Latinx/e and Caribbean literature, where humor becomes a survival strategy, social critique, collective memory, and above all, a bridge of complicity and wink-wink with the reader.

At the same time, we resist the tidy seduction of declaring once and for all what humor “does.” Is it resistance, a loud laugh at the emperor’s lack of clothes? Is it a funhouse mirror, revealing how society already looks absurd before we even start laughing? Is it decolonial praxis, undoing colonial logics with a joke, a pun, or a perfectly timed eye-roll? Is it a survival tactic, a way to breathe when history tries to suffocate or controlarnos? Yes. And also— maybe tal vez, sometimes, not only, or not at all. Humor, after all, refuses to sit politely in theory’s waiting room. Es resongón. It heckles. It says “yes, but, y además.” It multiplies, contradicts, interrupts. It thrives on excess. Bakhtin tells us laughter is centrifugal; Anzaldúa reminds us it thrives in nepantla, the in-between; de Certeau would call it tactical, a small but sly maneuver. We might just call it slippery—every time we think we’ve got the joke, the joke has already moved on, like Barthes punctum. A joke can pierce us, but sometimes not in its punchline. Me gusta lo del ascensor, for example.

So rather than offer a final word, this issue offers a kaleidoscope: turn it once, you see parody; turn it again, irony; turn it again, a subterranean murmur that only surfaces later, maybe while you’re cooking dinner. What holds the issue together is not uniformity but assemblage: a shared recognition that humor matters, that it unsettles, reframes, resonates—and, if we’re lucky, makes us laugh out loud in the process. Like the best jokes, the effect is cumulative, disruptive, and just a little bit unruly. The punchline? We’re still waiting for it. Or maybe we’ve already missed it.

Inmaculada Lara-Bonilla is an essayist, poet, and Professor of Latin American, Caribbean, and Latinx/e Studies at Hostos College, CUNY, where she directs the Latin American Writers Institute (LAWI) and serves as chief editor of its multilingual literary journal, Hostos Review / Revista Hostosiana. Her research on Latin American and Latinx Literature and Cultural Studies has been published internationally, focusing on feminist theory and the contributions of Latina and Latin American literary authors to transnational philosophical thought. As a poet, she is the author of the collection decir bóveda (2022), translated into English and Arabic, and the unpublished Aullido/Howl. Her bilingual poetry has been included in anthologies and international journals, such as Stone Canoe, Literal Magazine, Home Planet News, Zenda Libros, or Journal of the Southwest. Lara-Bonilla is recognized for her multifaceted contributions to research, poetry, editorship, and cultural leadership.

Edgardo Machuca Torres is a college professor. He obtained his Master’s and Doctorate degrees at the Center for Advanced Studies of Puerto Rico and the Caribbean. In 2005, his short story “The Trace of his Guilty Foot” won second place in the Literary contest held at NUC University. Some of his poems are part of the anthology La magia de la palabra escrita (2007) published by the Center for Advanced Studies of Puerto Rico and the Caribbean. In 2009, he published the book, Cuando un hombre merece la vida: la obra de Aníbal Nieves y EDP College. Machuca has also published literary research works in the academic journals Academia, Exégesis, and Identidad. He has served as a judge for the International Pen Novel Contest and the City of Carolina Short Story Contest. He is currently an Associate Professor at EDP University.

Santiago Vaquera-Vásquez is an unrepentant border crosser, ex-dj, Xicano writer, painter, and academic. A Professor of Creative Writing and Hispanic Southwest Literatures and Cultures at the University of New Mexico, he has also taught and lectured at universities across the United States, Latin America, and Europe. He has also held Fulbright Fellowships in Spain, and Turkey, and served as a Fulbright Specialist in Poland. His books include, Algún día te cuento las cosas que he visto (2012), Luego el silencio (2014), One Day I’ll Tell You the Things I’ve Seen (2015), and En el Lost y Found (2016). His most recent works are a photographic chapbook of photos and stories from his travels in Turkey, Yabancı [Foreigner] Extranjero (2019), and the novel Nocturno de frontera (2020). Widely published in Spanish, his literary work has appeared in anthologies and literary journals in Spain, Italy, Latin America and the United States. Commenting on his writing, Junot Díaz has said “Santiago Vaquera is literary lightning. He impresses, he illuminates, and when he is at his best you are left shaken, in awe.”

Inmaculada Lara-Bonilla Edgardo Machuca Torres Santiago Vaquera-Vásquez

INTRODUCCIÓN

:O: En algún lugar de Zoomland PLANO GENERAL.

Tres colegas —editores X, Y y Z— se conectan a Zoomlandia desde distintos rincones del planeta. The agenda: el número especial sobre humor latinx y caribeño que están co-editando. Z propone abrir la introducción con un chiste. Sin pensarlo dos veces, arranca con uno—largo, enredado, a barroom tale medio olvidado de hace años, sobre un hombre obligado a escoger dónde pasar la eternidad: en el Cielo o en el Infierno. X e Y esperan el punchline. And wait. El silencio se extiende mientras Z, fully aware de que el chiste ya se estiró demasiado, pero rehusándose a jalar del paracaídas, sigue avanzando hacia el final. Finalmente, el chiste se desploma en un aterrizaje forzoso. Nada. Dos pantallas en blanco, dos caras sin expresión. Pausa. En Zoomlandia, piensa Z, como en outer space, no one can hear you scream. Los colegas se mueven incómodos. Y, por fin, rompe el silencio: Me gusta el ascensor. El ascensor ni siquiera era el point del chiste.

FADE OUT. FIN DE LA ESCENA.

Empezar con un chiste fallido puede sonar raro como opening para un número dedicado al humor latine, pero el fracaso también produce. A bad joke nos enseña algo—about timing, sobre contexto, sobre el contrato frágil entre quien cuenta y quien escucha. El fracaso, al fin y al cabo, puede ser desconcertante y, sin embargo, generador de conocimiento. Un chiste que no funciona también subraya una de las preguntas centrales de un proyecto como este: ¿qué cuenta como funny?; ¿qué cuenta como funny across mundos culturales y políticos distintos? El humor es mercurial, cultural-specific, indomable. Quizá ni siquiera alcance a seguirle el paso a lo incongruente, lo outlandish, de nuestra realidad presente. Entonces, ¿por qué insistir en armar un número especial de humor literario latina/o/x y caribeño?

Catalogar el humor latino y caribeño no es como armar una taxonomía neat and tidy, sino como pelear con un rompecabezas cuyas piezas nunca encajan del todo, aunque, al forzarlas, a veces revelen imágenes inesperadas.

Y ese es precisely el reto—y el joy—de este número de Hostos Review / Revista Hostosiana. El humor se resiste a que lo clasifiquen, pero cuando se ponen estos textos lado a lado, saltan chispas, resonancias y contradicciones que iluminan más de lo que podría cualquier marco solitario. Editar un assemblage así, a seis manos, fue rewarding y maddening a la vez—algo así como intentar contar un chiste across time zones en Zoomlandia.

{} Assemblage

Nada simple sin duda fue el acto de pensar en clave de humor para componer el número, de intentar antologar el humor como es empleado hoy día por escritores y escritoras latinxs y caribeñxs. Para delimitar la empresa, decidimos centrarnos en escrituras producidas dentro de, o en relación cercana con, el Estados Unidos de nuestros días. Dentro de este marco, visionamos un conjunto que compilara algo de la literatura más contemporánea (años 2024 y 2025 sobre todo) en la que el humor empapa la escritura, una compilación en la que quizá una agudeza esperanzada pudiera ser el tono dominante para un momento histórico de aturdimiento e incluso desesperanza. Nos preguntamos: ¿cómo se está percibiendo y pensando este momento y su clima social en la literatura latina y fronteriza de Estados Unidos, en el nearby Caribe, y en su diáspora? ¿Cuáles son las actitudes, las posiciones que permiten lo cómico hoy día? ¿Cúales las herramientas humorísticas a las que recurrir en momentos de crisis, división, o polarización? There must be some, pues históricamente, la parodia la sátira, farsa, lo burlesco, lo bufonesco, el pastiche, la comedia costumbrista, las narraciones absurdistas y otros los modos literarios del humor han funcionado como válvula de escape, or as a mirror, or as vehículo de crítica y análisis, o fuente de placer o ligereza. Los tipos de textos posibles eran innumerables, no adscritos a ningún género en particular y podrían utilizar múltiples recursos. Remates fulminantes o chistes narrativos larguísimos; dichos y juegos de lenguaje; sátira, parodia, humor físico, textos repletos de juegos de palabras, observaciones mordaces, humor negro, humor seco, tragicomedia—la lista se desvanece porque las posibilidades son infinitas. Confiamos en poder captar algo de este rico trabajo, e invitamos a escritoras y escritores a componer con nosotres lo que era asignatura pendiente en nuestro campo. Conocíamos antologías de literatura Latinx de EEUU desde los años 1990, también algunas que recogían el trabajo de mujeres y hombres humoristas bien conocides aquí.1 Había aún otras que han compilaban maravillosamente el género del cómic2 (por supuesto, no siempre humorístico) y un atractivo libro de conversaciones entre prominent Latino scholars y escritores sobre el humor en la literatura,

1 The Latino Kings of Comedy and The Latino Queens of Comedy (Uproar Entertainment, 2001) son audiobooks que compilan trabajo de les humoristas Latinx de EEUU más conocidos hasta el momento de su publicación.

2 See, for instance, Tales from la Vida: A Latinx Comics Anthology (edited by Frederick Luis Aldama; Ohio State University, 2018), the YA collection Mañana: Latinx Comics From The 25th Century (Power and Magic Press, 2022), or From Cocinas to Lucha Libre Ringsides: A Latinx Comics Anthology (edited by Frederick Luis Aldama and Ángela M. Sánchez; Ohio University Press, 2025).

filosofía y cultura popular de Latinoamérica y Europa Occidental.3 Existían también importantes colecciones de ensayos académicos sobre el humor en la literatura latinx4 y algunos dedicados paisajes geo-culturales específicos como el de Puerto Rico5 o el de la literatura/cultura fronteriza y chicana del suroeste de EEUU.6 Sin embargo, una compilación de escrituras que, en el contexto latino de Estados Unidos mostrara el humor como recurso central nos estaba faltando. Y nos propusimos confeccionarla en inglés y/o en español e incluir una latinidad que se extendiera en el Caribe y los espacios limítrofes, vecinos y fronterizos de este país.

And so, una viva y difícilmente catalogable producción literaria entró a nuestras pantallas y entró en conversación. Escritoras/es que escriben en diversas lenguas y desde diferentes geografías dialogaban desde la cultura fronteriza con México, hasta Nueva York y otras regiones de EEUU, pasando por Puerto Rico, Cuba o la República Dominicana en un fascinante intercambio. El número especial resultante es, así, un assemblage, un puzzle de textos que encajan entre sí de maneras quizá inesperadas pero siempre estimulantes. En vez de encajonar las contribuciones en temáticas o estilos ordenaditos (esas cajas que se etiquetan, se archivan y se olvidan), hemos preferido presentar este número como tal ensamblaje— una reunión, tal vez una piñata, de textos que se rozan en ángulos extraños, que encienden conexiones improbables y que, de vez en cuando, se miran de reojo o se lanzan un guiño. Una pieza que grita su humor en voz alta y clara puede encontrarse junto a otra que apenas susurra entre dientes. El resultado, esperamos, es menos un choque que un flow—una corriente en la que los contrastes agudos generan chispas, donde el conjunto entero vibra con la síncopa de una risa que llega a destiempo, en diferentes beats. No pretendemos ofrecer un plan maestro ni un punchline único. Más bien, este número reúne un conjunto de chistes, gestos, ironías y provocaciones cuya resonancia surge de su yuxtaposición. Y en un tiempo en el que parece que hablamos distintos idiomas al hablar el mismo, juntamos aquí las dos lenguas principales de Estados Unidos, inglés y español, y sus in-betweens, originales y traducciones, intercambios entre los centros de cultura y política y lo que esos centros perciben como periferias. Ojalá el número también contribuya a desarrollar nuevas compilaciones que reconozcan el arte y el alcance de brillantes encuentros humorísticos.

<> Caleidoscope

El mapa literario que dibuja nuestro experimento será ensamblado, pues, por cada lector/a. Podrá leerse como un rompecabezas incómodo o como

3 Aldama, Frederick Luis and Ilan Stavans. Laughing Matters: Conversations on Humor. SDSU Press, 2016.

4 Latino Humor in Comparative Perspective (available via Oxford Bibliographies) o Latinas and Latinos on TV: Colorblind Comedy in the Post-racial Network Era (by Isabel Molina-Guzmán), entre otros.

5 Véase, por ejemplo, Tió, Salvador. Amor, humor y literatura. Editorial EDP University, 2012.

6 Véase, por ejemplo, Hernández, Guillermo. Chicano Satire. U of Texas P, 1991.

un caleidoscópico de colores quizá discordantes. Definitivamente, no como una compilación exhaustiva, pero sí quizá como radiografía breve del radicalmente diverso horizonte de los géneros e instrumentos humorísticos empleados por un grupo de escritoras y escritores dedicades a cultivarlos. Se verá que abordan, desde muy distintos tonos y con muy diversos recursos, algunos de los males personales, sociales y políticos de nuestro tiempo. El humor aquí opera como forma de intervención en los debates actuales sobre nuestras vidas encarnadas e incorpóreas, sobre la ceguera y el engaño, la necesidad de entender y conectar, la sexualidad, el mundo laboral, la libertad de expresión o la misma literatura, entre otros temas. Y estas conversaciones globales entroncan con tradiciones locales, regionales y transnacionales específicas. El gesto de reunir estas escrituras del humor en 2025 en un mismo espacio puede no solo haber trazado un laberíntico mapa de estilos y estrategias, sino también subrayado cómo los recursos cómicos, en su multiplicidad, constituyen prácticas que desbordan fronteras lingüísticas, culturales, ideológicas, o geopolíticas.

Si se elige una línea de lectura lineal, se encuentran en primer lugar dos textos de Giannina Braschi, maestra contemporánea del pensamiento y la estética literaria, de propuestas provocadoras, revolucionarias e ingeniosas que nos llaman a la transformación política de nuestro tiempo. Las primeras páginas de su “Palidode”, primera parte de su última obra, Putinoika (2024), convocan a Antígona, Ismene, Edipo y otros personajes de la tragedia clásica griega para conversar con Giannina, alter ego de la autora. Su discusión gira en torno al tema del endeudamiento y las implicaciones financieras, políticas, culturales y espirituales del pensamiento capitalista. Gianinna, poeta y pensadora, reflexiona sobre la abundancia de la vida mientras los antiguos personajes clásicos se rebelan, en su nueva encarnación, contra el destino impuesto, proclamando su liberación de deudas y de crímenes familiares heredados. Este fragmento de Putinoika, así como el discurso de Braschi que incluimos, nos recuerda cómo incluso con las contradicciones aparentemente más irreconciliables y los más aberrantes legados podemos encontrar una vitalidad emancipadora en la potencia transformadora de la creación.

Pero no todo es humor esperanzado en este número. Observamos, sin que resulte sorprendente, que la mirada a veces se torna sombría e inquietante antes de prever cualquier punto de fuga o liberación posible. “Maquila” de Sylvia Aguilar Zéleny se nutre de un humor oscuro e irónico que expone los sinsentidos cotidianos de la vida en la fábrica mediante una narración directa, casi conversacional. El humor aparece con frecuencia en un registro seco, cuando la narradora relata las duras condiciones laborales y las estrictas reglas con un tono casual que hace resaltar aún más su severidad. Al mismo tiempo, el relato satiriza las estructuras de control y explotación de la maquila al poner en primer plano pequeños beneficios

supuestamente ‘generosos’—como las máquinas de refrescos o las canastas sorpresas en días festivos—junto a prácticas invasivas como las revisiones de casilleros y las pruebas de embarazo. Esta comedia mordaz inquieta tanto como entretiene, convirtiendo el humor en una forma de crítica social que subraya la precariedad y las contradicciones del trabajo en la maquila.

También cruzando de Estados Unidos a México, “Los acarreados” de Marcos Pico Rentería emplea el humor en un registro satírico e irónico, burlándose tanto del espectáculo político como de las absurdidades de los viajes contemporáneos. El narrador enmarca su regreso a la Ciudad de México en una exageración cómica y lo adereza con observaciones mordaces sobre movilizaciones masivas y rituales burocráticos. El humor del relato reside en su mezcla de parodia, juegos culturales de lenguaje y crítica social punzante en un retrato donde coexisten la sumisión política y las pasiones gastronómicas.

Encontramos también otros textos en los que las incongruencias de ciertos hábitos sociales aparecen obcecadamente instaladas en la realidad. Entre el absurdo, la alegoría surrealista y la fábula, emergen animales parlantes y pensantes que a veces conversan con humanos. El cerdo Robespierre de Ahmel Echevarría entra en sesudos intercambios con un narrador que intenta desentrañar paradojas incómodas sobre el deseo a través de las limitaciones del lenguaje y en un sórdido y represivo ambiente interior que deja entrever la Cuba del exterior. La otredad del chancho, personaje bien conocido de la literatura latinoamericana y caribeña, representa una potente figura que, rozando lo grotesco y a pesar de su torpeza y gruñidos, es inteligente hasta el punto de la manipulación. Otros animales personificados, más benévolos o joviales, son los protagonistas del cuarteto titulado “Poemas chiquitos para reír” de Geraldine de Santis. En clave de fábula, sus versos se columpian entre una poesía infantil divertida, musical y los saltos inquietos en la imaginación. Aquí los personajes humanos o animales alborotan con un humor que aspira a despejar la soledad, a hilar mundos imaginarios, a desenredar travesuras y jugar con la sonoridad de las palabras. En estos poemas las risas pueden ser en voz alta, provocadas por las ocurrencias particulares que no permiten bostezos de aburrimiento, sino carcajadas de diversión. En su conjunto, la animalia que hace aparición en este número nos invita a reparar en comportamientos que nos asemejan a las aves, a mamíferos o a seres reptantes como parientes cercanos. Ya sea a través de la fabulación musical, ya en una suerte de surrealismo onírico, estas criaturas subrayan, irónica o grotescamente, nuestro parentesco con ellas, así como cualidades humanas que van de lo sabio a lo bestial, de lo pícaro a lo absurdo o a la ignorancia posible en nuestra especie.

Precisamente nuestra ceguera ante ciertos fingimientos y simulaciones, sobre todo en el plano religioso, es protagonista en varios otros textos recogidos. El cuento “La mujer del pastor” de Haydée Zayas Ramos nos presenta una sátira donde las interpretaciones dislocadas de un pastor

protestante son la estrategia central para aprovecharse de la ingenuidad de los feligreses. La esposa del pastor critica las ocurrencias de su marido y le expresa su falta de astucia para actuar en beneficio propio que parezca en beneficio de la colectividad. No obstante, la mujer despoja al hombre de todos los bienes y reformula una nueva iglesia. Así, el relato, hilvanado con un humor constante y exagerado, critica las astucias del poder religioso donde la corrupción puede encontrar terreno fértil. Aunque no necesariamente como protagonistas, varias otras figuras religiosas exponen fenómenos relacionados con cerrazones, obsesiones, o el poder de las apariencias. Figuras entronizadas por las religiones oficiales como un rabino, un papa, o un monje budista, son incisivamente desarmados y desprovistos de su halo sacro en los microrrelatos de Isaac Goldemberg, en las entradas de blog de Josefina Báez, o la poética de Rolando Pérez, por ejemplo. En contraste con su realidad social y lo cotidiano, estas figuras llegan a resultar ridículas o al menos difícilmente venerables.

Y es que nuestro compendio también parece afirmar que quizá no hay nada como posar la la mirada sobre la vida cotidiana para encontrar una fuente inagotable de inspiración humorística. Nunca exenta de fondo político, la aparente “normalidad” de lo diario ofrece un sinfín de anécdotas y lugares comunes en los que el error, lo delirante, o lo incoherente son fácilmente detectables. La memoria y el humor se conjugan así en la crónica “Me parió mi abuela, la de la chancleta voladora” de Yolanda Arroyo Pizarro, una oda a la chancleta de su progenitora. Este texto salpicado de nostalgia celebra a la abuela como referente materno y replantea el concepto de parir desde la crianza y la construcción de la identidad a partir de ciertos superpoderes. La autora no romantiza los chancletazos, los clasifica como un símbolo de resistencia. Las estrategias correctivas de la matriarca son mapas de vida, herramientas para parirnos al mundo. Además, presenta la mirada astuta de la abuela que detecta y envía mensajes a la distancia como señal de que conoce a su nieta-hija como si la hubiese “parido”. Su presencia representa lucha, acción, valor.

Abundando en lo cotidiano, “La carrera” de Sylma González García es una breve narración juvenil donde el humor es una herramienta para manejar la falta de afición por los deportes por parte de dos estudiantes de escuela superior. Las dos amigas deben participar de una carrera como parte de su clase de Educación Física. Sin embargo, el atletismo no será la ruta para llegar a su meta. En el lenguaje puertorriqueño el ingenioso final del cuento provoca en el lector “una pavera”, pero destaca que el comienzo de una tarea no se abandona hasta su culminación. Las deficiencias y deseos implícitos en los hábitos diarios son también protagonistas en el cuento “Tierra y aire” de Awilda Caez, con un humor que tiende al absurdo. Esta parodia epistolar narra los diálogos entre un novio desesperado y una consejera en relaciones de pareja. La autora nos sumerge en las peripecias del enamorado, su desesperación por agradar a su novia y su falta comunicativa

con su pareja. La autora devela cómo la intolerancia de uno y la inflexibilidad de la otra frustran los procesos de la comunicación para establecer relaciones saludables y destacan un amplio espacio para las diferencias. En un giro hacia la poesía, y también instalada en una cotidianidad urbana de parejas fallidas y abuelas y madres poderosas, aparecen los poemas honestos y sin afección de Angelina Sáenz, que publicamos en español e inglés traducidos por la autora. Las voces y los cuerpos de sus mujeres están llenos de vida, historia y coraje, y ya en primera o en tercera persona, desafían patrones y prejuicios asociados a la inmigración, la experiencia indígena, la lengua, el género o la maternidad. Elidio La Torre Lagares por su parte, en un texto de ciencia ficción titulado “Informe Secreto remitido al Consejo Superior de Ganímides, por Q-Kito”, parodia la cotidianidad boricua. El banquete lingüístico que hila la historia está aderezado por un inventario de puertorriqueñismos que le brindan no solo humor a la narración, explora el sentido de identidad y comenta las luchas sociopolíticas que experimenta el puertorriqueño. El personaje extraterrestre presenta un informe a su superior galáctico acerca de las vivencias sociales, mientras no solo se asimila a los modismos coloquiales, sino que también degusta parte de la tradición gastronómica y enamora su paladar con la esencia de la festividad cultural. El humor funciona para señalar las peripecias de un país que se ríe de sí mismo por no llorar.

Cotidiano es también nuestro uso de la lengua, excepto cuando nos detenemos a reparar, como lo hacemos en la pieza de La Torre Lagares, en la profunda extrañeza y la arbitrariedad de nuestros códigos. En otros textos del número la lengua también aparece como punto centrífugo de intervención cómica e inextricablemente unida a su dimensión pública y literaria. Un uso lúdico de las palabras y sus sonidos en inglés, español o spanglish se despliega como atuendo que recubre ingeniosos contenidos en varios textos irónicos, finos, y orientados a desordenar lo que asumimos como lengua, como lenguaje literario, e incluso como cultura. Liberados tanto de las expectativas del monolingüismo como de las imposiciones literarias de los géneros, escritos como los de Josefina Báez, Guillermo Gómez-Peña, Urayoán Noel, o Susana Chávez-Silverman nos adentran en las estancias del translingüismo como vía poderosa para explorar el humor y realidades estéticas que desintegran nuestros apegos y expectativas como lectorxs monolingües. Báez enlaza el “bucle interminable” que dice ser su Levente no. Yolayorkdominicanyork con el blog que publica su protagonista, la Kay, dejando primar la voz de este personaje en su dominicanish para documentar lo cotidiano. En el inicio de este texto para performance la Kay se nos presenta soberana del espacio literario en un registro urbano, vulgar, con ritmo coloquial dominicanyork, con humor translingüe y pícaro. Las entradas de su blog que siguen le permiten continuar relatando, comentando cuestiones locales y globales del presente, siendo su edificio a la vez parte y alegoría del mundo. “Selected Poems” de Guillermo Gómez-Peña también despliega el

humor a través de la parodia y la exageración absurda, mezclando cultura pop, política y arte performático. Sus poemas recurren con frecuencia a la irreverencia y la sátira, combinando inglés, español y spanglish para desestabilizar la autoridad y burlarse de las ansiedades culturales. El humor es a la vez lúdico y mordaz, transformando las ansiedades de la pandemia, la política fronteriza y la tecnología en una comedia irónica y surrealista. Urayoán Noel, por su parte, nos traslada a través de un nuevo código poético y lúdico, a una oralidad en la que technology meets contemplación crítica de la diáspora y de la práctica poética en sí en un “lenguaje de sargazo.” El texto metaliterario se entrecruza a su vez con observaciones de fenómenos socioculturales propios de las energías arrolladoras del colonialismo, pero también con la resiliencia y la constante lucha por la supervivencia del pueblo boricua. Como un continuum de adaptibilidad y también con un lenguaje repleto de oralidad y destinado a la performance, encontramos “¡Vengo, María, dito!” de Carlos Manuel Rivera. En este caso no nos adentramos en un juego lingüístico entre el español y el inglés, sino en un baño de jerga dialectal muy puertorriqueña que a toda costa intenta hacer sentido de una distópica experiencia neoyorquina. Interestingly, y conociendo la práctica escénica de sus autores/as, estos escritos los proyectamos inevitablemente como textos performáticos, orales, con la posibilidad de ser leídos ante un público que puede conectar a través del humor en chicanx, espinglés, dominicanish, o spanglish.

Finalmente, y con definitiva vocación de diálogo vivo y público, se encuentran extractos de dos obras de teatro de veteranos dramaturgos chicanos. “Bad Hombres/Good Wives” de Herbert Sigüenza utiliza el humor a través de la parodia y la farsa, mezclando a Shakespeare, Molière y el melodrama de la telenovela. La obra se sostiene en personajes exagerados, humor físico (slapstick) y diálogos ingeniosos, burlándose del machismo, la narco-cultura y la masculinidad tóxica. Su humor es a la vez lúdico y satírico, utilizando la risa como herramienta para criticar el poder, los roles de género y los estereotipos culturales. Por otro lado, “On the Border: A Mysterious Stranger Arrives” de Carlos Morton recurre al humor como sátira política mordaz, parodiando tanto el drama clásico como la política contemporánea. La obra exagera figuras del mundo real hasta convertirlas en caricaturas absurdas cuyas acciones ridiculizan el autoritarismo y las luchas de poder globales. A través de la farsa, las canciones paródicas y diálogos desmesurados, el texto despliega la comedia para criticar las políticas fronterizas, la ambición imperial y el espectáculo mismo de la política. El número se cierra con una incisiva, arrojada y translingüe crónica de Susana Chávez-Silverman. En clave tanto personal como política, “Toy Story/The Gang ‘s All Here Crónica” fluye como un torrente de referencias trenzadas en un deslengüado y atrevido bilingüismo. El texto busca en los archivos familiares el humor que permita escribir sobre nuestro tiempo y concluye con una alabanza a las bondades del amor erótico y a

sus propiedades profundamente sanadoras para el momento presente. Y así, este special issue quizá puede entenderse como un archivo momentáneo, como una suerte de crónica colectiva que cuenta cómo se está pensando, escribiendo, y experimentando a través del prisma del humor y en clave latinx norteamericana y caribeña en nuestros días.

~ Coda

El conjunto de textos en esta antología despliega, pues, un abanico de registros humorísticos que van desde la ironía sobria y deadpan, hasta la sátira política más savage y la farsa teatral over the top. Aquí conviven cuentos que narran la vida cotidiana con mordacidad y exaggeration, poniendo el dedo en los absurdos del trabajo, la política y la intimidad, junto con textos que hacen del performance y del spanglish herramientas de parodia, destabilizing lo “serio” de la cultura oficial. At the same time, este volumen abre espacio para voces que experimentan con lo lúdico en clave infantil —juegos de palabras, carcajadas, imaginación sin fronteras— o que recuperan la memoria íntima y la cultura popular caribeña con un twist crítico, nostálgico e irreverente. También aparecen sátiras que denuncian las astucias del poder religioso, piezas epistolares absurdas sobre el amor y la comunicación, y relatos juveniles que transforman an attack of the giggles en resistencia creativa. Together, estos relatos, poemas y obras teatrales trazan un mapa vibrante de la literatura latina y caribeña contemporánea, donde el humor se convierte en survival strategy, en crítica social y en memoria colectiva, pero sobre todo, en un puente de complicidad y wink-wink con el/la lector/a.

Al mismo tiempo, nos resistimos a la seducción cómoda de declarar de una vez por todas lo que el humor ‘hace’. ¿Es resistencia, una carcajada fuerte ante el rey desnudo? ¿Es un espejo de feria, revelando cómo la sociedad ya luce absurda antes incluso de empezar a reírnos? ¿Es praxis decolonial desarmando lógicas coloniales con un chiste, un juego de palabras o un eyeroll perfectamente cronometrado? ¿Es una táctica de supervivencia, una manera de respirar cuando la historia intenta asfixiarnos o controlarnos? Sí. Y también—maybe, tal vez, a veces, no solo, o quizá para nada. El humor, al fin y al cabo, se niega a sentarse educadito en la sala de espera de la teoría. Es rezongón. Interpela. Dice “sí, pero, y además”. Se multiplica, se contradice, interrumpe. Se alimenta del exceso. Bakhtin nos dice que la risa es centrífuga; Anzaldúa nos recuerda que florece en el nepantla, el in-between; de Certeau la llamaría táctica, un movimiento pequeño pero astuto. Nosotros quizá la llamemos escurridiza—cada vez que creemos atrapar el chiste, el chiste ya se ha movido, como el punctum de Barthes. Un chiste puede traspasarnos, pero no siempre en el punchline. Me gusta lo del ascensor, por ejemplo.

Así que, en lugar de ofrecer la última palabra, este número ofrece un caleidoscopio: lo giras una vez y ves parodia; lo giras de nuevo y ves ironía;

lo giras otra vez y escuchas un murmullo subterráneo que solo emerge más tarde, quizá mientras cocinas la cena. Lo que mantiene unido al número no es la uniformidad, sino el assemblage: un reconocimiento compartido de que el humor importa, que descoloca, replantea, resuena—y que, con suerte, nos hace soltar una carcajada en el proceso. Como los mejores chistes, su efecto es acumulativo, disruptivo y un poquito indisciplinado. ¿El punchline? Todavía lo estamos esperando. O quizá ya se nos pasó.

Inmaculada Lara Bonilla es ensayista, poeta y catedrática de Estudios Latinoamericanos, Caribeños y Latinx/e en Hostos College, CUNY, donde también dirige el Instituto de Escritores Latinoamericanos y ejerce como editora en jefe de su revista literaria multilingüe, Hostos Review / Revista Hostosiana. Su investigación sobre literatura y estudios culturales latinoamericanos y latinx se ha publicado internacionalmente, centrándose en la teoría feminista y las contribuciones de autoras literarias al pensamiento filosófico transnacional. Como poeta, es autora de la colección decir bóveda (2022), traducida al inglés y al árabe, y del libro inédito Aullido/Howl. Su poesía bilingüe también se ha publicado en antologías y revistas internacionales, como Stone Canoe, Literal Magazine, Enclave, Home Planet News, Zenda Libros o Journal of the Southwest. Lara Bonilla es reconocida por sus contribuciones multifacéticas a la investigación, la poesía, la edición y el liderazgo cultural.

Edgardo Machuca Torres es profesor a nivel universitario. Obtuvo su grado de Maestría y Doctorado en Literatura puertorriqueña y del Caribe, del Centro de Estudios Avanzados de Puerto Rico y el Caribe. En 2005 ganó el segundo lugar de Cuentos del Certamen literario de NUC University, por su cuento “La huella del pie culpable”. Algunos de sus poemas forman parte de la antología La magia de la palabra escrita (2007) publicada por el Centro de Estudios Avanzados de Puerto Rico y el Caribe. En el año 2009 publicó el libro Cuando un hombre merece la vida: la obra de Aníbal Nieves y EDP College. Ha publicado diversos trabajos de investigación literaria en la revista Academia, Exégesis e Identidad. Algunas de sus investigaciones se han presentado en foros, simposios y congresos nacionales. Desde el año 2012 es fundador y director de la Editorial EDP University y editor de la revista Academia. Ha participado como jurado en el certamen de novela del Pen Puerto Rico Internacional y certamen de cuento del Municipio de Carolina. Actualmente es Catedrático Asociado en EDP University.

Santiago Vaquera-Vásquez es impenitente cruzador de fronteras, narrador Xicano, académico y ex dj. Profesor Catedrático en la Universidad de Nuevo México, imparte cursos sobre cultura fronteriza, chicana y talleres de escritura creativa. Ha impartido cursos y conferencias en universidades a través de los Estados Unidos, América Latina y Europa. Ha sido también becario Fulbright en España, Turquía y Polonia. Ha publicado cuentos en antologías y revistas literarias en España, Italia, México y Estados Unidos. Sus libros incluyen Algún día te cuento las cosas que he visto (2012), Luego el silencio (2014), One Day I’ll Tell You the Things I’ve Seen (2015), y En el Lost y Found (2016). Sus publicaciones más recientes son un chapbook de fotos y cuentos de sus viajes por Turquía, Yabancı [Foreigner] Extranjero (2019) y la novela Nocturno de frontera (2020). Comentando su narrativa, Junot Díaz ha dicho: “Santiago Vaquera es un relámpago literario” que “impresiona e ilumina hasta dejar al lector sobrecogido.”

“PALINODE”1

Giannina Braschi

Excerpt of “Palinode” from the epic tragicomedy PUTINOIKA (2024)

Oedipus: I killed my father.

Agamemnon: I killed my daughter.

Orestes: I killed my mother.

Clytemnestra: I killed my husband.

Jocasta: I hung myself.

Oedipus: I blinded myself.

LANDSCAPES OF HUMOR/ PARAJES

DEL HUMOR

Cassandra: I recoiled. And when I recoiled Apollo Phoebus said— you will see, but nobody will believe you. But do I need to be believed in order to see? I recoiled. I stopped the coitus. So did Teiresias. He stopped the coitus between two serpents with his staff—and for that he was transformed into a woman for seven years. And then after seven years he saw the same serpents coupling—and he struck with his staff again—and he was transformed back into a man. Although nobody believed Teiresias either after he was blinded by Hera and given the gift of seeing by Zeus. Nobody believed that he was right. Not Creon. Not Oedipus. It’s better not to believe what you’re seeing. But Teiresias never saw his own destiny—nor Manto nor Calchas—none of those seers—with my exception because I am exceptional. I saw my own death—and nobody would believe it—because I spoke in tongues and I was a slave—and a refugee—and a princess—and a gift of war—and I died the moment I recoiled—the

1 [Editor’s Note] We present here the opening pages of Giannina Braschi’s Putinoika (2024), from the first part of the work titled, “Palinode.” We reprint this excerpt with permission from the author and the publisher, Flowersong Press. Its placement as the first text in this issue of Hostos Review / Revista Hostosiana recognizes Braschi’s dexterity in combining political and philosophical humor to discuss the ills of our time, as well as the potential of writing—and rewriting—as a harbinger of social transformation.

moment I saw my death—and nobody would believe that I saw what I saw.

Antigone: So now what are they saying?

Ismene: They say we are lazy.

Antigone: Who calls us lazy?

Ismene: The Germans.

Giannina: And they say I am lazy too.

Antigone: Who calls you lazy?

Giannina: The Americans. They say I don’t like to work. And that’s why I am on welfare, always depending on their radiation, on their generosity of spirit that is so huge especially when it comes to tax deductions. If I were bor n in Cuba, I would have no debt. They liberated themselves from the system of demolition and debt. They don’t owe anyone anything, not even the Russians who protected them during the Bay of Pigs. If the Russians would have invaded Puerto Rico, the Americans would have charged us for every radiation of a missile that they would have pointed at the Kremlin. Now they don’t need us for that. They come here to play golf and avoid taxes. And when they go bankrupt, they leave us with the debt. The debt of ingratitude for all the golf courses, hotels, and shopping malls they’ve built for themselves.

Antigone: The Germans owe me. I don’t owe them. They owe me Aeschylus, Sophocles, Euripides. They owe me Aristophanes, Socrates, Aristotle. They took so much culture from us, and we never charged them interest for the inspiration—the divine madness they took from us. I mean, all those Romantics. Ask Goethe. Ask Hölderlin. Ask Schiller. And what about their philosophers. They lear ned how to think with us. Where were their souls nourished—in whose tradition. Ask Nietzsche. Ask Schopenhauer. Ask Heidegger. They took everything from us. And from our temples, they stole our art. Did we ever charge them interest? No, because we bury our dead—and with them our debts. We nourish talents.

We don’t bury alive what is dead. Even our god, our highest god, Zeus, was so fertile that he gave birth twice. From his head to Athena, and from his thigh to Dionysus. Aren’t we generous? Watch out. Don’t even try to victimize a Greek. We don’t become victims. We become heroines. You bury me alive—and look what I do—I create a tragedy for you. I give you hell.

Ismene: There’s a problem here.

Antigone: What’s the problem here?

Ismene: We don’t share the same gods.

Antigone: I adore Apollo Phoebus, the sun. They worship money.

Giannina: And they say the sun is lazy, and it gives sunspots. And they use sunscreen. And you know why they charge us interest? Because we know how to enjoy. And because we know how to cherish, they put a price tag on our cherishment, on our enjoyment, on our gratitude. They can’t stand to see us happy—if we are happy—it is because we are lazy.

Ismene: But the creditors are knocking on every door. They knock and knock and knock.

Antigone: Open the doors. If you don’t have money, give them flowers. If you don’t have flowers, give them apples, oranges, quenepas.

Giannina: Give them nothing. I owe them nothing. I will pay no debt. It’s not a debt. It’s the cost of running a colony.

Ismene: They say everything has a price tag.

Antigone: Life is precious.

Ismene: Precious is a jewel. That’s why it has a price tag. Nothing is free.

Giannina: Fruit falls in abundance from the tree—in abundance giving—and not taking what it is giving. If you take what you give, it should be the way the sea takes what it gives

from the entrance, the shore, the sand, the movement of the waves—and brings it back to the depths. And in the depths of soul, it creates an orchestra of noises—and then—when it is ready to bring back what it takes, it brings it back con creces—in abundance—not to take back but to give in return what it takes—a substance of quality—a worthy thing—a living creature that sings a tragedy—a new beginning—a love for life.

Antigone: No way, Ismene. The debt is the dead. Let the debt be buried with the dead. My affirmation of life is my claim to liberty—the liberty to be liberated from the burden of my name. Antigone—gone by—and forlorn—the agony I suffered in the past will not be mine, this time. To be read over and over again—the law of the lawless disobedience at all costs. Let me figure my life again with a name that will not claim hereditary inheritance but lawless disobedience of the past. I will not seek the honor of vengeance. Nor will I give my life for a burial. Let past mistakes be bygone by the lords. As time is an impenetrable wall, a face is a mural that you fill with graffiti—putting lipstick on your lips and on your purple cheeks a gloss of blush on. Blush! Gods! There’s no rush except the rush of escaping a deadline the line of death for my brother’s funeral. I would be glad to bury him if I didn’t have to die in order for him to be buried. Two minus = 0. Not the void of a cave worse than an animal in a cage—without bars—without light—with panthers and bears threatening my heroic act. Why is sacrifice a sublime act. For the obsolete to take away the fun—the obstacle—the debt—the g randiloquent—the obsequious—the punctilious—the fastidious—the hypertrophic—the hysterical and claustrophobic—the intolerable ones who threaten retribution—the retributionists who don’t even ask per mission for the tributes they tax on us—a price tag on my forehead for all the daydreams my life has brought as an ancient heroine in modern times.

Oedipus: I will not marry my mother.

Antigone: I will not take care of you when you grow old. For what? For my brother to die so that I could bury him. And for that act of rebellious lawlessness, I was buried alive

for having buried what is dead. No debt, this time. Not paying what is not mine. The owner of the house is Creon. Let him pay the debt of ownership. If you own, you owe—you possess—you dispossess—you repossess you charge—you tax—you keep yourself to yourself— you don’t communicate with the rest—the rest are rests— they can rest in peace. Charge the owner for what he owns. Let him pay the debt of owing and owning what was not his in the first place and then charging us for the rest of our lives for what we don’t own. No, not this time. I will not bury the dead, nor will I pay the debt.

Creon: The whole country will be buried alive if it doesn’t pay its debt. I have ears of gold and hear what the whole vineyard is saying. And I have Argus with a million cameras surveilling. People are using credit cards to pay inalienable debts—debts that are unconstitutional rights—and that affirm and reaffirm human dignity—the dignity of paying taxes—the dignity of paying bills, rent, tips.

Antigone: I will pay no more bills.

Ismene: It was cold. I needed a sweater. I was feeling blue. It was the right color. Red. And then I bought ten more sweaters. And now I have an identity. I feel good about myself. Sweaters make me happy. They snuggle away my tragedy of being the daughter of Oedipus and the sister of Antigone. It’s not easy.

Antigone: You look smashing.

Ismene: My goal is happiness. I won’t pay for anything I don’t own. And I don’t own my happiness. It’s fickle and changes like the climate changes—and then I have to buy mittens, slickers, galoshes, and orchids to make me happy.

Creon: Let me talk for the sake of Zeus. I’ll have to put a stop payment on your mouths. You stole Haemon’s credit card, and you stole Euridice’s, and mine too. My credit card is maxed. Haemon’s credit card is maxed. Euridice’s credit card is maxed. Who is responsible for the charges? They are not my bills. We’ll have to restructure your debts.

Antigone: What a downgrade to be the daughter of Oedipus—such a great king—and now to have you as my father-in-law. You might be the father of these laws. But my father was my father, and besides, he was my brother—and we had the four seasons in one moment. If horizontally he was my brother, vertically he was my father—and that makes the generations collapse, having winter in summer, and youth in old age…

Giannina Braschi

DISCURSO DE ACEPTACIÓN: MEDALLA DE FRAY LUIS DE LEÓN DE POESÍA IBEROAMERIANA2

Es un honor para mí recibir la Medalla de Fray Luis de León de Poesía Iberoamericana, otorgada por el Encuentro de Poetas Iberoamericanos y patrocinada por el Ayuntamiento de Salamanca, aquí en Barnard College, en Nueva York, donde he escrito todos mis libros, que son una reflexión sobre la situación de los millones de emigrantes a los Estados Unidos. En estos momentos no puedo menos que pensar en los miles de latinos encarcelados en los E.E.U.U. sin haber cometido ningún delito, sino el delito de haber nacido latino. Siempre amé la frase de Rubén Darío: “Si Segismundo siente pesar, Hamlet se inquieta”. Y escribí Estados Unidos de Banana como una reflexión acerca de la relación de Hamlet y Segismundo—de la América anglosajona y la América latina. Pero en estos momentos críticos, con lágrimas en los ojos, me dirijo a ustedes, y digo, que Hamlet ni se entera, ni le importa el pesar de todos los Segismundos detenidos injustamente por la inquisición estadounidense. “Venceréis, pero no convenceréis”, dijo Unamuno, en Salamanca. Más bien, habría que decir, aquí y ahora, ni venceréis ni convenceréis. Y no creo, como he escuchado a algunos decir cuando hablan de este momento en que estamos viviendo, que en todo el mundo la situación está igual. No, no todo el mundo está igual. Es una forma derrotista de aceptar y de dejar pasar la aberración racial que está ocurriendo aquí y ahora. No, señores, no todo el mundo está igual. Y en estos momentos en que Hamlet actúa como si estuviera sordo a nuestro pesar, pienso en la figura del poeta durante la inquisición española. A Fray Luis lo conocí cuando estudié en Madrid en la Complutense a través de un programa en Miguel Ángel 8. Siempre me fascinó su mito y su persona. El que fuera un asceta, no un místico, y se debatiera entre la vita contemplativa y la vita activa. Y escribiera en su “Vida Retirada”:

¡Qué descansada vida la del que huye el mundanal r uido, y sigue la escondida senda por donde han ido los pocos sabios que en el mundo han sido!

El que hubiera sido perseguido por la inquisición española. El que estuviera encerrado en una celda en Valladolid y escribiera en las paredes de su celda:

2 This acceptance speech was delivered by Giannina Braschi upon receiving the Fray Luis de León Medal of Iberoamerican Poetry, awarded by the City of Salamanca in Spain and bestowed during a ceremony at Barnard College in March of 2024. The full speech is published in this issue of Hostos Review / Revista Hostosiana in Spanish, as it was delivered, by express wish of the author.

© Rosaura Rodríguez and Omar Banuchi

Aquí la envidia y mentira

Me tuvieron encer rado.

Cuando salió de la cárcel, después de cuatro años, Fray Luis, reintegrado a su catedra en Salamanca, comenzó su clase con estas palabras:

Como decíamos ayer.

Ojalá pudiéramos decir lo mismo cuando salgamos de esta inquisición estadounidense. Borrar estos momentos como una aberración racial y continuar sembrando nuestro sueño americano de unidad y camaradería entre los dos hemisferios americanos. El movimiento de los emigrantes latinos, y el movimiento de la emigración en general, de pasar de una tierra a otra, de moverse de un lado a otro, no será detenido por esta aberración racial. Tenemos que luchar por los ideales kantianos de la paz perpetua y el derecho cosmopolita a la hospitalidad universal, empezando aquí en nuestras Américas, desde el tippy top of the Yukon to the tippy toes of la Tierra del Fuego. Y para que esto ocurra, como he dicho en Estados Unidos de Banana, primero tienen que ocurrir 3 cosas. Respetar la declaración de la independencia de la isla de Puerto Rico, número 1. Abrir las puertas de la República a los filósofos, poetas, y amantes, número 2. Número 3, eliminar la leyenda negra.

© Rosaura Rodríguez and Omar Banuchi

The iconic Puerto Rican author Giannina Braschi writes cross-genre literature and political philosophy in Spanish, Spanglish, and English. Known for structural and linguistic innovation—and for her audacious sense of humor—Braschi wrote the epic poem Empire of Dreams, the first Spanglish novel Yo-Yo Boing!, and the geopolitical tragicomedy United States of Banana, on the collapse of the American empire and the liberation of Puerto Rico. Her new epic work PUTINOIKA tackles with hilarity and heart the Covid-19 pandemic and the cruel inanities of the Trump and Putin era of pollution, collusion, and delusion. Carmen Boullosa called PUTINOIKA “the best thing Trump ever gave us!” PEN America calls Braschi one of the most revolutionary voices in Latin American Literature. The Library of Congress calls her work cutting-edge, influential, and revolutionary. Her radical texts have been adapted to theater, chamber music, graphic novel, painting, sculpture, industrial design, and urban planning theory. A National Endowment for the Arts Fellow, Braschi received the Angela Y. Davis Award from the American Studies Association, the oldest and largest scholarly organization dedicated to the interdisciplinary study of U.S. cultures and histories. She also won the Cambio16 Award in Madrid, the National Prize from North American Academy of the Spanish Language (ANLE), and Medalla Fray Luis de León de Poesía Iberoamericana from the City of Salamanca, Spain, during the 2024 Encuentro de Poetas Iberoamericanos at Barnard College in New York.

Sylvia Aguilar Zéleny

MAQUILA

¿Los uniformes? Mire, son dos, uno nos lo da la empresa, el otro lo compramos cada una. Porque sí, porque es mejor tener dos; uno se deja lavando mientras se usa el otro, y así. No, no se puede venir a trabajar sin uniforme. ¿Viernes casual? No sea simple, acá no hay eso.

Mi casillero es el 317, todas tenemos uno. Aquí podemos guardar bolsa, chamarra, lo que sea, menos comida. Una vez alguien guardó su lonche en el casillero y se le olvidó todo el fin de semana. Viera, la peste del lunes. Nadie se animó ni a declararse culpable ni a señalar quién fue. Así es aquí. Nomás de pronto todo olía a cloro con fabuloso y ya.

No pues desde entonces se hacen revisiones de casilleros dos veces por mes, nunca se sabe qué día exactamente. “Ni yo sé cuándo me toca revisar, me avisan de un minuto a otro”, nos dice siempre Bety, la Jefa de Piso. Es esa, la que está parada ahí, la del pelo rojo. ¿La va a entrevistar también a ella? Uy, a ver si le saca algo, es más callada y dura que piedra de cementerio.

Hay que llevarse bien con las compañeras, que son eso, compañeras y ya. “Aquí no se viene a hacer amigas, se viene a trabajar”, les dice Bety siempre a las nuevas que llegan todas platicadoras y sonrientes. Y es que, si se hacen amigas, también se hacen confidencias, y las confidencias siempre llevan a los chismes, y los chismes a peleas. Y aquí no se valen las peleas. Si te peleas, te corren.

¿Cómo empecé? Ahí donde me ve, yo soy segunda generación de mujer en la maquila. Figúrese, mi mamá se vino al norte precisamente por la maquila. Alguien en su pueblo le dijo que aquí sí que había trabajo y, bueno, se vino con el sueño de todos, ya sabe, de cruzar al otro lado, de vivir al otro lado, de trabajar al otro lado, de hacer vida en el otro lado. Pero para eso se necesita dinero, ya sabe, encontró trabajo en la maquila y se fue quedando, se fue quedando y pues.

¿Le seguimos?

Ahí, más allá de esa puerta, está la zona de autohigiene. Todas tenemos que lavarnos muy bien las manos hasta los codos, también la cara. Antes y después de entrar a la línea. Es en lo único en lo que nos dejan tomarnos nuestro tiempo, debemos tallarnos bien con esos cepillos, primero por un lado y luego por el otro. Limpias, bien limpias. Todas esas recomendaciones de la pandemia, ¿se acuerda?, nosotras ya las practicábamos desde antes.

No podemos tener ni una gotita de maquillaje y las uñas hay que

traerlas siempre bien cortas, Bety nos checa las uñas diario. Debemos traerlas siempre muy cortas y sin pintar, oí por ahí que solo a las de recepción les dan permiso de maquillarse y traer las uñas bien arregladas. Y obvio, no podemos traer nada de aretes, anillos, ni accesorios, nada de nada. “A la maquila se viene a trabajar, no a modelar”, te dicen el primer día. Yo venía muy arregladita, ya ve que dicen que todo es primera impresión.

Todas llevamos gafete. El gafete va siempre en el lado izquierdo, el gafete es también una llave, lo pones frente a la cajita, oyes un pip, y con eso entras o sales de la línea de trabajo. Así que sin gafete no se abre la puerta, y si no se abre la puerta, pues cómo va una a trabajar. Aquí en la maquila dan chance de olvidarte del gafete unas dos veces, te dan uno de pormientritas, pero a la tercera nos descuentan un día de sueldo y a la cuarta: bay reina.

Ahí están las máquinas de sodas, los lunes nos dan a todas cinco monedas de cinco pesos para la soda de la semana. Sí, casi todas tomamos más soda que agua. Necesitamos cafeína para rendir en la línea, pero con el cuento de que no nos dejan tener café…

No, no sé por qué no nos dejan tener café.

Dicen por ahí que una vez se hizo un plantón, por eso, por el café. No lo autorizaron, pero pusieron la máquina de cocas. Las sodas son un privilegio en la maquila. Ellos no tendrían que darnos dinero ni nada, no es su obligación, y sin embargo lo hacen. Somos afortunadas, después de todo. Igual con las canastas navideñas. A todas nos dan una entrando el 10 de diciembre. Son bien generosos los dueños.

Es más, a mí la navidad pasada me tocaron dos, una para mí y otra para mi mamá, que aunque desde el accidente ya no trabaja aquí, la tienen bien consentida. Mi mamá era bien querida por todos; empezó a trabajar bien joven y duró casi veinticinco años. En la casa somos cuatro, yo soy la mayor, y me tocaba cuidar a mis hermanos cuando a mi mamá le daban horario en la noche; ya sabe, la cena, bañarlos, meterlos a la cama. Mi papá, pues…, en sus cosas. Y ya desde chiquita yo quería trabajar en lo mismo que mi mamá. Me ponía su uniforme y jugaba. Hice hasta el segundo de prepa, mi mamá me decía “qué te cuesta, acábala y ya”. Pero acá no la necesitas. La palabra maquila significa ‘porción de lo molido, que corresponde al molinero’, pero aquí el molinero no somos nosotras sino los dueños. Si nos cachan agarrando material de la empresa, de patitas en la calle. Eso le pasó a una de la línea 9, la Domínguez. También a la Méndez que estaba en la 7. Las cacharon llevándose unas piezas y las corrieron, sin derecho a nada. Ah, pues sí, a lo mejor por eso revisan casilleros, ni se me había ocurrido.

Sí, es mucha presión, la verdad, pero tenemos nuestros breaks. Todas tenemos derecho a dos descansos de 10 minutos y uno de 30 para comer. A mí me toca el segundo turno para comer, que es a las dos de la tarde. Los descansos no se pueden juntar con la comida. Los descansos son una responsabilidad, todas tenemos que tomarlos, porque si no, pos no damos el ancho en la línea, y entonces pasan los accidentes. Pero a veces, aún

sin accidentes pasan cosas, errores en la manufactura, y si es tu culpa te descuentan uno, dos, hasta tres días de trabajo.

En los descansos, unas se salen el patio a fumarse el cigarrito, otras aprovechan para hablar por teléfono, hay quienes hasta se echan un coyotito en el piso recargadas en los casilleros; como la Valdés, esa prefiere comer en tres minutos y dormir el resto del tiempo.

Cada una se trae su comida, pero si no traemos o nos quedamos con hambre, siempre está doña Ricarda. Ella trae lonche para vender. Gorditas, tortas. Es a la sorda, nadie sabe. O sea, todas sabemos, los jefes no. Yo digo que alguien un día va a ir con el mitote, pero pos yo digo total y qué, lo que vende doña Ricarda no le afecta a nadie, y no es como que vaya a hacerse rica por vender gorditas de a diez pesos. Yo le pregunté qué hace con ese dinerito extra, y me dijo que es para su nieta que trabaja en la línea 6, ella trabaja aquí y está ahorrando para irse al otro lado con su mamá. Uy, a lo mejor todo esto no se lo debí haber contado, ¿lo puede borrar?

El sueldo está bien. Tampoco es mucho, pero es seguro, hay prestaciones, beneficios, bonos de desempeño. Siempre está la posibilidad de hacer horas-extra; claro que esas sólo nos corresponden a las que tenemos más productividad en la maquila. A mí desde el principio me dejaron tener horas extras, le digo, por lo del accidente de mi mamá.

Tenemos un día de descanso, nunca es el mismo. El día que te toca, te toca, y no lo podemos cambiar con nadie, si nos cachan haciendo arreglos con otra trabajadora... la que se arma. Eso sí que está mal, o sea, no puede una planear nada, vivimos al día, y pues la mayoría, ya vio usted, son divorciadas, madres solteras, o solteras nomás. La gran mayoría no son de aquí, vienen de todos los rincones del país porque, digan lo que digan, aquí hay trabajo y todas a fin de cuentas tenemos la necesidad. Yo mi sueldo se lo doy casi completito a mi mamá, cuando me dan bonos se los doy a mi papá, que vive solo y casi no le cae trabajo en el taller. Yo me quedo con lo suficiente para mis cosas, el camión, compritas de la farmacia…, igual, ¿qué tantos gastos puede tener una?

Las compañeras dicen que deberíamos organizar una cundina, pero no sé, esas cosas siempre acaban mal. Siempre una sale enojada o perdiendo, se hacen líos, los líos llevan a peleas y ya sabe usted lo que pasa si nos peleamos aquí.

De las maquilas siempre hay rumores, que si las van a cerrar, que si infringen esta ley o la otra, que si los gringos esto, o lo otro, pero aquí seguimos. Esto no se acaba hasta que se acaba, como dicen.

Sí, hay buen ambiente. De hecho, una que otra vez los subgerentes invitan la copa. Depende de cada chica aceptar o no. Pero claro, no por irnos a tomar la copa con uno o varios de ellos nos va a ir mejor aquí. Si acaso tomaste algo y cenaste de a gratis.

Dicen, pero eso yo no lo sé bien, que hay chicas que luego de irse de copas con los jefes ya no vuelven, o vuelven lánguidas, tristes, como muy

otras. Se quedan unos días, cuando mucho unas semanas y luego renuncian. No volvemos a saber de ellas. Ay, eso bórrelo también.

Así como hay chequeos sorpresa de los casilleros también hay chequeos sorpresa de la sangre y la orina. Sí, a las que todavía están en edad les hacen pruebas de embarazo cada tanto tiempo. Si una sale embarazada, adiós. Así que todas nos andamos con cuidado. Todas, con el tiempo, aprendemos cómo funcionan las cosas aquí en la maquila. Y pues ya. No tengo que decirle mi nombre, ¿o sí?

Sylvia Aguilar Zéleny recibió su MFA en Escritura Creativa de la Universidad de Texas, El Paso. Es autora de The Everything I Have Lost (Cinco Puntos Press, 2020), Trash (Deep Vellum, 2022), y El libro de Aisha (Penguin Random House, 2022). Estas dos últimas novelas han sido traducidas al francés, italiano y portugués. En 2015 su novela Todo Eso Es Yo recibió el Premio Nacional de Literatura de Tamaulipas, Mexico.

Sylvia Aguilar Zéleny

MAQUILA

Translation from Spanish by D.

P. Snyder

The uniforms? So, there are two. One is provided by the company, and each of us buys the other one ourselves. ‘Cause, well, it’s better to have two, you can wash one while you’re wearing the other, and so on. No, you can’t come to work without a uniform. Casual Fridays? Are you serious? There’s no such thing here.

My locker is 317. We all have one. We can keep our bags, jackets, or whatever we want there, except for food. Once, someone left their lunch in a locker and forgot about it all weekend. You can’t imagine the stench on Monday. Nobody dared to admit it was their fault or to point the finger at anyone else. That’s how it is here. Suddenly, everything smelled like Clorox and Fabuloso, and that was that.

No, well, since then, lockers are checked twice a month, but you never know exactly when it’s gonna be. Betty, the Floor Manager, always tells us, “I don’t even know when I’ll have to do the inspection. They tell me at the last minute.” That’s her, the one standing over there, the one with the red hair. Are you gonna interview her, too? Ugh, let’s see if you can pull anything out of her. She’s more tight-lipped and tough than a gravestone.

You gotta get along with your coworkers, who are only that, coworkers, and nothing else. “You don’t come here to make friends, you come to work.” That’s what Bety always says to the new girls who arrive all chatty and smiley. The thing is, if they become friends, then they confide in each other, and confidences always lead to gossip, and gossip leads to fights. And fighting is not tolerated here. If you fight, you’re out.

How did I get started? Believe it or not, I’m the second generation of maquila women in my family. Go figure, my mom came north specifically for the maquilas. Someone in her pueblo told her that there was work here, and, well, she came with the same dream everyone has, you know, to cross to the other side, to live on the other side, to work on the other side, to build a life on the other side. But, as you know, you need money for that, and she found work in the maquila and ended up staying on, and staying on, and well, here we are.

Wanna keep going?

Behind that door over there is the personal hygiene area. All of us have to wash our hands really well, up to our elbows, and our faces too, before and after getting onto the line. It’s the only thing they let us take our

time with. We have to scrub ourselves thoroughly with those brushes, first on one side and then on the other. Clean, super clean. Remember all those pandemic guidelines? We’ve been following them long before that.

We can’t wear even a speck of makeup, and we always have to keep our fingernails really short. Bety checks our nails every day. We always have to wear them super short and without polish. I heard that only the receptionists are allowed to wear makeup and have their nails done. And, obviously, we can’t wear any earrings, rings, or other accessories, either. Not a single thing. On your first day, they tell you, “You come to the maquila to work, not to model.” I was all decked out that day, because like they say, first impressions are everything.

We all wear an ID badge. The ID badge always goes on the left side, and the ID badge is also a key: You put it in front of the little box, you hear a beep, and with that, you can enter or leave the production line. So, with no I.D. badge, the door doesn’t open, and if the door doesn’t open, well, how are gonna to go to work? Here at the maquila, they forgive you twice for losing your ID badge and give you a temporary one. But the third time, they deduct a day’s pay. And the fourth time? Ciao bella.

The soda machines are over there. On Mondays, we’re all given five five-peso coins for soda for the whole week. Yeah, almost all of us drink more soda than water. We need caffeine to be productive on the line, but with the whole story about them not letting us have coffee...

No, I don’t know why they won’t let us have coffee.

Around here, they say that there was a protest once because of that, because of the coffee. They still didn’t allow it, but they installed the soda machine. Sodas are a benefit in the maquila. They don’t have to give us the money or anything; it’s not something they’re obliged to do, but they do it anyway. We’re lucky, after all. The same goes for the Christmas baskets. We all get one when December 10 rolls around. The owners are really very generous.

In fact, last Christmas, I got two, one for me and one for my mom, who, even though she hasn’t worked here since the accident, is still treated really well. Everyone really loved my mom. She started working here when she was very young and kept at it for almost twenty-five years. There are four of us at home: I’m the oldest, and it was my job to take care of my brothers and sisters when my mom got the night shift. You know, dinner, give them their baths, tuck them into bed. My dad was, well...he was doing his own thing. Ever since I was little, I wanted to have the same job as my mom. I’d put on her uniform and play maquila. I made it to the second year of high school, and my mom kept saying, “What’s the big deal? Just finish your education, why don’t you?” But you don’t need it here.

The word maquila means “the miller’s share of the ground grain,” but here the miller isn’t us, it’s the owners. If they catch us taking stuff from the company, we get the boot. That happened to one of the women on line

9, Domínguez. It also happened to Méndez, who was on line 7. They caught them taking some items and kicked them out, no questions asked. Oh, I see. Maybe that’s why they inspect our lockers. I’d never thought of that before.

Yeah, it’s pretty stressful, it really is, but we have our descansos. We all have the right to take two ten-minute breaks, and one thirty-minute one to eat. I’m on the second lunch shift, which is at two in the afternoon. Breaks cannot be combined with meals. Taking breaks is part of the job. We all have to do it because if we don’t, we don’t perform well on the line, and then accidents happen. But sometimes, even without accidents, things happen, manufacturing mistakes, and if it’s your fault, they penalize you one, two, or even three days’ work.

During breaks, some go out to the courtyard to smoke a cigarette, others take the opportunity to make a phone call, and some even take a catnap on the floor, leaning up against the lockers. Like Valdés. She likes to eat in three minutes and sleep the rest of the time.

Everyone brings their own food, but if we don’t bring anything or we’re still hungry, there’s always doña Ricarda. She brings lunches to sell. Gorditas, tortas. It’s on the down-low; nobody knows about it. I mean, we all know, but the bosses don’t. I always say that someone is going to make a big deal over it someday, but I also say: Who cares? What doña Ricarda sells doesn’t hurt anyone, and it’s not like she’s gonna get rich selling gorditas for ten pesos. I asked her once what she does with the extra money, and she said it’s for her granddaughter, who works on production line 6. She works here, and now she’s saving up to cross to the other side with her mom. Oops, I probably shouldn’t have told you all this. Can you take it out?

The salary’s okay. It’s not much, either, but it’s regular, and there are benefits, perks, and performance bonuses. There’s always the option of working overtime, but of course, that’s only for those of us who are the most productive in the maquila. They let me work overtime from the start, you know, ‘cause of my mom’s accident.

We have one day off, but it’s never the same one. You get the day you’re given, and we can’t switch with anybody. If they catch us making arrangements with another worker... there’s trouble. That’s really not right. I mean, you can’t plan anything. We live day to day, and most of us, as you’ve seen, are divorced, single mothers, or just single. Most of the workers aren’t from around here. They come from all over the country because, whatever people wanna say about it, there’s work to be had here and, at the end of the day, we all need it. I give almost all of my salary to my mom, and when I get bonuses, I give them to my dad, who lives alone and hardly ever gets any work at the workshop anymore. I keep enough to pay for my things, the bus, small purchases at the pharmacy... After all, how many expenses can you have?

My coworkers say we should organize a cundina, like a mutual aid association everyone contributes to, but I don’t know. Those things always

turn out badly. Someone always ends up angry or losing out, arguments break out, arguments lead to fights, and you know what happens when we fight around here.

There are always rumors about the maquilas: that they’re gonna shut it down, that they’re violating this or that law, that the gringos are doing this or that. But we’re still here. Like they say, it’s not over ‘til it’s over.

Yeah, there’s a good atmosphere. In fact, every now and then, the assistant managers ask us out for drinks. It’s up to each girl whether she says yes or not. But of course, going out for a drink with one or more of them isn’t going to make things better for us here. You just happen to get a drink and dinner for free.

I don’t know for sure, but they say that there are girls who, after going out for drinks with their bosses, don’t come back, or they come back all sad and depressed, like they’re not themselves anymore. They stay on for a few days, a few weeks at most, and then they quit. We never hear from them again. Ay no, take that out, too.

Just like they do random locker checks, there are also random blood and urine tests. Yeah, those of us who are still of childbearing age are given pregnancy tests every so often. If you come up pregnant, bye-bye. So we all watch our step. Over time, we all learn how things work here at the maquila. And that’s it. I don’t have to tell you my name, do I?

Sylvia Aguilar Zéleny received her MFA in Creative Writing from The University of Texas at El Paso. She is the author of The Everything I Have Lost (Cinco Puntos Press, 2020), Trash (Deep Vellum, 2022), and El libro de Aisha (Penguin Random House, 2022). The latter two novels have been translated into French, Italian, and Portuguese. Her novel Todo Eso Es Yo won the 2015 National Book Award in Tamaulipas, México.

Isaac Goldemberg

SEIS MICRORRELATOS Y UN PREFACIO

Prefacio

Todo texto se construye como un mosaico de citas, todo texto es absorción y transformación de otro texto.

—Julia Kristeva

Estos relatos son el diálogo que ellos sostienen con los epígrafes y estos epígrafes son el diálogo que ellos sostienen con los relatos. Pero sin saberlo.

Goles y arqueros

En el fútbol todo se complica con la presencia del otro equipo.

—Jean Paul Sartre

Pocos segundos antes de terminarse la final de la Copa del Mundo, el Rabino Mayor de Jerusalén, arquero del equipo de Israel, que iba perdiendo 1 a 0, lanzó un tiro desde su arco al arco del Vaticano —resguardado por el Papa—, con la esperanza de lograr el empate. La pelota sobrevoló todo el largo de la cancha y fue a incrustarse en el arco contrario. Entonces el Rabino se arrodilló sobre la grama, elevando los ojos al cielo en agradecimiento a Dios. El Altísimo, que había estado viendo el partido, esbozó una sonrisa y, rascándose la cabeza, se dijo que ese gol había sido un verdadero milagro.

Huecos

El montículo se había convertido en un hueco y aparecía a la vista mas de la mitad de la bolsa. Imaginé que los huesos se veían liberados de sus responsabilidades anatómicas. Si de huesos se trataba.

—Kathy Reichs

En medio de la ciudad, rodeado de calles y del denso tráfico capitalino, el hueco abrió sus fauces y llamó con un alarido a los arqueólogos. Estos decidieron sacar una radiografía de su interior, valiéndose de un detector

de rayos cósmicos. Declararon que esperaban encontrar evidencia de entierros ceremoniales y cámaras ocultas. Precisaron que una vez que los rayos cósmicos atravesasen el objeto de estudio efectuarían un mapeo de la cantidad de partículas cósmicas, en función de su dirección. El arqueólogo jefe declaró a la prensa:

—Si llegan más de estas partículas en alguna trayectoria quiere decir que posiblemente el hueco sea más que un hueco, es decir una cámara oculta o una tumba de algún inmigrante.

Los arqueólogos cavaron toda la noche hasta toparse con unas osamentas que les permitiría reconstruir por primera vez los rostros de los antepasados del ser humano. Entonces, así lo hicieron y vieron que los rostros reconstruidos pertenecían a un hombre y una mujer. Eran de ojos grandes, con narices y orejas protuberantes y pómulos salientes.

—Fue un trabajo muy complicado —dijo el arqueólogo forense—. Los huesos estaban muy fragmentados por el paso del tiempo y la humedad. Lo que hicimos fue establecer el sexo, la edad, la estatura, el patrón racial: era una pareja de humanos.

Los cálculos indicaron que el hombre tenía unos 40 años, medía más o menos un metro setenta de estatura y tenía lesiones en la columna, lo que hizo suponer que se dedicaba al arado. La mujer tenía aproximadamente 30 años, medía un metro cincuenta y las evidencias señalaron que tuvo dos hijos hombres. Éstos habían sido colocados encima de los cuerpos de sus padres. Uno de los hijos mostraba una extraña mancha en la frente, una especie de quemadura. El otro, una herida profunda en el cráneo. Los arqueólogos reconocieron en esta pareja y sus hijos a la fuente verdadera de los humanos. Sin embargo, dos días más tarde, otro hueco hizo su aparición a dos metros del primero. Todo indicaba que era un hueco mucho más antiguo. En él yacían sepultadas cuatro personas: una pareja con sus dos hijos, también hombres. Los arqueólogos miraron confundidos primero a un hueco y luego al otro, pero los huecos guardaron silencio.

Escritura

Escribir no es un pasatiempo, un deporte. Es una servidumbre que hace de sus víctimas unos esclavos.

—Mario Vargas Llosa

Un buen escritor puede escribir sobre cualquier cosa y puede hacer literatura de cualquier tema y un mal escritor no tiene esa capacidad.

—Almudena Grandes

Un día la escritura salió a la calle decidida a reconstruír el relato de los acontecimientos humanos. Hasta ahí toda la confianza estuvo puesta en las

tradiciones habladas, entregadas de generación en generación. Sabía que ella misma, por imaginativa que fuese, nacía de la realidad. Entonces se preguntó cómo reconstruir el relato. Se matriculó en un taller de narración. Las tareas debían ser preparadas consistentemente y leídas en la clase. El resumen debía ser esquemático, enfocado en la idea principal y tenía que venir preparada para hacer un resumen oral del capítulo asignado. La escritura comentó:

—Escribo porque me gusta elaborar mis pensamientos.

La conductora del taller le recomendó escribir un blog para contar las cosas que le pasaban, inventarse relatos, compartir conocimientos, escribir ocurrencias, hablar mal de los demás, y un largo etcétera. La escritura lo publicó en Internet porque quería que la leyeran. Dijo:

—Si sólo escribiera para mi misma, lo haría en un documento de Word y lo guardaba. Así no habría posibilidad de otros lectores que no sea yo misma.

La escritura necesitaba comunicarse con los demás. Necesitaba contarles sus vivencias, compartir sus conocimientos. No se podía quedar sin comunicarles una verdad de Perogrullo: en el proceso de la escritura había que ser persistente. Si quien escribía tenía el primer vocablo o la primera línea, era su deber seguir hasta el final de la narración a menos que ese vocablo o esa línea le cerrasen el ingreso tirándole la puerta en la cara.

Con una sonrisa entre pérfida y seductora, la conductora del taller explicó:

—Hay veces cuando quien escribe no está consciente de cómo apareció en su mente el vocablo o la línea sin haberlas convocado. O tal vez las convocó inconscientemente. Sólo es posible pensar que así como quien escribe se comunica con su inconsciente durante el sueño, lo mismo ocurre cuando se encuentra dentro del proceso de la escritura.

Estaba escrito que los blogs se podían convertir en una adicción, en una forma de exhibicionismo, de terapia, una necesidad de socializarse, de alimentar el autoengaño de que se llevaba un escritor dentro. La escritura mantuvo su bitácora como un pasatiempo y trató de mantenerla activa y actualizada. No era adicta a la computadora, pero sí a leer y un blog era una fuente de información para aquellos que sabían y les gustaba leer. La escritura aconsejó:

—Por favor promuevan los blogs y retírense de sus televisores por un tiempo.

Con el tiempo la escritura descubrió en el camino que no estaba hecha para escribir, aún cuando escribía bien. Tal vez no era su vocación o el medio en el que quería expresarse. Al brindarnos su percepción de la realidad, la escritura sabía que no podía satisfacer a todo el mundo. Existían individuos y grupos a quienes nunca se debía satisfacer. De hacerlo, se convertiría en ellos.

Entonces un día la escritura se hartó de su blog y decidió darle muerte. No le tembló la mano para borrarlo todo, hasta los archivos, por si alguna vez se le ocurría levantarlos de nuevo. La vida era blanco y negro otra vez: la gente, los animales, los papeles, los números y las letras, las cosas de siempre.

Recuerdos

El pasado nunca está donde crees que lo dejaste. —Katherine Anne Porter

Un día, en la capital del pasado se reunieron los recuerdos para participar en los Juegos Olímpicos de la Memoria. Se había realizado tantas ediciones de esta competencia, que ya no llevaba números romanos porque estos no cabían en una sola línea. A la presente edición acudieron los recuerdos cortos y los recuerdos largos. Los buenos y los malos recuerdos. Los dulces y los amargos. Los borrosos y los claros. Los recuerdos a medias y los enteros. Los recuerdos a pesar de uno. Los falsos, los verdaderos y los que alguna vez se olvidaron. Estaban todos los recuerdos, incluso los recuerdos reprimidos que solo se recordaban en los sueños. Todos y cada uno competirían en una sola justa consistente en revelar el recuerdo mas antiguo entre los contendientes. No se trataba de recurrir a la memoria histórica sino a la personal. A los recuerdos les estaba prohibido recordar datos pasados aprendidos de libros o revistas especializadas, como por ejemplo, el hallazgo —hacía algunos años— de los restos fósiles mas antiguos de un homo sapiens que vivió hace 100 mil millones de años y que fueron encontrados en el África. Lo que el reglamento exigía era revelar el recuerdo mas antiguo sobre algún capítulo de la historia humana, pero que hubiese sido vivido en carne propia por el recuerdo mismo. La advertencia era clarísima.

Kábala

Sentía que me faltaba algo en la vida y me di cuenta de que finalmente había encontrado un sistema de creencia o filosofía que incorporaba ciencia y espiritualidad. —Madonna

Considerada como un campo peligroso, como la sabiduría oculta, la kábala pretendió revelar el secreto del Ser Supremo y del mundo. Un día se despojó de su capucha y desde la entrada de un túnel, anunció en un susurro:

—El Ser Supremo sólo puede reconocerse en el espejo de la creación.

Desde entonces vivió con miedo de los falsos mesías que querían abusar de ella y contra aquellos que sostenían que sólo hablaba de motivos

sexuales e ideas revolucionarias y que representaba los instintos idólatras del humano. Esto hizo que aumentara el interés por la mística y la kábala volvió a florecer en toda la galaxia. Incluso, los estudios de kábala conquistaron al mundo del cine y el espectáculo. Una cantante de fama interplanetaria, propensa a desnudarse sobre el escenario, se convirtió en una kabalista distinguida: cambió su nombre a Miryam y de ahí en adelante participó en todos los Congresos Galácticos de la Kábala. Pero ella no fue la única y la lista de estrellas y deportistas que estudiaban kábala, así como el hilo rojo que llevaban en la mano y que identificaba a los kabalistas, se fueron alargando hasta pasar a otras galaxias.

Ser terrestre

Es el momento de explorar otros sistemas solares. Estoy convencido de que los humanos necesitan irse de la Tierra. —Stephen Hawking

Cien gramos de huesos que supuestamente pertenecieron al Ser Terrestre fueron analizados y mostraron un parecido notable con el ADN del Ser Extraterrestre. Pero los científicos no estuvieron seguros.

Tal fue el destino del Ser Terrestre: ni los análisis de ADN pudieron develar el misterio de sus restos. El cráneo reducido a un fragmento, ¿fue en verdad del Ser Terrestre o perteneció al Ser Extraterrestre? Buena pregunta, y difícil respuesta.

Los restos encontrados flotando en pleno espacio sideral fueron descritos de la siguiente manera: ser adulto, de entre setenta y cien años, medianamente robusto y de tipo indefinido. Podía ser cualquiera.

—Los resultados preliminares no descartan que los huesos sean los del Ser Terrestre—, señaló uno de los científicos responsables del análisis genético de los restos, llevado a cabo en la estación interplanetaria cercana a la Luna. En otras palabras, podía que sí. Y también podía que no.

Otro científico afirmó:

—Los datos parciales apuntan hacia la existencia de una secuencia del mismo tipo de ADN mitocondrial entre ambos seres.

Sucedía que el ADN mitocondrial se heredaba de madre a hijos y podía ser compartido por dos sujetos, siempre que fuesen hermanos. Entonces, quedaba la duda en cuanto al parentesco entre ambos seres, pues uno era terrestre y el otro extraterrestre totalmente. Mientras tanto, otros científicos señalaron que los verdaderos huesos del Ser Extraterrestre descansaban en otra galaxia, mientras que los del Ser Terrestre jamás habían abandonado la Tierra.

Isaac Goldemberg (Chepén, Perú, 1945, residente en Nueva York desde 1964) es autor de cuatro novelas, un libro de relatos, trece de poesía y tres obras de teatro. Sus publicaciones más recientes son El nuevo gusano saltarín (2025), Libro de las Raíces/Saphi Libro (español-quechua, 2024) y Sueño del insomnio/ Dream of Insomnia (2021). Su obra ha sido sido traducida a varios idiomas e incluida en numerosas antologías de América Latina, Europa y los Estados Unidos. En 1995 su novela La vida a plazos de don Jacobo Lerner fue considerada como una de las 25 mejores novelas peruanas de todos los tiempos; y en el 2001 fue seleccionada como una de las 100 obras más importantes de la literatura judía mundial de los últimos 150 años. Goldemberg fundó y dirigió la Feria del Libro Latinoamericano de Nueva York (1985-1995), ha sido catedrático de New York University (1973-1986) y Profesor Distinguido de Hostos Community College (CUNY: 1992-2019), donde fundó y dirigió el Instituto de Escritores Latinoamericanos y esta revista internacional, Hostos Review/Revista Hostosiana.

Isaac Goldemberg

SIX MICRO-STORIES AND A PREFACE

Translation from the Spanish by Sasha Reiter

Preface

Every text is constructed as a mosaic of quotations, every text is the absorption and transformation of another text.

—Julia Kristeva

These stories consist of the dialogue they carry on with the epigraphs, and these epigraphs are the dialogue they carry on with the stories. And yet, neither knows it.

Goals and Goalkeepers

In soccer, everything gets complicated with the presence of the other team.

—Jean Paul Sartre

A few seconds before the World Cup final ended, the Chief Rabbi of Jerusalem, goalkeeper of the Israeli team, which was losing 1 to 0, launched a shot from his goal toward the Vatican’s goal —guarded by the Pope— with the hope of tying the game. The ball flew over the entire length of the field and lodged into the opposing goal. Then the Rabbi knelt on the grass, raising his eyes to the sky in gratitude to God. The Almighty, who had been watching the match, smiled faintly and, scratching His head, said to Himself that this goal had been a true miracle.

Holes

The mound had turned into a hole and more than half the bag was now visible. I imagined the bones freed from their anatomical responsibilities. If they were bones indeed.

—Kathy Reichs

In the middle of the city, surrounded by streets and the dense traffic of the capital, the hole opened its jaws and summoned the archeologists with a loud howl. They decided to take an X-ray of its interior, using a cosmic ray

detector. They stated that they hoped to find evidence of ceremonial burials and hidden chambers. They specified that once the cosmic rays passed through the objects being studied, they would map the number of cosmic particles, based on their direction. The chief archaeologist declared to the press:

“If more of these particles arrive from a particular trajectory, it would mean that the hole is more than just a hole; that is, a hidden chamber or a tomb of some immigrant.”

The archaeologists dug all night until they hit some bones that would allow them, for the first time, to reconstruct the faces of human ancestors. So, they did and saw that the restored faces belonged to a man and a woman. They had large eyes, protruding noses and ears, and prominent cheekbones.

“It was a very complicated job,” said the forensic archaeologist. “The bones were quite fragmented by the passage of time and the humidity. What we did was establish the sex, age, height, and race: it was a human couple.”

The calculations indicated that the man was around 40 years old, about 5 foot 7 inches, and had lesions on his spine, which led the archeologists to believe he worked the plow. The woman was about 30 years old, 5 foot 2 inches tall, and the evidence showed she had two male children. They had been placed on top of their parents’ bodies. One of the sons showed a strange stain on his forehead, a sort of burn. The other one, a deep wound in his skull. The archaeologists recognized in this couple and their sons the true original humans. However, two days later, another hole appeared two meters away from the first. Everything indicated that it was a much more ancient hole. In it were buried four people: a couple with their two children, also male. Bewildered, the archaeologists looked first at one hole and then at the other, but the holes kept quiet.

Writing

Writing is not a pastime, a sport. It is a servitude that turns its victims into slaves.

—Mario Vargas Llosa

A good writer can write about anything and can turn any subject into literature, while a bad writer lacks that ability.

—Almudena Grandes

One day, writing went out into the street, determined to reconstruct the tale of human events. Until then, all trust had been placed in oral traditions, passed down from generation to generation. Writing knew that, however imaginative she might be, she was born out of reality. So, she wondered how to reconstruct the story. She enrolled in a fiction workshop. The assignments

had to be completed consistently and then read to the class. She had to come to class prepared to deliver an oral summary of the assigned chapter, and the summary had to be concise, focused on the main idea. Writing commented:

“I write because I like to develop my thoughts.”

The workshop instructor recommended her to start a blog to write about the things that happened to her, invent stories, share knowledge, write thoughts, speak ill of others, etcetera etcetera. Writing published it on the Internet because she wanted to be read by others. She said:

“If I only wrote for myself, I’d do so in a Word document and save it. That way, there would be no chance of anyone else reading it but me.”

Writing needed to communicate with others. She needed to tell them her experiences, share her knowledge. She couldn’t withhold a truth a clear as a bell from them: in the writing process, one had to be persistent. If the person writing had the first word or the first line, it was their duty to follow through to the end of the story, unless that word or that line closed off their entry by slamming the door in their face.

With a smile, halfway between wicked and seductive, the workshop instructor explained:

“There are times when the person who writes isn’t even aware of how a word or line appeared in their mind without summoning it. Or maybe they summoned it unconsciously. One can only think that just as the person who writes communicates with their unconscious during sleep, the same thing happens when they are inside the writing process.”

It had been written that blogs could become an addiction, a form of exhibitionism, therapy, a need to socialize, to feed one’s self-deception that one harboured a writer inside. Writing kept her logbook as a hobby and tried to keep it active and up to date. She wasn’t addicted to the computer, but she was to reading, and a blog was a source of information for those who knew how to read and liked it. Writing advised:

“Please promote blogs and stay away from your TV sets for a while.”

With time, writing discovered along the way that she wasn’t made for writing, even though she wrote well. Perhaps it wasn’t her true calling or the medium in which she wanted to express herself. In offering us her perception of reality, writing knew she couldn’t please everyone. There were individuals and groups that one should never please. If she did, she would become them.

So one day, writing got fed up with her blog and decided to kill it. Her hand didn’t quaver as she deleted everything, even the files, just in case it ever occurred to her to reupload them. Life was black and white once more: the people, the animals, the papers, the numbers and letters, the everyday things.

Memories

The past is never where you think you left it.

—Katherine Anne Porter

One day, in the capital of the past, all recollections gathered to participate in the Olympic Games of Memory. So many editions of this competition had been held that Roman numerals were no longer used, as they could no longer fit on a single line. In attendance at this edition were short memories and long memories. Good and bad memories. Sweet and bitter ones. Blurry and clear. Half remembered and whole memories. Memories despite oneself. False memories, true ones, and those once forgotten. All the memories were there, even the repressed ones that were only remembered in dreams. Each and every one of them would compete in a single joust, geared to revealing the oldest memory among the contenders. This was not about tapping into historical memory, but personal memory. The memories were strictly forbidden from citing facts learned from books or scholarly journals, such as, for example, the discovery some years ago of the oldest fossil remains of a Homo sapiens, who lived seven million years ago and was found in Africa. What the rules demanded was to reveal the oldest recollection of a chapter in human history, but one that had been lived in the flesh by the memory itself. The warning could not have been more explicit.

Kabbalah

I felt that something was missing in my life, and I realized that I had finally found a belief system or philosophy that incorporated science and spirituality.

—Madonna

Considered a dangerous field, a hidden wisdom, Kabbalah sought to reveal the secrets of the Supreme Being and the world. One day she took off her hood and from the entrance of a tunnel, announced in a whisper:

“The Supreme Being can only be recognized in the mirror of creation.”

From then on, she lived in fear of the false messiahs who wanted to abuse her and against those who claimed she only spoke of sexual motivations and revolutionary ideas and represented the idolatrous instincts of humans. This led to an increased interest in mysticism, and Kabbalah again flourished throughout the galaxy. Moreover, the studying of Kabbalah conquered the world of movies and show business. A female singer of interplanetary fame, prone to undressing on stage, became a distinguished Kabbalist: she changed her name to Miryam and from then on participated in all the Galactic Kabbalah Congresses. But she was not the only one, and the list of movie stars and athletes who studied Kabbalah and who even wore the red thread on their hand, identified them as Kabbalists, kept growing and was reaching other galaxies.

Terrestrial Being

It is time to explore other solar systems. I am convinced that humans need to leave Earth.

—Stephen Hawking

One hundred grams of bones that supposedly belonged to the Terrestrial Being were analyzed and showed a remarkable similarity to the DNA of the Extraterrestrial Being. But scientists were not convinced. Such was the fate of the Terrestrial Being: not even DNA tests could reveal the mystery of his remains. The skull, reduced to a fragment, was in fact that of the Terrestrial Being, or did it belong to the Extraterrestrial Being? Good question, difficult answer.

The remains found floating in outer space were described as follows: adult being, between seventy and one hundred years old, moderately robust, and of undefined type. It could be anyone.

“Preliminary results do not rule out that the bones belong to the Terrestrial Being,” pointed out one of the scientists responsible for the genetic analysis of the remains, conducted at the interplanetary station near the Moon. In other words, it could be so. And it could also not be so.

Another scientist stated:

“The partial data point toward the existence of the same type of mitochondrial DNA sequence shared by both beings.”

It so happened that mitochondrial DNA was passed from mother to children and could be shared by two individuals, as long as they were siblings. However, there was still doubt as to the kinship between both beings, since one was completely terrestrial and the other totally extraterrestrial. Meanwhile, other scientists pointed out that the true bones of the Extraterrestrial Being rested in another galaxy, while those of the Terrestrial Being had never left Earth.

Isaac Goldemberg (Chepén, Peru, 1945; resident of New York since 1964) is the author of four novels, a book of short stories, thirteen poetry collections, and three plays. His most recent publications include El nuevo gusano saltarín (2025), Libro de las Raíces/Saphi Libro (Spanish–Quechua, 2024), and Sueño del insomnio/Dream of Insomnia (2021). His work has been translated into several languages and included in numerous anthologies across Latin America, Europe, and the United States. In 1995, his novel La vida a plazos de don Jacobo Lerner (The Fragmented Life of Don Jacobo Lerner) was recognized as one of the 25 greatest Peruvian novels of all time, and in 2001 it was selected as one of the 100 most important works of world Jewish literature of the past 150 years. Goldemberg founded and directed the Latin American Book Fair of New York (1985–1995), taught at New York University (1973–1986), and served as Distinguished Professor at Hostos Community College (CUNY: 1992–2019), where he founded and directed the Latin American Writers Institute and this international journal, Hostos Review/Revista Hostosiana.

Rolando Pérez

CHANOYU FOR THE SEASONS1

An excerpt

CHANOYU PARA LAS ESTACIONES2

Fragmento

Fall/ Otoño (en caída):

[So loved was the finch that he was caged and cared for with much tenderness.

Tan querido fue el pinzón que lo cuidaron en una jaula con agua y comida, compasión y ternura.]

[Postcolonial Reflections/ Pensamientos poscoloniales

I saw the ship when it arrived, bearing gifts of love and passion, then they set up tents in pairs…and made a colony.

Vi el barco arribar, venía con dones de amor y de pasión. Luego, montaron las tiendas en pares, la colonia.]

1 This excerpt presents a brief series of haikus, tanka, and bussokusekika (extended tanka) written in both English and Spanish by the author.

2 Este fragmento presenta una breve serie de haikus, tankas y bussokusekika (tanka extendido) escritos en español e inglés por el autor.

[Advice in the style of Nicanor Parra/ Consejo al estilo de Nicanor Parra

Advice for coastal speculators: do not hesitate, invest capital in gondolas. I am totally serious.

Consejo para los especuladores litorales: no duden de invertir capital en las góndolas. Sí, lo digo en serio.]

[Corpus Christi

An accident in Greece. Torn knee, a scar. She used to call it my Frankenstein, and wanted me to be kind like the monster in the movie.

“Mi Frankenstein”, apodó su cicatriz y quiso que yo fuera amable como aquel monstruo de la película.]

Winter/Invierno:

[The Good/Los buenos

Inside (a Chinese cookie): “Good, decent people crush perverse souls, with crosses and holy water.”

Dentro

(de una galleta china): “La gente buena y decente aplastan las almas perversas con cruces y agua bendita”.]

[Lack of Light / Falta de luz

They invented non-existent weapons then fearsome Samson: blind to the children legless, lifeless in Gaza.

Se inventaron armas inexistentes luego al temible Sansón: Ciego a los niños sin piernas, sin vida(s) en Gaza.]

Spring/Primavera:

[We, the confused, frog leaps into the hot water, not into the pond.

Nosotros, los confundidos, la rana salta al agua hirviendo, no al viejo estanque.]

[Irony/Ironía

The butterfly in the picture frame is a precious thing.

La mariposa clavada es objeto de hermosura.]

[“Dido”-II

Deceptive words, hero made of lies! It is called art.

¡Palabras falsas, héroe de mentira! Se llama arte.]

Summer3

They could hear voices in the room next door. At first faintly, more like murmurs, and then as they paid more attention, they could piece whole sentences together that told a story. Some of the stories were sad tales of violence, abuse, and neglect, most often of young girls. And the storytellers were women of ill repute--they conjectured--who were entertaining their clients, or perhaps other guests at the inn.

The next morning when the sun was beginning to come up and everyone was slowly getting out of bed, it became apparent to the itinerant monks that the prostitutes from the previous night, were on a pilgrimage to the Grand Shrine of Ise, where the sun goddess Amaterasu presided.

By happenstance, the “monks” and the women met as they were both leaving the inn, headed in different directions. “As it is obvious by the clothes you wear that you are monks, would it be possible that we could follow you along the way? The road is dangerous, and we could use your guidance and protection. Would that be possible? We promise to keep a distance,” said the women to the monks. “Will you extend the Buddha’s compassion towards us and help us?” But the men in monkish habits, politely declined, telling them that they had many stops to make. “You have nothing to fear,” they said. “You will be protected along the way by the great Goddess.”

3 “Summer,” the last and fourth volume of Chanoyu for the Seasons, combines, as Bashō called them, “haibun” (or prose poems) with poetry, or in this case, haikus and tankas.

The fishermen’s daughters threw in their own fishing line, only caught pretty words.

Verano4

Podían escuchar voces en la habitación contigua. Al principio, débilmente, más como murmullos, pero luego, al prestar más atención, lograron unir frases completas que contaban una historia. Algunas de esas historias eran tristes relatos de violencia, abuso y abandono, en su mayoría sobre niñas. Y las narradoras, conjeturaron, eran mujeres de mala reputación que entretenían a sus clientes, o quizás a otros huéspedes de la posada.

A la mañana siguiente, cuando el sol comenzaba a salir y todos se levantaban lentamente, los monjes itinerantes se dieron cuenta de que las prostitutas de la noche anterior estaban en peregrinación al Gran Santuario de Ise, donde presidía la diosa del sol, Amaterasu.

Por casualidad, los “monjes” y las mujeres se encontraron al salir de la posada, aunque se dirigían en direcciones diferentes. “Es evidente por su vestimenta que son monjes. ¿Sería posible que pudiéramos seguirlos en el camino? La carretera es peligrosa y podríamos necesitar de su guía y protección. ¿Sería posible? Prometemos mantener nuestra distancia” dijeron las mujeres a los monjes. “¿Podrían extendernos la compasión del Buda y ayudarnos?” Pero los hombres con hábitos de monje se negaron amablemente, diciendo que tenían muchas paradas que hacer. “No tienen nada que temer”, le dijeron. “Serán protegidas en el camino por la gran Diosa”.

Las hijas de los pescadores lanzaron un anzuelo pero sólo pescaron las palabras bonitas.

4 “Verano”, el último y cuarto volumen de Chanoyu para las estaciones, combina, como los llamaba Bashō, “haibun” (o poemas en prosa) con poesía, o en este caso, haikus y tankas.

Rolando Pérez, born in Cuba, is a poet, essayist, and professor emeritus of peninsular and Latin American literature and philosophy in the Department of Romance Languages at Hunter College (CUNY), New York. His work encompasses essays, poetry, theater, and poetic prose. His books include La comedia eléctrica [The Electric Comedy] (Amargord, 2017), a postmodern version of Dante’s Divine Comedy, and Mesetas de espejos: un libro para niños, camellos y ballenas [Plateaus of Mirrors: A Book for Children, Camels, and Whales] (Verbum, 2023). His literary work in English has been included in The Norton Anthology of Latino Literature (2012) and in Spanish in Destino Manhattan. Panorama de la poesía hispana en NYC (Vaso Roto Ediciones, 2025). His most recent publication, La filosofía del siglo XX. Sus corrientes filosóficas, tensiones y debates fundamentales [The Philosophy of the 20th Century. Its Philosophical Currents, Tensions, and Fundamental Debates] (Pinolia, 2025) traces a journey through Western tradition to reach the most present resonances of some of the currents that defined the last century. Pérez lives and writes in Brooklyn.

Marcos Pico Rentería

LOS ACARREADOS

A comer pancita con Los Agachados, que vengo muy crudo, ay… —Tin-Tan, Los agachados

El sábado 18 de marzo de 2023, visitamos (mi esposa y yo) al México de López Obrador. Volver a México siempre es una escena jocosa en mi vida, mis estudiantes siempre me recuerdan como el profesor obsesionado con tres cosas: la vida, la poesía y la comida mexicana. No tiene nada raro que me perciban así, pues ellos saben distraerme ágilmente con temas en torno a romeritos, mole, pipián, todo picosito, para evitar hablar de Borges o de Lezama Lima, dependiendo la cohorte. No los culpo, la literatura es algo densa y prefieren vivir dentro del éxtasis gastronómico mexicano, tan popular al norte del río Bravo, aunque no lo sean aquellos quienes lo preparan.

Hace mucho tiempo que no soy turista en CDMX. Reitero, conozco y he conocido CDMX como su apelativo anterior: D.F. Quizá, sería mejor como Defectuoso, como apelativo de cariño.

Nuestra llegada fue algo como ver un programa de Star Trek, cuando se iba de un lugar a otro ‘teletransportado’, reducido a nada, desintegrado y dentro de poco, integrado en otro lugar, completo, con conciencia y todo aturdido por el acarreo. En realidad, el tiempo de espera en la masiva sala de arribo, era la precuela a lo que veríamos a la salida. Misma sala que nos separa por clase, según la aerolínea, el costo del pasaje y el color de nuestro pasaporte.

Así son los viajes en masa, y conste que no menciono masa como algo peyorativo, sino lo digo como algo del día a día, un viaje clasemediero, un acarreo al cual nos acostumbramos y sorteamos año tras año, disfrutando de la reducción de espacio y de las irreverentes porciones alimenticias. La desaparición de la comida aérea es ahora un trend. Si bien pudieran, las aerolíneas nos darían un puré de ‘yonoséqué’ para mantenernos sin hambre y de pronto un poco fit.

Durante el vuelo, mi hambre aumentó exponencialmente. Después de salir de la argamasa humana, era deber ir en búsqueda de una taquería, no mi misión número uno en el viaje, pero sin duda una de las metas principales de la visita. A la salida, pudimos pasar a una de las casas de cambio; cambié apenas unos dólares y pedí un Uber.

La ruta al centro debería haber sido corta, cortísima si hubiese sido otra ciudad, pero, en la Ciudad de México, el evento se tornaría en algo surreal.

Ya en el auto, nos dirigimos al hotel, acompañados del mix proporcionado por Spotify. Claramente no parecía que hubiéramos dejado California atrás, sino que continuábamos en un mundo paralelo al californiano. El conductor del Uber nos llevó a nuestro hotel que estaba apenas rodeado de una multitud de autobuses y carros circundando la zona donde horas más temprano, López Obrador estaría mostrando su capacidad de mover (o hipnotizar) al pueblo mexicano. Nosotros, en el Uber, carecíamos de ese movimiento, pues estuvimos dando vueltas para aproximarnos al hotel sin lograr acercarnos demasiado. El conductor nos aclaró que estábamos dando tanta vuelta debido a la marcha organizada por López Obrador por el marco del aniversario de la expropiación petrolera.

–¿Acarriados?, le pregunté con cierta seguridad en mi voz al conductor del Uber.

–Pues así dicen… Pero la verdad es que sí lo siguen muchos.

La voz del conductor mostraba un tedio eterno con el cual pude entender su desespero con el quehacer político.

Mi esposa se quedó con ese vocablo que claramente, siendo de Colombia, nunca había escuchado cosa tal. Lo sé porque tras dejar las maletas en el hotel, buscamos la taquería más cercana, una parada imprescindible de la noche. Al entrar al lugar, vimos que estaba lleno de personas, asistentes de la marcha.

Sabía que la primera noche gastronómica de mi esposa en la Ciudad, debería ser una de las mejores experiencias de comida callejera que hasta ese día había tenido. El primer actor en escena fue el queso fundido, que casi de inmediato fue interrumpido por uno de los comensales preguntando que de dónde veníamos, yo contesté “de Monter[r]ey”, a lo que la señora amable asintió y agradeció mi participación en la marcha, a la que nunca asistimos. Claro, nunca aclaré que el Monterey al que me refería era al de California y no al de Nuevo León.

Platos iban y platos venían a las mesas del restorán, incluso vimos un desfile de tacos como en ninguna otra parte. Mientras esperábamos nuestros tacos le pedí a mi esposa que observara lo que pasaba en una mesa enfrente de nosotros. Eran casi unas veinte a veinticinco personas. Todas ya habían acabado de cenar. De la nada, salió un hombre (el cabecilla) contando comensales y reconociendo que estos fueran parte de su rebaño. Casi de inmediato de pedir la cuenta, se la trajeron; acto seguido, se marcharon hacia un autobús lleno de borregente.

A mi esposa se le hizo curioso lo organizado que parecía todo, engrasado como una máquina nueva. Agregué mi resumen hablando en voz baja, como si a alguien le fuera a ofender mi diatriba.

–Los acarreados son, por lo general, funcionarios públicos, federales, estatales o municipales que ‘muchas veces’ pagan cuota por asistir a esta marcha, tan importante y sin igual.

Mi tono irónico era difícil de camuflar. –Y, además, es obligatorio, agregué.

La imagen de la paradoja política y el fervor nacional [comprado] fue entonces interrumpido por una serie de platos que bailaron frente a nuestra mesa. Esto ya era tradición de varios sexenios, de varios partidos. –Estos sí son tacos. Saboreando la primera mordida cuidando de no morderme los dedos o la lengua.

Volver a México siempre es una hazaña conocida, llegar al terreno de Gortari, Calderón e incluso al de López Obrador, me dejan con el mismo sinsabor: llegar y salir del Defectuoso, como rebaño.

Seaside, California 2025

Marcos Pico Rentería (México, 1981) es ensayista, narrador, editor y profesor asistente de español en el Defense Language Institute en Monterey, California. Su trabajo académico y literario se enfoca en la literatura latinoamericana contemporánea, con especial atención al grupo Crack y al ensayo de Jorge Volpi. Es autor de la colección de cuentos Mosh Pit (Aduana Vieja, 2022; Sudaquia 2025) y del microrrelato “El escape del Demodroid” incluido en la antología Los mecanismos del instante (Ars Communis, 2024). Editó Nueve délficos. Ensayos sobre Lezama (Verbum, 2014) y actualmente dirige la revista Contrapuntos. Sus cuentos, ensayos, entrevistas y poemas han sido publicados en revistas como Latin American Popular Culture, La Santa Crítica, El Beisman, Carátula, El Miami Review, entre otras, así como en antologías como Alebrije de palabras (2013), Pelota Jara (2014) y Testigos de Ausencias (2018).

Marcos Pico Rentería

THE ACARREADOS

Translation from Spanish by D. P. Snyder A comer pancita con Los Agachados, que vengo muy crudo, ay… —Tin-Tan, Los agachados1

On Saturday, March 18, 2023, my wife and I visited López Obrador’s Mexico. Throughout my life, returning to Mexico has always been a humorous event, and my students constantly remind me how their professor is obsessed with three things: life, poetry, and Mexican food. It’s no surprise they have that impression, because they know how to quickly distract me with conversations about romeritos, mole, pipián, and everything a little spicy, so they can avoid talking about Borges or Lezama Lima, depending on which cohort. I don’t blame them. Literature can be hard going, and they’d rather live immersed in the bliss of Mexican food, which is so popular north of the Rio Grande—even if the people who prepare it are not.

I haven’t been a tourist in CDMX for a while now. I repeat, I know and have known CDMX by its former name: D.F. (El Distrito Federal). Perhaps it would be better to call the city El DeFectuoso (The DeFective) as a term of endearment.

Our arrival felt like watching an episode of Star Trek, where one is ‘teleported’ to get from one place to another, reduced to nothing, disintegrated, and soon thereafter, re-integrated somewhere else, whole, conscious, and utterly disoriented from the transporter. In truth, the wait time in the massive arrival hall was only a preview of what we would witness upon leaving it. The same sort of room that separated us by class, airline, ticket cost, and the color of our passports.

That’s what mass transportation is now. And please understand that I don’t mean mass in a pejorative sense but rather as something commonplace, a middle-class journey, a commute that we get used to and endure year after year, enjoying the ever-shrinking space and the absurdly small portions of food. The disappearance of in-flight food is now a trend. If they could, the airlines would feed us a purée of whoknowswhat to stave off our hunger and, possibly, keep us a little fit.

1

ay…”

Tin-Tan was the stage name of Mexican actor, singer, and comedian Germán Genaro Cipriano Teodoro Gómez Valdés y Castillo (September 19, 1915 – June 29, 1973). He was born in Mexico City but raised and began his career in Ciudad Juárez, Chihuahua. These lyrics from his song “Los agachados” refer to the ubiquitous street cafés where people eat a variety of typical foods either standing or squatting (agachados): “Let’s go eat tripe with the folks at the food stall, ‘cause I’m really hungover,

During the flight, I became exponentially hungrier. After exiting the human morass, I set out on a mission to find a taquería. It wasn’t the primary objective of the trip, but it was definitely one of the principal goals of my visit. On the way out, we stopped at one of the currency exchange kiosks, exchanged a few dollars, and called an Uber.

The trip downtown should have been short—extremely short in any other city. But in Mexico City, the episode would turn into something surreal.

Once in the car, we set off for the hotel, accompanied by the mix provided by Spotify. It definitely didn’t feel like we had left California behind, but were instead continuing in a parallel universe to California. The Uber driver took us to our hotel, which was nearly surrounded by a sea of buses and cars circling the area where, hours earlier, López Obrador had been showing off his ability to move (or hypnotize) the Mexican people. In the Uber, we had no such possibility of movement as we drove around in circles, trying to get closer to the hotel without actually getting anywhere nearer. The driver explained that we were taking the long way around because of the march organized by López Obrador to mark the anniversary of the nationalization of the oil industry.

“Acarreadeos?” I asked the driver in a relatively confident tone. “The rent-a-crowd people?”

“That’s what they say… It’s true that he has a lot of followers, though.”

The driver’s voice betrayed an air of eternal ennui that spoke volumes about his despair over political matters.

That word stuck with my wife. Naturally, being from Colombia, she had never heard of such a thing. I know because, after dropping off our bags at the hotel, we looked for that essential stop for any night on the town: the nearest taquería. When we entered the place, we saw that it was full of people who had attended the march.

I was intent upon making my wife’s first dinner out in the city the best street food experience of her life. The first dish to make an appearance was the queso fundido, melted cheese, which was quickly interrupted by one of the diners asking us where we were from, and I answered “from Monter[r] ey,” at which the kind señora nodded and thanked me for participating in the march that we had not attended. Of course, I never clarified that the Monterey I referred to was in California and not in Nuevo León.

Plates came and went at the restaurant’s tables, and we were treated to a parade of tacos unlike anything we had ever seen before. While we waited for our own tacos to come, I asked my wife to observe what was happening at a table in front of us. There were almost twenty or twentyfive people there. All had just finished eating. Out of nowhere, a man (their leader) appeared, counting the diners and confirming that they were all part

of his flock. Almost immediately after asking for the bill, he received it, and they quickly headed off to a bus packed with borregente: sheeple.

My wife found it peculiar how organized everything seemed, running like a well-oiled machine. I added my own summary in a low voice, as if my rant might offend someone.

“The acarreados are, for the most part, federal, state, or municipal government officials who “frequently” pay a participation fee to attend this important and one-of-a-kind march.” My ironic tone was hard to conceal. “And, on top of that,” I added, “it’s obligatory.”

At that moment, the image of political paradox and (bought-andpaid-for) national fervor was interrupted by a procession of dishes dancing in front of our table. This had been a tradition for several six-year terms under various political parties.

“Now these are real tacos!” I said, savoring the first bite, careful not to bite my fingers or tongue.

Returning to Mexico is always a familiar act of derring-do, and coming to the territory of Gortari, Calderón, and even López Obrador leaves me with the same bitter taste in my mouth: arriving and departing from the Defectuoso, como rebaño. Like a flock of sheep.

Seaside, California 2025

Marcos Pico Rentería (Mexico, 1981) is an essayist, storyteller, editor, and assistant professor of Spanish at the Defense Language Institute in Monterey, California. His academic and literary work focuses on contemporary Latin American literature, with particular emphasis on the Crack group and Jorge Volpi’s essays. He is the author of the collection Mosh Pit (Aduana Vieja, 2022; Sudaquia 2025) and the flash fiction story “El escape del Demodroid,” included in the anthology Los mecanismos del instante (Ars Communis, 2024). He is the editor of Nueve délficos. Ensayos sobre Lezama (Verbum, 2014) and the current Executive Editor of the magazine Contrapuntos. His stories, essays, interviews, and poems have been published in magazines such as Latin American Popular Culture, La Santa Crítica, El Beisman, Carátula, El Miami Review, among others, as well as in anthologies like Alebrije de palabras (2013), Pelota Jara (2014), and Testigos de Ausencias (2018).

Haydée Zayas-Ramos

LA MUJER DEL PASTOR

—Todo se puede lograr con delicadeza y astucia. ¡Pero tú eres tan afrenta’o y tan bruto! —gritó con rabia la mujer y estrelló su cartera Gucci contra el sofá de piel del family.

—¿Una mujer tan fina y controlada diciendo “afrenta’o”?

Ni en el fondo, más bien por encimita, el pastor sabía que su mujer tenía razón, por eso atacó su selección de palabras, pero no sus argumentos. El culto del domingo fue un exceso. Alegar que dios quería que condujera una Hummer se pasó por mucho.

Su prédica debió limitarse a explicar cómo una reinita, de estómago descomunal, le cagaba el parabrisas todos los días. Cada plasta caía formando una letra, hasta que por fin completó el mensaje. Cómo la avecilla logró evacuar la “H” es uno de los misterios. El caso es que ese domingo en la mañana (la reinita descansó el sábado o le dio estreñimiento) defecó la “r” y él logró comprender el recado divino. Con esa cagadera emplumada le ordenaba a los feligreses contribuir por encima del diezmo para que él, siervo fiel, pudiera tener un vehículo nuevo. No debió especificar la marca. —Encima, ¿cómo se te ocurre decir que el diezmo va a ser ahora el %20? ¡El diezmo viene de diez, animal!

—Estás ovulando —aseguró el pastor. En ese momento, vio cómo su mujer se desfiguró. Se puso roja, se le inflaron las venas de las manos y apretó los puños. Trataba de contenerse para no estrangularlo. Él decidió dar una vueltita en su Mercedes, a modo de tregua.

El pastor añadió al itinerario de la iglesia el Culto de Adoración todos los martes, para tortura de los vecinos católicos, ateos y agnósticos. Enmarcó una foto, bajada de internet, de una reinita y a sus patas colocó una lata de dimensiones gigantescas con un letrero que leía: ¡Que no suene su ofrenda! Instaló ese altar especial a la entrada de la Tienda Espiritual, que montó dentro de la iglesia, donde vendían los libros que el pastor había escrito, recordatorios, camisetas y fotos del pastor con una reinita posada en su hombro derecho. ¡Photoshop es una maravilla!

La prédica en lo adelante se enfocó en los mensajes divinos a través de la reinita y en la intimidación a los feligreses a través sueños tenebrosos protagonizados por una paloma gris.

—¡Admítelo! ¡Respóndele a tu conciencia! Si has estado en el carro y se te ha aparecido la paloma gris es que no estás aportando lo suficiente. Si vas caminando y se te cruza la paloma es que no has contribuido lo suficiente.

Si en vez de arrullar, escuchas que la paloma chilla, te está advirtiendo que debes dar más dinero o que te atengas a las consecuencias —gritaba desde el altar el pastor, con las venas de la sien y del cuello a punto de reventar.

Con tanta paloma gris que hay en esta Isla, la tarea de intimidarlos y hacerlos sentir culpables resultaba sencilla.

Mientras, la mujer del pastor llevaba su papel en público a las mil maravillas; ponía una cara de constricción que merecía un óleo.

Algunos de los creyentes, de tanto hablarles de reinitas y palomas, hasta habían dejado de comer pollo. Combinación de repudio por todo lo que tuviera plumas y porque ya ni para la compra les sobraba. Tanta fue la presión, que un buen día la mujer del pastor comenzó a notar la cantidad de sillas vacías en los cultos. Sintió pánico.

El escándalo que siguió tomó a muchos por sorpresa. Salió en la prensa que el pastor plagió los libros que reclamaba haber escrito. Alegaban que le había pagado a un escritor hundido en deudas, quince mil por reescribir cada libro, cambiando algunas frases aquí y allá. Donde leía “echa tus pecados a una cesta”, habían escrito “tira tus deslices al zafacón”, señalaba el periódico.

—¿Pero cómo pueden saber eso? ¿De dónde sacaron la información? ¿Sería el escritor? No, no puede ser, si con los cinco libros escritos se fue a vivir a México. ¿Qué ganaría él con eso? ¿Qué se te ocurre, mujer? — inquirió con más desesperación que fuerza.

—Si tuviera la respuesta a por lo menos una sola de esas preguntas, no estarías en ese lio —le espetó su mujer. Esa flecha llevaba la punta envenenada. Aprovechaba toda ocasión para restregarle, de forma directa o sutil, que no le había permitido ser la coautora de los libros. El pastor la miró de soslayo.

—Bueno, mientras no salga a la luz copia de algún cheque, es mi palabra contra la de ellos —expresó con una pizca de alivio.

—¿Cheques? ¿Cuáles cheques? Si lo más que te advertí fue que pagaras en efectivo —le restregó la mujer en un tono que el pastor no supo precisar. ¿Sería sorpresa, nerviosismo, ansiedad, miedo, ira? ¿Alegría?

—Le di dos o tres cheques. Las últimas veces que me encontré con él olvidé ir antes al banco a sacar el cash —admitió con cara de niño regañado. El pastor se defendió de los ataques de la prensa y de las dudas de los creyentes con vehemencia. Era bueno con la retórica. Cuando parecía que tenía el problema bajo control, llegó una carta anónima al periódico, al secretario de la junta de la iglesia y al propio pastor: solo contenía una fotocopia nítida de un cheque por $5,000, que en la parte del “memo” leía: pago final, libro Vive en Fe. Se desmoralizó. En ese momento perdió la batalla.

—Hermanos, no sabemos a quién tenemos al lado. Pero todo lo podemos en la fe. Saldremos adelante como iglesia y como familia. La ingenuidad no es un pecado, todo lo contrario, es una virtud. Pecado habría

sido que, después de conocer los engaños de ese hombre, haya seguido con él. Haremos honor a nuestra iglesia, a nuestro nombre: Iglesia Renacer. Comenzando el próximo viernes, vamos a pintarla, a comprar sillas nuevas y a reparar los baños. ¡Y no habrá aportación especial para eso! Es más, la iglesia pagará los refrigerios y los sándwiches de mezcla. Nadie pasará hambre ni sed mientras trabaje en la casa del señor. ¡Aquí no necesitamos una Hummer! Ese dinero es para la iglesia.

En su primer culto, la nueva pastora predicó con tal convencimiento y emoción, que los indecisos se quedaron, los que se habían ido, volvieron y los que estaban en el mundo, se adentraron.

El divorcio se llevó a cabo de forma discreta. La pastora le pidió a sus fieles que le dieran un poco de espacio. Prometió que el proceso se haría de forma digna para la iglesia.

Al hombre por poco le da un síncope cuando leyó el acuerdo de divorcio. Ella se quedaba con todo, absolutamente todo. Iglesia, cuentas, casa, carros, joyas, cuadros, esculturas, apartamento de playa y la finca en la montaña, por mencionar algunas cositas. A él se le subió la sangre a la cara, le faltó el aire. Mientras, ella se retiraba pelusillas imaginarias de la falda.

En un arranque de generosidad o para no tener que oírle la boca, le cedió la primera pisa y corre que compró la iglesia.

—Para que veas mi buena fe. Tú eres bien creativo para algunas cosas. Mira a ver qué negocio empiezas con ella —expresó en un tono de psicópata de película. —¿O quieres que también te dé ideas?

—Gracias, no hace falta —respondió sin disimular el desprecio.

No perdió tiempo, al otro día le quitó la última hilera de asientos a la guagua. Le cortó el techo y los lados hasta la mitad, justo detrás de las puertas dobles y con ello le arrancó la palabra Iglesia. La convirtió en una pick up casera. Con pintura en espray le añadió “de Plantas” y así nació su nuevo negocio: Renacer de Plantas. Se dedicó a podar jardines, a sembrar matas y a repartir la fe. Hasta que un día, la hermana de una cliente, quien estaba de visita en la Isla, le habló de la necesidad que había en Nueva Jersey de creyentes que predicaran en español.

Haydée Zayas-Ramos escribe para público infantil, juvenil y adulto. Ha publicado libros de cuentos, novelas y poesía infantil. También mitos y obra de teatro para libros de texto de grados primarios. Algunas de sus publicaciones son: Un café con la elefanta (infantil), con Hilo Colectivo Books, Burbujas de chicle y Los tres Reyes Magos y sus calzoncillos de colores (ambos infantiles), Y de pronto nos llegó un Norte (novela juvenil) y El álbum de don Carlos (novela-memorias), todos con Editorial EDP University. Entre sus reconocimientos están: Primer lugar cuento infantil, Revista ADIÓS Cultural (España 2023), Medalla de Plata, categoría Mejor libro de fantasía en español por La jirafa que no cabía en su cuento, International Latino Book Awards (EEUU, 2022), Letras Boricuas en Literatura Infantil (2022). El PEN Internacional de Puerto Rico la ha reconocido en dos ocasiones: Poemas para Ali (infantil, 2018) y la primera edición de Anoche te soñé (2022).

Haydée Zayas-Ramos

THE PASTOR’S WIFE

Translation from Spanish by D.

P. Snyder

“With a little finesse and ingenuity, anything is possible. But you’re so disrespectful, so uncouth, so afrenta’o!” shouted the woman angrily, flinging her Gucci handbag against the leather sofa in the family room.

“A refined, self-possessed woman like you saying afrenta’o?”

Not even deep down, but more like right there on the surface, the pastor knew his wife was correct, so he attacked her choice of words instead of her arguments. The Sunday service had been way over the top. It was going too far to claim that God wanted him to drive a Hummer.

He should have confined his sermon to explaining how a reinita, a little yellow warbler with an enormous stomach, had shat on his windshield every day, and how each turd that fell formed a letter, until at last the message emerged. How the tiny bird had managed to expel the “H” remains one of God’s mysteries. The thing is that on Sunday morning, —the little warbler rested on Saturday or suffered from constipation— she defecated the final “R” and, at last, he understood the divine message. With its feathery caca, it was demanding that the parishioners give above and beyond their usual tithe so that he, a faithful servant of God, could purchase a new vehicle. He should not have specified the brand.

“On top of that, how can you say that the tithe is now going to be 20%? The word “tithe” literally comes from “tenth”, you dimwit!”

“You’re ovulating,” declared the pastor. He then saw how his wife became disfigured with anger. She was all red, the veins in her hands bulged, and she clenched her fists. She was struggling to keep from strangling him. To strike a truce, he decided to take a spin in his Mercedes.

The pastor added a worship service every Tuesday to the church’s schedule, much to the chagrin of the church’s Catholic, atheist, and agnostic neighbors. He framed a photo of a warbler downloaded from the internet and placed a giant tin can at its feet with a sign that read: May your offering sound quiet as a feather! He set up that special altar at the entrance to the Spiritual Store he had constructed inside the church, where they sold books written by the pastor, commemorative memorial cards, T-shirts, and photos of the pastor with a little warbler perched on his right shoulder. Photoshop is truly marvelous!

The next sermon emphasized divine messages conveyed through the little warbler and struck fear into the parishioners with disturbing dreams featuring a gray dove.

“Admit it! Listen to your conscience! If you’ve been in the car, and a gray dove appeared, it means you’re not giving enough. If you are walking along and a dove crosses your path, it means you’re not giving enough. If a dove screeches instead of cooing, it’s warning you that you must give more money or face the consequences!” the pastor shouted from the altar, the veins in his temples and neck about to pop.

With all the gray doves on the Island, making the parishioners feel guilty was a pretty easy job.

Meanwhile, the pastor’s wife played her public role to perfection, wearing a pained expression worthy of an oil painting.

After hearing so much talk about warblers and doves, some believers had even stopped eating chicken. This was partly from their rejection of anything with feathers and the fact that they could no longer afford to buy it. The pressure was so intense that one day the pastor’s wife began to notice the number of empty chairs at services. She panicked.

The scandal that followed took many by surprise. The newspaper reported that the pastor had plagiarized the books he claimed to have written. They alleged that he had paid a debt-ridden writer fifteen thousand dollars to rewrite each book, simply by altering a few phrases here and there. For example, where it read, “cast your sins into a basket,” the two of them had written, “toss your mistakes into the garbage can,” the newspaper reported.

“But how could they know? Where did they get their information? Could it be the writer? No, impossible! He went to live in Mexico with the money he got from writing five books. What would he gain from this? What do you think, wife?” the pastor asked, with more desperation than conviction.

“If I had the answer to even one of those questions, you wouldn’t be in this mess,” his wife shot back at him. That arrow had a poisoned tip. She took every opportunity to rub it in, directly or subtly, that he had not allowed her to be the co-author of the books. The pastor gave her a sidelong look.

“Well, as long as no copies of any checks come to light, it’s my word against theirs,” he said with a sigh of relief.

“Checks? What checks? When the only advice I gave you was to pay in cash!” The woman rubbed it using a tone of voice the pastor couldn’t quite pin down. Was it surprise, nervousness, anxiety, fear, anger? Or joy?

“I gave him two or three checks. The last few times we met, I forgot to go to the bank first to withdraw the cash,” he admitted, looking like a scolded child.

The pastor defended himself vehemently against attacks from the press and skepticism from believers. He was a swift talker. But just when it seemed to him the problem was under control, an anonymous letter arrived at the newspaper, the secretary of the church’s board of directors, and the

pastor himself: The only thing in it was a very clear copy of a check for $5,000, which read in the “memo” line: final payment, book Life in Faith. He was beaten. At that moment, he lost the battle.

“Brothers and sisters, we can never know who’s sitting next to us. But with faith, we can accomplish anything. We will move forward as a church and a family. Naïveté is no sin! Quite the contrary, it’s a virtue. The sin would have been if I had stayed with that man after finding out about his crooked ways. We will honor our church and its name: Church of the Rebirth. Starting next Friday, we will paint the building, buy new chairs, and repair the bathrooms. And no special contributions will be required for the work! Moreover, the church will pay for the snacks and finger sandwiches. No one shall endure hunger or thirst in the Lord’s house. We don’t need a Hummer here! That money is for the church.”

In her first service, the new lady pastor spoke with such conviction and feeling that the undecided stayed, those who had left returned, and those out in the world decided to come inside.

The divorce was finalized discreetly. The lady pastor asked the faithful to give her a little space. She promised the process would be concluded in a dignified manner for the sake of the church.

The man almost fainted when he read the divorce agreement. She would keep everything, absolutely everything. Church, bank accounts, house, cars, jewels, paintings, sculptures, the apartment at the beach, their home in the mountains, just to mention a few things. The blood rushed to his face, and he could barely breathe. Meanwhile, she picked imaginary bits of lint off her skirt.

In a fit of generosity, or perhaps so she wouldn’t have to hear one word out of his mouth, she let him keep the first station wagon the church ever bought.

“So you can see I’m acting in good faith. You’re creative at some things. See what kind of business you can start with it,” she said with the tone of a movie psychopath. “Or do you want me to give you all the ideas, too?”

“Thanks, that won’t be necessary,” he answered, making no effort to hide his contempt.

He lost no time. The very next day, he removed the last row of seats from the wagon. He cut open the roof and the sides halfway up, right behind the double doors, and, with that, tore the word “Church” off the vehicle. He converted it into a home-made pickup truck. He added the word “Plant” with spray paint, and thus was born his new business: Plant Rebirth. He got busy pruning gardens, planting bushes, and spreading the good word. Until one day, a client’s sister, who was visiting the Island, told him there was a need for people of faith in New Jersey who could preach in Spanish.

Haydée Zayas-Ramos writes for children, young readers, and adults. She has published a short story collection, novels, and poetry for children, as well as myths and plays for primary school textbooks. Among her publications are: Un café con la elefanta (children’s), with Hilo Colectivo Books, Burbujas de chicle and Los tres Reyes Magos y sus calzoncillos de colores (both for children), Y de pronto nos llegó un Norte (YA novel), and El álbum de don Carlos (memoirnovel), all with Editorial EDP University. Among her accolades are: First prize for a children’s story from the magazine ADIÓS Cultural (España 2023); Silver medal, Best Fantasy Book in Spanish for La jirafa que no cabía en su cuento; the 2022 International Latino Book Awards (U.S.A.); Puerto Rican Writers in Children’s Literature (2022). The Puerto Rican Center of PEN International has recognized her work twice: for Poemas para Ali (children’s book, 2018) and the first edition of Anoche te soñé (2022).

Josefina Báez

LEVENTE NO. YOLAYORKDOMINICANYORK1

Realismo panfletario.

Saga simplista.

Texto ratatá. Novela en Dominicanish.

Microrelatos del macro cosmo que es el Ni e’. Bucle interminable.

Eros con un pa’cá y un pa’llá, buscando lo que no se le ha perdido.

Una isla-pueblo-barrio-mundo-edificio. Película diaria.

Documental de todos los días.

Donde si ves algo no se dice algo.

Se dice de más.

Aquí es Manhattan. Allá, Erre De.

Tú, yo o alguien a quien conocemos.

Dominican@ o no.

Book’s Opening:

Quizás se llama Jahaira, Jessica, Yesenia, Jennifer, Isha, Aisha, Ashley, Michelle, Chantelle, Tiffany, Stephanie, Melody, Nicole, Destiny, Ambar. Katiuska, Ninoska, Veruska. O Yaneris, Yuleidys, Yubelkis, Orlidy, Isawil, Marnel. Phoebe, Chloe or Zoe.

Uno de esos nombres de las niñas de la migración. Lo que sí sabemos es que es 1ra generación.

High school? GED.

Con 27 años de edad

Cumplidos vividos viviendo viviendo

27 pa’50.

¡Whatever!

But in terms of my name... none of the above ‘mija.

I am pure history. Mira. Seat. Seat and listen.

1 The following pages present an excerpt from Josefina Báez’s performance text and novel LEVENTE NO. YOLAYORKDOMINICANYORK (2012) followed by a selection of recent blog posts from the website on which the protagonist offers comments and thoughts on current—personal and public—events.

My name is Quisqueya Amada Taína Anaisa Altagracia Indiga. You can call me Kay.

El cocolo, mi timacle, calls me chula. He calls me Chula and hisderriengue. And the rest Gorda.

They call me La Gorda.

Chiquita, gorda, mal tallá.

No soy vacana. Ni matatana ni un mujerón.

Muy normalota. Molleta. Una morenota.

Otra prieta mas. Sin na’ atrá. Bling bling ain’t for me.

But you will not believe lo que yo gusté en Erre De.

Well, not me, me, me.

But me my USA passport.

Me my many gifts.

Me paganini.

Me my hot hip hop steps.

Me mambo violento.

Mambo de calle.

Mambo rabioso. Mi mambo sabroso.

Raggetón.

Bachata urbana.

Dembow, dembow, dembow. Boleros not even in a dream.

Me my mami chula salsa swing.

Me Chercha Royalty, Merengue Queen, Bachata Princess.

Me Queen of the Can. Domini can that is Me, my bachata perreo. Clothes and accessories as in the lastest video.

Eee Ooo.

También mandé tres cajas de comidas y dos drones, full de to’.

¡Hello!

We all live in the same building. El Ni e´.

My mother, grandmother, la comadre-mi madrina, el ejemplo, la quiero a morir. Estela La Colora’ del 3A. La flaca del 6J, la que jode con los

jodedores de laesquina. Y cuando ella jode, la línea \J completa lo sabe. La cama salta, ataca. La cama baila. Y la música a mil. Y todos cantamos “Sigue flaca, sigue, sigue”. www.laflaca punto com. Argentina lee taza. Bélgica traduce, llena formularios y los taxes. Minga, la que camina para que la vean. Anda tuti, cuerpo ñoño. Porque ella se siente buenonga. Privando en su rabo parao. Su fuiche pullú. Su culazo. Nunca se sienta ni duerme boca arriba para que no se le aplane su tesoro. “mejor várices que chata, mija”. Asia da cantinas. Ada da consejos. Incluido el de lavarse con alumbre. Y Miguelina, la del 3m, se lo da al bodeguero. Ese que le dice “primo” al barrio entero. Los viernes llega Atalanta de la factoría de Ignacio y frente al buzón, viendo sus biles grita: “Llegué yo, la hija de Esperanza la billetera. Cansá, cobra´, cabriá, con celular y celulitis, comiendo cerezas y ciruelas.

Cámbiame los vasos y los hombres, coño”.

Cómo se dice nata en inglés?

Nata?

Naraaaa. Nitaaaa.

Naaaara? Niiitaaaa?

Yo todavía me estoy riendo de las ocurrencias de Cheila, óyela:

“Esteban y yo nos dejamos hace una semana. Yo lo llamé para que viniera a ponerme tres bombillos que se fundieron.

— “Qué bombillo ni bombillo, yo sé pa’ qué tu me llamas”.

“¿Tú crees que yo te estoy llamando por el ripito viejo ese?”.

— “ Si, zorra fresca”.

“Y si es así, ¿qué tu va a hacer?”.

— “ A subir, yo estoy aquí abajo”.

“Un día de estos, nos vamos a soltar en banda. Pero ya que estas ahí, zorro tímido, sube, sube Esteban- dido. Sube allántame y pónme el bombillito ese”.

Andrea la del 6o piso realizes the truth.

Tú has estado conmigo durante la muerte de tanta gente en mi familia.

Tú has estado conmigo cuando perdí el trabajo.

Tú has estado conmigo cuando los dos accidentes.

Tú has estado conmigo cuando se me quemó la casa allá en Villa.

Tú has estado conmigo cuando me dieron deposé.

Tú has estado conmigo cuando me deportaron la primera vez.

Tú has estado conmigo cuando me asaltaron.

Tú has estado conmigo cuando me dijeron que tenía cáncer.

Coooooño hombre er diantre, tu me has traido demasiado mala suerte.

Coge tu rilí, fuku del coño.

EL NI E’: Blog de “la Kay”, protagonist of Levente no.yolayorkdominicanyork

A selection of recent entries

Josefina Báez (Dominican Republic/USA/El Ni E’ —from place to space). ArteSana. Devotee. Performance Autology (PA) alchemist. Performance Autology: coined & being developed since April 1986; journey from body to consciousness/embodied consciousness/body in alertness, in the route to wisdom; day to day practices as an independent artist in order to manage awareness, physical and mental health; from movement to stillness and its path; from sound to silence, and all in between. Embroidered with humor, joy and gratitude, regardless; self-culture harnessing; many of the findings are transferable to others & invite the development of each practitioner’s own PA. PA, Self-Culture-World culture; a practical journey from youth to adulthood to elderhood, illness and death. Joy is a vital element present in her narrative, practice and teachings, while transiting the continuum from its most quotidian realm. Glad and in total gratitude as an artist en ‘la tercera edad’. Báez continues delving into the present. Currently holding readings, performances, workshops and individual residences, online and inperson. Baez’s archive is housed at the Columbia University’ Rare Books & Manuscripts archive.

Ahmel Echevarría

DOS FRAGMENTOS DE CABALLO CON ARZONES1

13. Breve conversación con Robespierre Diálogo donde el cerdo habla sobre la noción del mundo

Ahora estoy allí, en el living de un pequeño apartamento. Mi apartamento. Sentado en un cómodo butacón me veo sonreír mientras Robespierre hociquea entre las patas de los muebles. Su hocico roza el frío enlosado blanquinegro. Leve capa húmeda. Que se evapora. Con marcada persistencia esta vez solo insiste sobre las baldosas negras.

La pezuña arañando.

Bronco resoplido.

Buscando… buscando...

La enorme cabeza empuja el butacón.

Sí, me levanto para que el cerdo haga lo suyo.

Me pide disculpas. La pezuña indicando el hallazgo, la “sorpresa” debajo del mueble. Una exquisita Tuber Melanosporum según Robespierre.

Hay una trufa y debo apartarme.

Insistirá. Hasta conseguirlo.

La pezuña arañando.

Bronco resoplido.

Ceder. Levantarse.

¿Cómo moverse con gracia ante la insistencia de un cerdo? ¿Cómo moverse con gracia dentro del cuerpo de un hombre?

¿Cómo mirar / observar con los miopes ojos de un hombre? ¿Cómo asociar, de cuanto acontece en el entorno de Lo Real, con los ojos y el cerebro de un hombre?

Robespierre. Dorada la piel, músculo cocido y jugoso. Aderezada la carne con zumo de naranja agria, ajo, comino y sal; yo le hubiera puesto un poco de pimienta. El aliño haciendo su trabajo en los músculos del cerdo. Ah… el aroma del palo de guayaba. Crujiente el pellejo. Las gotas de

1 [Nota de edición] Estos textos forman parte del libro de ficción Caballo con arzones, publicado por el autor en Letras Cubanas (Cuba, 2017) y galardonado con los premios Alejo Carpentier de Novela 2017, Editorial Letras Cubanas, 2017, y Premio de la Crítica Literaria de 2017. Con permiso del autor y de la editorial, lo incluimos en este número de Hostos Review / Revista Hostosiana debido a su particular despliegue de recursos como el absurdo, la ironía, la hipérbole, lo sarcástico, la personificación o lo grotesco. El texto es ilustrativo del poder de estos instrumentos para la crítica y para la exploración de lenguajes que nombren el colonialismo, el género, el deseo, el amor y otras complejas dinámicas sociales en la Cuba actual y otros contextos.

manteca caen una y otra vez sobre el enlosado. Mientras, el cerdo no pierde de vista mis pasos. Sus pequeños ojos. Como dos brasas.

Robespierre. El cerdo.

Su cabeza se inclina hacia la derecha, regala una mueca parecida a una sonrisa. ¿Es acaso el inicio de algo? ¿Un posible diálogo? ¿Una charla con ese hombre de los dreadlocks y gafas de montura negra? ¿El cerdo dispuesto a conversar conmigo sabiendo que hay una trufa a la espera? Quizá se produzca el diálogo porque conmigo la trufa no corre peligro.

Robespierre. Las pezuñas. La losa.

Y ahora tritura una Tuber Melanosporum.

Robespierre. Vuelve a sonreír mientras me observa.

¿Cómo una mujer es conquistada por un hombre?

El sonido de sus pezuñas sobre el enlosado.

¿Cómo un hombre penetraría a una mujer?

Su enorme cabeza levantada.

¿Cómo sería orinar a la manera de un hombre?

El hocico tras cierto aroma inadvertido por mí.

¿Por qué he pensado en un hombre si delante de mí solo está Robespierre?

¿Cómo un imperio, o un país, es conquistado por un hombre? ¿Acaso conquistar un imperio o un país no es penetrar un imperio o un país?

La persistencia de la sonrisa de Robespierre.

¿Cómo un hombre piensa a otro hombre? ¿Cómo piensa a una mujer?

¿Cómo un hombre piensa y construye un imperio?

El cerdo cierra los ojos.

Tal parece fruncir el ceño. La posibilidad de fruncirlo.

¿Cómo un hombre penetra a otro hombre? ¿Cómo entiende el acto de la penetración?

El cerdo se ha tumbado. Desde las frías baldosas me ve caminar hacia el butacón. Mueve su testa; una suerte de detector de objetos, de movimientos. Y lo es. Y resopla. Bronco el sonido de su garganta tan pronto ve cómo me voy hundiendo… cómo me voy acomodando entre los brazos del butacón.

Un hombre también podría desear, intensamente, penetrar a un hombre travestido que todavía conserva su pene, su pinga. Una pinga nervuda bajo una falda o un pantalón ceñido cuando el cuerpo del hombre travestido está erotizado. Horadar en reversa… esto, por supuesto, no tiene sentido; no se puede abrir un agujero si el objeto punzante se desplaza en sentido contrario. Tal vez lo correcto sea pensar en otra forma verbal —por ejemplo: ensanchar— como parte de la acción de horadar: simplemente retroceder y ampliar o dilatar el agujero, tomar distancia para luego golpear y penetrar más hondo. ¿Horadar de reversa? ¿Clavar por la reversa? Sin embargo, no suena mal: “horadar en reversa”. Tampoco es tan descabellado.

Un hombre también podría desear intensamente ser penetrado por un hombre travestido. Y mientras ocurre algo extraño sucede. El hombre penetrado podría verbalizar la intensidad de su deseo del modo siguiente: “Méteme el bollo”.

Méteme el bollo: horadar intensamente incluso desde el lenguaje, en reversa. El extrañamiento del lenguaje. Horadar el lenguaje, sembrar allí una alternativa.

Robespierre. Mueve el hocico.

La noción de un hombre, es decir, su noción del mundo, gira sobre un eje. Enhiesto. Un pene nervudo. Da igual lo ensartado. ¿Acaso me equivoco?

Y pestañea el cerdo.

¿Cuál es la noción de un hombre que ha decidido separarse definitiva e intensamente de su pene y reemplazarlo por una tibia y profunda cavidad / furnia / vagina / bollo? ¿Cuál es su noción del mundo? ¿Acaso el eje no sigue siendo una pinga nervuda?

La ausencia del pene es una fuerte presencia.

El cerdo pestañea con cierto desasosiego.

Para demostrar una verdad un hombre es capaz de decir, de gritar: “me corto la pinga si eso no es verdad”. Da igual si horada la carne en o por la reversa, da igual si prefiere que lo horaden, da igual si ya ejecutó el performance del cambio o “reasignación” de sexo. “Reasignación”… vaya palabreja.

La ausencia del pene es una fuerte presencia.

Robespierre. Tumbado frente a mí.

Sonríe mientras ve cavilar a ese hombre de rostro anodino y gafas de aumento.

Robespierre. El cerdo que cavila.

Un hombre de rostro anodino o una mujer que piensa. Que piensa una máscara. El hombre de rostro anodino, dreadlocks y gafas de aumento es simplemente la máscara.

Robespierre. Un ruidito con la garganta. Para aclarar la voz.

El cerdo levanta la cabeza y le dice a ese hombre que cavila, es decir, a esa mujer blanca de lejano acné en las mejillas, una mujer arrojada a la abstracción: “Cualquier esfuerzo con tus neuronas, el pensar, lo que se llama verdaderamente pensar, situarse y confrontarse antes de permitir el paso de la más pequeña oración principal o subordinada, debilita a un hombre”.

Un parlamento espetado por un cerdo abduce o arroja de sus cavilaciones al hombre. A la mujer que soy. Nos toma por sorpresa. Robespierre. Trastabilla al sentarse. El repique de sus pezuñas sobre las baldosas y el eco de los pasos en el apartamento sumido en cierta penumbra, en cierto silencio.

El cerdo. Con el hocico levantado. Frente a mí: “Llevo media hora mirándote, escuchándote cavilar… sintiendo el olor y el sonido de tu

abstracción. Por favor, permíteme una precisión y no lo tomes a mal: El pensar debilita al hombre, debilita a la mujer. Y no lo digo yo, que te lo digo, lo dijo Camus…”

Con el leve golpeteo en la puerta dejamos, o dejó, en un punto suspensivo el monólogo. Se volvió hacia la puerta, sus nalgas frente a mí. El rabito tostado, un dorado tirabuzón.

Y de espaldas a mí: “Alguien siempre llama a la puerta en el momento más intenso. ¿No lo has notado? Todavía insisten en que es un clisé… Ve y abre, por favor. Ya sabes quién llama a tu puerta. Mira la hora, tan puntual... ¿Inoportuno?”

Un gesto del cerdo como si se encogiera de hombros. Claro, sabía quién estaba del otro lado de la puerta esperando por mí. Hilillos de sangre, indetenibles, corriendo sobre la frente y las mejillas. Un agujero en el cráneo, el ojo a medio salir de la cuenca. Grumos de seso entre los cabellos, sobre los hombros, confundidos en el estampado de su camisa.

¿Cómo moverse con gracia en un cuerpo de hombre decidido a desembarazarse de una inoportuna visita?

Otro gesto de Robespierre. Ese gesto de “encoger” los hombros: “Camina como siempre lo has hecho: un paso detrás de otro. Abre la puerta tal como lo haces todos los días. Lo de la máscara es harina de otro costal... Ya que insistes en lo mismo, por lo pronto aprovecha cualquier debilidad, el concepto de debilidad según Camus”.

Además, dijo: “No encojas los hombros. Llevo casi una hora mirándote, escuchando y oliendo tu pensar”.

¿Nos debilitaría poner sobre el filo de la navaja la noción que tenemos del mundo? ¿Nos hace más vulnerables según el cerdo, según Camus?

La certeza de la vulnerabilidad.

La certeza del mundo.

Caminar, entonces, sobre la hoja de la navaja.

Una hoja recién afilada.

Abrir la puerta.

Pongamos que ahora ese joven negro, dispuesto a abrirle la puerta al vecino, debe sonreír.

Ahora debo sonreír.

36. Breve conversación con Robespierre Diálogo donde el cerdo habla sobre el futuro

Suaves y pausados los golpes en la puerta, tan rítmicos. Es su forma de llamar, el aviso de su visita. Da igual la hora, el clima, su estado de ánimo; Robespierre, tratando de no importunar.

Luego del bronco sonido tras el saludo, el cerdo, con sus ojitos y el hocico, va más allá de mis ojos, mi rostro. Su manera de mirarme y olfatear, antes de cruzar el umbral y tumbarse en el living, me lleva a imaginar que busca hacerse puro plasma para entonces cruzar la órbita de mis ojos; una vez dentro de mí, caminaría en el mismo sentido del torrente sanguíneo; sí, esa debería ser la ruta, para luego llegar a mi cabeza y acostarse allí, tal como lo hace en el living.

Entonces, tras un breve silencio en el que estamos frente a frente, la oración salida de sus fauces marcará su decisión: hacerme la visita o simplemente, tras el saludo, un comentario donde me aconseja la lectura de un libro, ver una película. Luego vuelve a su cuartón en el patio del apartamento de mi vecino —sí, el suicida.

Esta vez tomé de una oreja a Robespierre: “Entra, tienes algo que decirme. Lo veo en tus ojos” —no lo dejé cavilar, por la dorada oreja lo llevé al living.

“Anoche estabas en mi sueño. En mi sueño dormías y no era plácido tu sueño. Soñabas una mujer”.

“No sabía que podías”.

“¿Lo dices porque soy un cerdo, y porque lo soy no puedo soñarte?” Dio un rodeo y se tumbó frente a uno de los butacones, mi preferido. “Siéntate… siéntate, por favor”.

“Me refiero al simple acto de soñar” —acepté su invitación.

“Soñar no es un acto para nada simple… Si acaso, sencillo. Y tampoco lo es.”

En mi rostro un mohín, como de cansancio; la fatiga ante los meandros de su verborrea. Y le dije: “Te me vas por las ramas…”

“¿Por las ramas…? Esa manera de enunciar es una fatídica debilidad, una doble debilidad. Por favor, trata de construir o enunciar o comunicar tus dudas o certezas desde tu propia jerga”.

¿Acaso debía sonreír? Era una suerte de enroque su respuesta. Ante su embiste, le dije: “Cabrón, te decía que no imaginaba a un jodido cerdo, a un maldito animal, soñando. ¿Cómo iba a saberlo?”

“Tú y los gerundios. Cuida tu lengua… Parece mentira, ¿qué ha pasado por tu cabeza durante todo este tiempo? Bueno, ahora que lo sabes…”

La manía de dejar las frases en suspenso. Y no era falta de ideas, sino un aviso, la franca señal de ir por un nuevo round. Sí, obligarme.

No lo pensé dos veces: “Háblame de tus sueños. De tu sueño”.

“No era plácido para ti. Mírate las ojeras”.

“Eso ya lo sé”.

“Si lo sabes, ¿para qué preguntas?”

“No seas…”

“¿Un cerdo?”

Sí; por supuesto, reí. Y luego le dije: “Quiero saber lo otro”.

Un sonido bronco. Sus ojitos se volvieron dos pequeñas teas: “Era una especie de sinsentido”.

“Sigue, por favor. No me dejes…”

“¿Qué no te deje en ascuas? Cuida tu lengua.”

Él, siempre olisqueando, olfateando allí donde no debía. En mi cabeza, por ejemplo. Del interior manaba algo, del interior de mi cabeza quiero decir; el cerdo, el maldito cerdo, lo podía oler. ¿Cómo no sentirse desnudo? ¿Cómo evitarlo? Quizá si no me lo tomara tan a pecho… quizá debía preguntarle cualquier cosa, sonsacarlo, o rogarle…

Estornudó. Luego dijo: “No tienes remedio. Poco a poco aprenderás, o te acostumbrarás. Una de dos. Lo mejor es entrenar, utilizar enunciados falsos o tan reales como una máscara, que puedan abrigar, camuflar diría yo, lo que se desea tener a buen recaudo. Debes hacerte de un método para ocultar ideas, certezas… Qué digo. Ya ni sé. Mi sueño, ese donde te soñaba… trataré de ser lo más certero posible: mi sueño, ese donde tesoñaba-a-ti-durmiendo-plácidamente, y en el que soñabas a una mujer, no era en realidad un sinsentido. Por supuesto, me refiero a tu sueño, a ese sueño plácido que tuviste en mi sueño, no era un sinsentido…”

“¿Por qué te detienes?”

“Te dije justo lo que deberías escuchar… Ahora vendría la parte donde te hablo del sueño que tuviste, es decir, del que tuviste en mi sueño. Es como una muñeca rusa esa construcción onírica, o mental, la de tu sueño. Pero no, mejor no.”

“No seas…”

“¿Cerdo…? —una mueca parecida a una sonrisa, luego asintió— Está bien; se trata de dos personas durmiendo, soñándose. Un hombre sueña a una mujer y la mujer sueña al hombre. Un sueño dentro de otro, dentro de otro, dentro de… En ese constructo hay una paradoja. La paradoja eres tú, introduces un error de apreciación, de lectura. En mi sueño no eres un hombre sino una mujer, llevas una máscara muy bien hecha, muy realista digamos, es un rostro masculino: tu propio rostro. Sin embargo, siendo tú en mi sueño una mujer, eres un hombre para la mujer soñada por ti”.

“Eso ya lo he soñado, pero sin la parte del cerdo”.

“Lo sé. Si no te sorprende es porque sabes mi condición: soy un cabrón cerdo. Piensas que tengo ventaja sobre ti, que te manipulo”.

Sí, tocaba hundir la cabeza entre los hombros —la señal de la fatiga o la confirmación de la derrota, y le dije: “No sé a dónde voy con esto del

sueño, con esa conversación, la conversación con esa mujer en mi sueño. Tampoco sé qué persigo”.

“Sí lo sabes. Como bien sabes la verdadera condición de ese ser en tu construcción onírica: una mujer que es un hombre que realmente es una mujer que es un hombre que sueña a una mujer. No es una serie infinita. Es una máscara doble, termina en ti. El problema… tu problema es sencillo y a la vez no: sabes lo que persigues, pero no has encontrado las palabras justas para enunciarlo, es decir, para formular a verdadera pregunta”.

“¿Qué crees?”

Robespierre pidió disculpas. Estornudó. Sus ojos rezumaban lagrimones; era la alergia. Y pidió un poco de clemencia.

Pasitos en falso tras pisar la grasa manada de su cuerpo, las pezuñas no conseguían agarrarse en firme sobre las baldosas. Insistió hasta lograr el equilibrio.

Me levanté del butacón.

Lo vi perderse tras la puerta del baño.

Entonces estornudé. Varias veces. Mis ojos comenzaron a rezumar lo suyo.

Tuve que quitarme las gafas y secarme con las mangas del pulóver. Una rara mezcla mi sentir… y su pensar; la insistencia y la persistencia de su pensar. Yo… lo estaba atormentando… la maldita condición del gerundio en mis palabras. Qué más da eso ahora, lo estaba atormentando con mi pensar, con la doble ilusión de una mujer que era un hombre que era una mujer que era un hombre soñando a una mujer, una serie para nada infinita, la ecuación matemática para describir o entender un devenir, una noción de vida, una suerte de obsesión no solo por un cuerpo. El deseo y la obsesión por un cuerpo. Mi deseo, su deseo. ¿En un punto donde divergen? Aunque decir “obsesión” supongo sea incurrir en un error de apreciación, de lectura. ¿A ese desliz nos puede llevar el deseo? ¿Cuáles son las palabras justas para nombrarlo? ¿Cuándo llegan? ¿Cuánto hay que pagar, cuánto será el dolor que habremos de sentir antes de verlas fluir de nuestra boca?

“Has logrado, de súbito, entrar como una tromba en mi cabeza. El deseo y la obsesión por un cuerpo. Mi deseo. Tu deseo. El punto donde divergen… La imposibilidad de la concreción de mi deseo y el tuyo. Las razones tuyas, las mías. Ya sabes, sabes que sé, y sé que no hay chance…” — dijo desde el baño.

Claro, qué decirle al cerdo; mi cabeza estaba casi siempre enfocada en una serie cuya constante, su razón, era otra cifra.

Robespierre en el baño; casi interminable el continuo caer de un líquido sobre otro.

“¿Es otra la percepción del mundo cuando se orina de pie?”, grité.

Robespierre: un suspiro.

Robespierre: su enorme y dorada cabeza asomada entre la puerta abierta y el marco, el resto del cuerpo dentro del baño, como si el lomo,

perniles y cuartos delanteros hubieran sido devorados. Su cabeza parecía levitar.

“¿Qué creo sobre ese asunto de orinar de pie o sentado? Volviendo al tema que estás evadiendo… Evadiendo… fíjate, le tomé afición a los gerundios, pero no te preocupes, algo haré. Algo se hará. No está de más el pensar, insistir, situarse. Un asunto de deseos... Pensar en las cifras de eso llamado amor, en las infinitas formas de su paisaje”.

“¿Solo eso?”

“¿Qué más? ¿Qué más quieres?”

Y le dije, como en ráfagas: “No sé, esperaba una respuesta concreta”.

“Me apropiaré de una frase de Borges; por supuesto, la he pasado por el filtro de la razón: Nada sabemos del futuro salvo que difiere del presente. Disfrútalo. Disfruta el sueño aunque no parezca placentero. Sí, es una paradoja: disfrutar aquello que literalmente no se vive. Una paradoja, como el lenguaje… El extrañamiento del lenguaje. Como disfrutar un deseo.”

“Y tú, ¿lo disfrutaste?”

“Por favor, aunque no sea la constante o la razón de la serie del amor, de tu amor, no lo conjugues en pasado. Algo haré… Por lo pronto te digo: es como la cocción a fuego lento; la llama baja calentando la cacerola, trabajando pausada el músculo y los jugos para luego ser devorado. Caramba, se me ha pegado la enfermedad del gerundio”.

“Sí que sabes de eso. Cuánto sabes del amor”.

“Eres un cerdo, o una cerda… da igual,” —dijo Robespierre, tenía la cabeza medio gacha.

Antes de marcharse caminó hasta mí. Movía el hocico: “Nada debo decirte porque ahora mismo lo estás sintiendo. Lo hueles.”.

Asentí.

Robespierre hincó los cuartos delanteros frente a mí. No era exactamente una reverencia. Porque acercó su hocico a mis pies. Y los besó.

El beso allí, donde el gesto podía confundirse con una chiquillada, una broma de buen gusto.

El beso allí, para que el rubor, el suyo y el mío, fuera apenas advertido por el otro.

Sin volverse, rumbo a su cuartón el cerdo tomó las escaleras.

Ahmel Echevarría (La Habana, 1974) es narrador y crítico de arte y literatura. Graduado de Ingeniería Mecánica en el Instituto Superior Politécnico José Antonio Echeverría. En 2024 obtuvo la Cintas Foundation Fellowship in Creative Writing. Ha publicado los libros Inventario (Premio David 2004, cuento, UNION, 2007), Esquirlas (Premio Pinos Nuevos 2005, novela, Letras Cubanas, 2006), Días de entrenamiento (Premio Franz Kafka de Novelas de Gaveta 2010, FRA, República Checa, 2012), Búfalos camino al matadero (Premio José Soler Puig 2012, novela, Oriente, 2013), La noria (Premio de Novela Ítalo Calvino, 2012, UNION, 2013; Premio de la Crítica Literaria de 2013), Insomnio –the fight club- (Beca “Razón de ser” 2008 de la Fundación Alejo Carpentier, relatos, Letras Cubanas, 2015), y Caballo con arzones (Premio Alejo Carpentier de Novela 2017, Editorial Letras Cubanas, 2017; Premio de la Crítica Literaria de 2017). Entre otras revistas, ha publicado en Istor: revista de historia internacional, Hostos Review / Revista Hostosiana, Quimera, Revista Recial, New England Review y Review: Literature and Arts of the Americas. Colabora con la revista digital Artburst Miami, Rialta Magazine y El Toque, y es el autor de la columna quincenal “Por la ruta de la seda” publicada en Hypermedia Magazine.

Ahmel Echevarría

TWO FRAGMENTS FROM POMMEL HORSE1

Translation from Spanish by D. P. Snyder

13. A Brief Conversation with Robespierre

A Dialogue in Which the Pig Speaks About the Meaning of the World

I’m there now, in the living room of a small apartment—my apartment. Sitting in a big, comfy armchair, I see myself smiling as Robespierre roots around between the furniture legs. His snout grazes the black and white tile floor. A slight layer of dampness. Which evaporates. This time, with marked persistence, he lingers only on the black tiles.

Hoof scraping.

Rough grunting.

Searching… searching...

The huge head pushes against the big armchair.

Yes, I get up so the pig can do his thing.

He begs my pardon. The hoof points out the discovery, the “surprise” beneath the piece of furniture. According to Robespierre, it’s an exquisite Tuber Melanosporum.

There’s a truffle, and I had best get out of the way.

He will persevere. Until he gets it.

Hoof scraping.

Rough grunting.

To give in. To get up.

How can you move gracefully when faced with the persistence of a pig? How can you move gracefully within the body of a man?

How can you watch/observe with the myopic eyes of a man? How can you relate/associate, from everything that occurs in the realm of The Real, with the eyes and brain of a man?

Robespierre. Golden-skinned, cooked, juicy flesh. Meat seasoned with bitter orange juice, garlic, cumin, and salt; I would have sprinkled a little pepper on him. The marinade doing its magic on the pig’s flesh. Ah… the fragrance of guava wood. The crispy skin. The globs of fat drip over

1 Editor’s Note: These texts are part of the book Caballo con arzones [Pommel Horse], published by the author in Letras Cubanas (Cuba, 2017). In 2017, it was awarded the Alejo Carpentier Novel Prize, the Editorial Letras Cubanas Prize, and the Literary Critics Award. We include it in this edition of the Hostos Review / Revista Hostosiana in Spanish—with permission from the author and the Spanish-language publisher—due to his unique use of resources such as absurdity, irony, hyperbole, sarcasm, personification, and the grotesque, which are effective tools for social criticism and the exploration of complex personal and cultural themes, such as gender, desire, and love, in the context of early 21st-century Cuba and beyond.

and over onto the tile floor. Meanwhile, the pig keeps a close eye on my movements. His wee eyes. Like two embers.

Robespierre. The pig.

His head tilts to the right, giving him a grimace that looks like a smile. Is it perhaps the start of something? A possible dialogue? A chat with the man with the dreadlocks and black-framed glasses? Is the pig willing to converse with me, knowing that there is a truffle in the offing? Perhaps the dialogue arises because truffles have nothing to fear from me.

Robespierre. The hooves. The floor tiles.

And now he grinds up a Tuber Melanosporum. Robespierre. Again, he smiles as he regards me.

How is a woman’s heart conquered by a man?

The sounds of his hooves on the tile floor. How would a man penetrate a woman?

His massive, raised head.

What would it be like to urinate like a man?

The snout tracking a scent I cannot discern.

Why have I thought about a man if all that’s before me is Robespierre?

How is an empire, or a country, conquered by a man? Isn’t conquering an empire or a country the same as penetrating an empire or a country?

The tenacity of Robespierre’s smile.

How does a man think of another man? How does he think of a woman?

How does a man conceive and build an empire?

The pig closes his eyes.

He appears to frown. The hint of a frown. How does a man penetrate another man? How does he view the act of penetration?

The pig has flopped down on the floor. From the cool tiles, he watches me walk toward the big armchair. He moves his head, like some kind of object-and-motion-detector. And he is. And he grunts. A guttural sound escapes his throat as soon as he sees me sinking down... settling my body into the arms of the big, comfy chair.

A man could also deeply desire to penetrate a transvestite who still has his penis, his cock. An erect cock beneath a skirt or tight trousers when the male transvestite’s body is eroticized. Reverse drilling… of course, this makes no sense; you cannot drill a hole if the penetrating object moves in the reverse direction. Perhaps it would be more accurate to think of another verb—for example, to widen—as part of the action of piercing: simply retreating and enlarging or expanding the hole, creating distance in order to strike again later, penetrate deeper. Reverse burrowing? Reverse hammering? Still, “reverse burrowing” doesn’t sound too bad. It’s not far-fetched, either.

A man might also intensely desire to be penetrated by a transvestite man. And while it’s happening, something strange occurs. The penetrated man could verbalize the depth of his desire as follows: “Stick your beaver in me.”

Stick your beaver in me: Intensely burrowing, even from a linguistic perspective, but in reverse. The alienation of language. To penetrate language, sowing an alternative there.

Robespierre. He wiggles his snout.

The notion of a man, that is, his notion of the world, revolves around an axis. Upright. An erect penis. It doesn’t matter what’s being speared. Am I wrong?

And the pig blinks.

What is the worldview of a man who has decided to separate himself definitively and intensely from his penis and replace it with a warm, deep cavity/an open chasm/vagina/beaver? What is his idea of the world? Isn’t his axis still a stiff wang?

The absence of the penis is a powerful presence.

The pig blinks with some discomfort.

To affirm a truth, a man is capable of saying, of shouting: “I’ll cut my wang off if that’s not true.” It doesn’t matter if you bore into the flesh, it doesn’t matter if he prefers for others to bore into him, it doesn’t matter if he has already performed the sex change or ‘reassignment.’ Reassignment such a peculiar expression.

The absence of the penis is a powerful presence.

Robespierre. Stretched out on the floor in front of me.

He smiles as he observes the myopic, bespectacled man with the nondescript face, pondering these matters.

Robespierre. The pig who ponders.

A man with a nondescript face or a woman who thinks. Who thinks a mask. The myopic man with a nondescript face and dreadlocks is, put simply, the mask.

Robespierre. A low noise in his throat. Clearing his voice.

The pig raises its head and says to the pensive man, that is, to the white woman with old acne scars on her cheeks, a woman lost in abstraction: “Any effort involving your brain cells, thinking, what is properly called thinking, taking a position, and facing yourself, even before allowing the smallest main or subordinate clause to slip out, weakens a man.”

A statement uttered by a pig fascinates or interrupts the meditative thoughts of a man. Of the woman I am. It takes us both by surprise.

Robespierre. He stumbled while sitting down. The clip-clop of his hooves on the tiles and the echo of footsteps in the apartment plunged into a certain gloominess, a sort of silence.

The pig. With his snout raised. In front of me: “I’ve been watching you for half an hour, listening to your meditations... perceiving the smell and

sound of your abstraction. Please allow me to clarify, and don’t take this the wrong way: Thinking weakens a man, weakens a woman. And it’s not me saying this, I assure you, it’s Camus...”

At a light knock on the door, we left, or rather he left, the monologue hanging in abeyance. He turned towards the door, his buttocks facing me. His toasted tail, a curly golden curl.

And with this back to me: “Someone always knocks on the door at the most intense moment. Have you ever noticed? They still insist it’s a cliché... Go and open it, please. You know by now who’s knocking on your door. Look at the hour. So punctual... Bad timing?”

A gesture of the pig as if shrugging his shoulders.

Of course, I knew who awaited me on the other side of the door. Unstoppable rivulets of blood running down their forehead and cheeks. A gap in their skull, an eye half out of its socket. Clumps of brain matter stuck in their hair, on their shoulders, mingled with the pattern of their shirt.

How can one move gracefully in a man’s body determined to rid itself of an inconvenient visitor?

Another gesture from Robespierre. That gesture of “shrugging” his shoulders: “Walk as you always have: one step after another. Open the door just as you do every day. The mask is another matter entirely... Since you insist on the same thing, take advantage of any weakness for now, the concept of weakness according to Camus.”

Also, he said, “Don’t hunch your shoulders. I’ve been watching you for almost an hour, listening to and smelling your thoughts.”

Would it weaken us to put our notion of the world on a knife-edge? Does it make us more vulnerable, according to the pig, according to Camus?

The certainty of vulnerability.

The certainty of the world.

To walk, therefore, upon the knife’s edge. A blade recently sharpened.

To open the door.

Let’s say that now the young Black man, prepared to open the door to his neighbor, must smile.

Now, I must smile.

36. A Short Conversation with Robespierre A Dialogue in Which the Pig Speaks of the Future

The knocking on the door is soft and measured, so rhythmic. It is his way of knocking, announcing his visit. No matter the time, the weather, or his mood. Robespierre, trying not to be intrusive.

After the grunting noise following the greeting, the pig, with his little eyes and snout, goes beyond my eyes, my face. The way he looks at me and sniffs me before crossing the threshold and plopping himself down in the living room makes me suspect that he wants to turn himself into pure plasma so he can pass directly through my eye sockets, and, once within me, he would walk in the same direction as my blood flows—yes, that should be the route, so he ends up in my brain and lies down there, just as he does in my living room.

Then, after a brief silence in which we stand face to face, the sentence that comes out of his mouth will reveal what he wants to do: to visit me or, simply, after saying hello, to make a comment advising me to read a book or see a film. Then he will return to his pen in the courtyard of my neighbour’s flat—that’s right, the suicidal man.

This time, I grabbed Robespierre by one ear and said, “Come on in. You have something to tell me. I can see it in your eyes.” I didn’t let him think twice about it; I simply took him by his golden ear and led him into the living room.

“Last night, you were in my dream. In my dream, you were sleeping, and your sleep was not peaceful. You were dreaming of a woman.

“I didn’t know you could.”

“¿Are you saying that because I’m a pig? And that, being a pig, I am incapable of dreaming about you?” He circled around and lay down in front of one of the armchairs, my favourite one. “Sit down… sit, please.”

“I refer to the simple act of dreaming,” I said, accepting his invitation.

“Dreaming is no simple matter... If anything, it is straightforward. And it isn’t that, either.”

A grimace on my face, wearied by the twists and turns of his verbosity. And I said to him, “You’re beating around the bush...”

“Around the bush…? That way of wording things is a fatal weakness, a double weakness. Please try to construe, express, or communicate your doubts or certainties using your own vernacular.”

Should I have smiled? His response was a kind of castling. Faced with his attack, I said: “Hey, asshole, I told you I couldn’t imagine a bloody pig, a damn animal, dreaming. How was I supposed to know you could?’

“You and your gerunds. Watch your language... It’s unbelievable, what has been going through your head all this time? Well, now that you know...”

His obsession with leaving sentences dangling. And it wasn’t a lack of ideas, but rather a warning, a clear signal we were going to go another round. To compel me.

I didn’t think twice: “Tell me about your dreams. About your dream.”

“It wasn’t easy for you. Look at the dark circles under your eyes.”

“I am aware of that.”

“If you know, then why do you ask?”

“Don’t be...

“A pig?”

Yes, naturally, I laughed. And then I said, “I want to know about the other one.”

A grunting sound. His little eyes became like two torches: “It was kind of nonsensical.”

“Please, go on. Don’t leave me…”

“Don’t leave me on tenterhooks? Watch your language.”

That pig, always sniffing around where he has no business being. In my head, for example. Something was oozing from inside, from inside my head, I mean. The pig, that damn pig, could smell it. How can you avoid feeling naked? How can you prevent it? Maybe if I didn’t take him so seriously... maybe I should ask him any old thing, prod him, or beg him...

He sneezed. Then, he said, “You’re hopeless. Slowly, you’ll learn, or you’ll get used to it. One of the two. The best way is to practice, using false statements or ones that are as real as a mask, one that can conceal, or camouflage, I could say, what you want to keep from public view. You must find a way to hide your ideas, your convictions... What am I saying? I don’t even know anymore. My dream, the one in which I dreamed of you... I’ll try to be as precise as possible: my dream, the one in which I-dreamed-of-yousleeping-peacefully, and in which you dreamed of a woman, was not actually nonsensical. For example, I’m referring to your dream, that peaceful vision you had in my dream, it wasn’t nonsensical...”

“Why are you stopping?”

“I said all you needed to hear… Now comes the part where I tell you about the dream you had, that is, the one you dreamed in my dream. That dreamlike construction is like a Russian nesting doll, the construction of your dream. But no, better not.”

“Don’t be…”

“A pig…?” he said, with a grimace that looked very much like a smile. Then, he nodded. “All right; it’s about two people sleeping, dreaming about each other. A man dreams about a woman, and the woman dreams about the man. A dream within a dream, within a dream, within... There’s a paradox in that construct. You are the paradox; You are making an error of judgment or misreading. In my dream, you are not a man but a woman. You are wearing a well-made mask, very life-like, shall we say. It is a male face,

your face. And yet, although you are a woman in my dream, you are a man to the woman you are dreaming about.”

“I’ve already dreamed that, but without the part about the pig.”

“I know. If you’re not surprised, it’s because you know what I’m like: I’m a real bastard of a pig. You think I have the upper hand, that I manipulate you.”

Yes, it was time for me to sink my head between my shoulders— the gesture that signifies fatigue or defeat—and I said to him: “I’ve no idea where I’m going with this business of the dream, that conversation, the conversation with the woman in my dream. I don’t even know what I’m looking for.”

“Yes, you do. As you well know, the true nature of that being in your dream construction: a woman who is a man who is really a woman who is a man who dreams of a woman. It’s not an infinite series. It’s a double mask and it ends with you. The problem... your problem is simple and complicated all at once. You know what you’re looking for, but you have yet to find the right words to express it, that is to say, to formulate the real question.”

“What do you think?”

Robespierre excused himself. He sneezed. His eyes were streaming with tears; it was his allergies. And he asked for a little forbearance.

Taking a few false steps after stepping on the grease dripping from his body, his hooves couldn’t get a firm purchase on the tiles. But he persevered until he managed to regain his balance.

I got up from the armchair.

I saw him disappear behind the bathroom door.

Then I sneezed. A few times. My eyes began to leak their own tears. I had to take off my glasses and dry them with the sleeves of my pullover. My feelings... and his thoughts, a strange combination. The insistence and persistence of his thinking. I… I was torturing him… the damn prominence of gerunds in my way of speaking... What does it matter anymore? I was tormenting him with my thoughts, with the double illusion of a woman who was a man who was a woman who was a man dreaming of a woman, a series that was not infinite by any means, the mathematical equation to describe or understand a future, an idea of life, a kind of obsession that was not only for a body. The desire and obsession for a body. My desire, his desire. At what point do they diverge? Although to say “obsession” is probably a misjudgment, a misreading. Can desire lead us to such an error? What are the right words to describe it? When do they come to us? How much must we pay? How much pain will we have to feel before we see them flow from our mouths?

“You have suddenly found a way to burst into my head like a downpour. The desire and obsession for a body. My desire. Your desire. The point where they separate... The impossibility of fulfilling my desire and

yours. Your reasons, and mine. You know, you know that I know, and I know that there is no chance...” he said from the bathroom.

Of course, what could I say to the pig? My head was almost always concentrated on a series whose mathematical constant, whose reason, was yet another cypher.

Robespierre in the bathroom, the seemingly endless flow of liquid falling on more liquid.

“Do you see the world differently when you pee standing up?” I shouted.

Robespierre: a sigh.

Robespierre: his enormous golden head peeking out between the open door and the frame, the rest of his body inside the bathroom, as if his back, hindquarters, and front quarters had been consumed. His head appeared to levitate.

“What do I think about urinating standing up or sitting down? Returning to the topic you are evading… Evading… Look, it seems I’ve taken a liking to gerunds, but don’t worry, I’ll do something about it. Something will be done. It’s always worth thinking, insisting, and taking a stand. A matter of desire... Thinking about the dimensions of this thing called love, about the infinite contours of its landscape.”

“That’s it?”

“What else? What else do you want?”

And I said to him, blurting it out: “Dunno. I was waiting for a solid answer.”

“I will borrow a phrase from Borges, which, naturally, I have filtered through reason: We know nothing about the future except that it differs from the present. Enjoy it. Enjoy the dream even though it may seem unpleasant. Yes, it’s a paradox: Enjoy what you literally cannot experience. A paradox, like language...The alienation of language. Like enjoying a desire.”

“And you—did you enjoy it?”

“Please, even if it is not the mathematical constant or the reason for the sequence of love, for your love, do not conjugate it in the past tense. I will do something… For now, I’ll say this: It’s like slow cooking, the low flame heating the pot, working slowly on the meat and juices so that they can be consumed later. Damn, I’ve caught the gerund disease.”

“You know all about that. You know so much about love.”

“If you’re a hog or a sow… it makes no difference whatsoever,” said Robespierre, his head drooping slightly.

Before leaving, he walked over to me. He twitched his snout: “I don’t need to tell you anything right now because you’re feeling it. You can smell it.”

I nodded.

Robespierre knelt down on his forelegs in front of me. It wasn’t exactly a bow. Because he brought his snout close to my feet. And he kissed them.

The kiss in that place, where the gesture could be mistaken as a childish game, a tasteful joke.

The kiss there, so that the flush of embarrassment, both his and mine, would barely be noticed by either one of us.

Without looking back, headed for his pen, the pig took the stairs.

Ahmel Echevarría (Havana, 1974) writes fiction and is an art and literature critic. He holds a degree in Mechanical Engineering from the José Antonio Echeverría Higher Polytechnic Institute. In 2024, he received the Cintas Foundation Fellowship in Creative Writing. His books include: Inventario (The 2004 David Prize for short stories, UNION, 2007), Esquirlas (2005 Pinos Nuevos Prize for a novel, Letras Cubanas, 2006), Días de entrenamiento (2010 Franz Kafka Prize for Novelas from Gaveta, FRA, Czech Republic, 2012), Búfalos camino al matadero (2012 José Soler Puig Award 2012 for the novel Oriente, 2013), La noria (2012 Ítalo Calvino Novel Prize, UNION, 2013; Premio de la Crítica Literaria de 2013), Insomnio –the fight club- (Beca “Razón de ser” 2008 from the Fundación Alejo Carpentier, relatos, Letras Cubanas, 2015), y Caballo con arzones (Premio Alejo Carpentier de Novela 2017, Editorial Letras Cubanas, 2017; Premio de la Crítica Literaria de 2017). Among other journals, his work has appeared in the magazines: Istor: revista de historia internacional; Hostos Review/Revista Hostosiana; Quimera; Revista Recial; New England Review; and Review: Literature and Arts of the Americas. He is a contributor to the digital magazines Artburst Miami, Rialta Magazine, and El Toque, and is the author of the biweekly column “Por la ruta de la seda” published in Hypermedia Magazine.

Awilda Cáez

TIERRA Y AIRE

Estimada doctora Afrodita:

Le escribo porque necesito ayuda. Imagino que ha escuchado esta frase antes y debe conocer casos más graves. Sin embargo, insisto en que el mío es de extrema urgencia.

Hace dos meses conocí a una muchacha. Nos enamoramos y somos muy felices. El problema es que he notado que la única carne que mi novia come es pechuga de pollo. Al principio no me extrañó. Pensé que lo hacía por algún padecimiento de salud o porque estaba a dieta. Hice preguntas como quien no quiere la cosa, pero por sus contestaciones descarté ambas teorías.

Cuando salimos a comer a distintos restaurantes, pide pechuga de pollo como sea: a la plancha, empanada, al ajillo, con pimientos. Eso sí, tiene que ser pechuga. Insiste al mesero en que si es cualquier otra parte del pollo, no la quiere.

Para su cumpleaños la llevé a Ruth’s Chris Steak House. Quería saber si lo suyo era algo circunstancial. Admito que lo hice a propósito; pude haberla llevado a Paco Pollo, pero disfracé con el lujo del restaurante mis verdaderas intenciones. Pensé que se animaría a pedir un buen filete de solomillo o una deliciosa lonja de carne al estilo Nueva York. Tan pronto nos sentamos, llegó el mesero y entregó el menú. Ella tomó su decisión en menos de un minuto. Escogió el único plato con pollo: uno entero marinado en hierbas y asado. Media hora después, ante la mirada de algunos comensales que imagino no podían creer lo que veían, mi novia recibió de manos del mesero un pollito jincho del cual devoró la pechuga. Ni siquiera rozó con su tenedor las alas y mucho menos los muslos.

Estoy muy preocupado. Ella actúa como si esto fuera normal. La próxima semana la llevaré a conocer a mi mamá, que está loca por verla. Ya me dijo que preparará el plato por el cual es reconocida y admirada por todos en la familia: chuletas can can. ¿Qué debo hacer?

El novio despechugado

Estimado novio despechugado:

Las relaciones amorosas deben estar basadas en la comunicación y la sinceridad. Debes ser honesto con ella y expresarle tu preocupación. Lo

que describes no me parece un caso de desorden obsesivo-compulsivo, más bien puede ser una cuestión de gustos. Pregúntale si tiene alguna aversión por las carnes rojas o el pescado.

Para la cena en casa de tu madre, aconsejo que le pidas que cocine una pechuga de pollo y la sirva con la chuleta can can, algo así como un plato “tierra y aire”. De esta forma podrás brindarle una alternativa a tu novia.

Estimada doctora Afrodita:

Gracias por contestar mi carta. Llevé a mi novia a conocer a mi mamá y, como usted sugirió, pedí a mi querida progenitora que incluyera en el menú una pechuga de pollo. Para que no sospechara nada, dije que era yo el que tenía deseos de comer carne blanca. Lo que ocurrió esa noche fue tan desastroso que, al recordarlo, vuelvo a sentir ansiedad y nerviosismo.

Cuando nos sentamos a la mesa, la comida estaba servida. Mamá preparó sus deliciosas chuletas can can y también la pechuga de pollo. Como había comentado que era para mí, la colocó en un platito al lado de mi cena. Después de la oración, nos dispusimos a comer. Habían transcurrido varios minutos cuando pasó lo que temía: mi novia se comió la ensalada y el puré de papas, pero ni miró las chuletas can can. Yo estaba pálido, sudaba, mis manos temblaban. Tenía que tomar una decisión rápido: por un lado, mi novia se quedaría con hambre; por otro, mi madre se ofendería si mi amada despreciaba su obra de arte culinario. ¿Qué hubiese hecho usted en mi lugar?

Se me ocurrió la idea de pedirle a mamá que trajera más puré de papas. ¡Si usted hubiese visto la alegría con la que se levantó a buscarlo! Aproveché que nos dejó solos para preguntarle a mi novia por qué no se había comido las chuletas can can. Ella, sonriente y relajada, contestó que no se las iba a comer. Fue aún más lejos: pidió un pedazo de mi pechuga de pollo. No supe qué hacer. Pensé en complacerla, pero tuve miedo a que mamá se ofendiera al ver en el plato de mi novia las chuletas can can intactas. Traté de convencerla de que se comiera, por lo menos, un pedazo y prometí que luego compartiríamos la pechuga de pollo. Volvió a decirme que no se comería la carne de cerdo. Entonces decidí negarle lo que me había pedido, para presionarla. Todavía hoy mi corazón se acongoja cuando recuerdo la expresión de tristeza en su cara. Sus ojos se aguaron y disimuló un sollozo. Al sentir que mamá regresaba, tomé el cuchillo, corté un pedazo de la chuleta can can del plato de mi novia y lo engullí. Quería que nuestra anfitriona pensara que su invitada había comido por lo menos un trozo de la carne. Mi amada no habló durante el resto de la cena y tampoco cuando la llevé de regreso a su casa. Desde el fin de semana pasado no sé nada de ella. ¿Qué debo hacer?

El novio despechugado.

Estimado novio despechugado:

Lamento mucho tu sufrimiento. A veces la vida nos pone en situaciones difíciles de aceptar. Si la preferencia de tu novia por las pechugas de pollo es algo que no puedes superar, es mejor que se separen. Es doloroso, pero es preferible sufrir ahora que luego. Si, por el contrario, piensas que es posible superar esto e incluso comer de vez en cuando una pechuga de pollo, creo que debes llamarla. Pon en una balanza lo que te gusta de ella y lo que no. Si se inclina hacia el lado positivo, debes intentar arreglar las cosas.

Estimada doctora Afrodita:

Gracias otra vez por contestar mi carta. Tan pronto leí su consejo, llamé a mi novia, pues entendí que todavía la amo a pesar de que despreció las chuletas can can de mi mamá.

Me contestó en un tono de indiferencia. Le dije que teníamos que hablar, que debíamos salvar nuestra relación. El inconveniente no había alterado mis sentimientos. Contestó que ella jamás podría amar a alguien que le negara una pechuga de pollo, porque el amor todo lo da. Le indiqué que es cierto, pero también el amor todo lo perdona, y yo estaba dispuesto a suplicarle. Dijo que me perdonaba, pero que no volvería conmigo porque “hoy es la pechuga de pollo, pero mañana puede ser otra cosa” y que ella jamás se casaría con un hombre tan maceta. Luego de esas palabras, enganchó el teléfono. No he vuelto a saber de ella.

La vida no es justa, doctora. Mientras yo estoy aquí, solo y sin esperanzas de que haya una reconciliación, ella está de lo más feliz. Un amigo me contó que hace dos días la vio en Martin’s Barbecue devorándose no una sino dos pechugas de pollo al carbón como si nada hubiese pasado. Sin embargo, yo, a pesar de que va casi un mes desde nuestra separación, no he vuelto a probar las chuletas can can de mi mamá ni las pechugas de pollo ni nada que me recuerde a este amor tan grande que acabo de perder por haberme enamorado de una mujer intransigente y maniática.

El novio despechugado.

Awilda Caéz es autora de Adiós, Mariana y otras despedidas (2010) con el cual ganó el Certamen Interuniversitario de Literatura de la Universidad de Puerto Rico. En 2013 publicó Manchas de tinta en los dedos. En el 2014 fue la antóloga de Latitud 18.5, con el cual ganó el International Latino Book Award en la categoría Best Fiction Multi-Author. En 2019 fue coautora de la novela Nadie descubrirá tus huellas, la cual recibió el segundo premio en la categoría Best Mistery Novel de International Latino Book Awards. El PEN Club de Puerto Rico le otorgó una Mención de Honor entre las mejores novelas del año. En el 2023 publicó la novela Todo el mal necesario, por la cual ganó el International Latino Book Award en dos categorías: Best Latina Themed Book y Best Popular Fiction Novel. Recibió también una Mención de Honor del PEN Club de Puerto Rico por ser una de las mejores tres novelas publicadas ese año. Sus cuentos han aparecido en antologías de Estados Unidos, México, España, Argentina, Italia y Puerto Rico. El Municipio Autónomo de Caguas la ha reconocido como Escritora Distinguida y Mujer Destacada en las Artes. Posee una maestría en Creación Literaria de la Universidad del Sagrado Corazón y un doctorado en Estudios Culturales de la Universidad Ana G. Méndez.

Awilda Cáez

EARTH AND SKY

Translation from Spanish by D.

P. Snyder

Dear Dr. Aphrodite,

I’m writing because I need help. I suspect you’ve heard that before and must know of more serious cases than mine. However, I would like to reiterate that my situation is extremely urgent.

Two months ago, I met a girl. We fell in love and are very happy. The problem is that I’ve become aware that the only meat my girlfriend eats is chicken breast. At first, I didn’t find it odd. I figured she was doing it because of some health condition or perhaps because she was on a diet. I casually asked her about it, but her answers ruled out both theories.

When we go out to eat at various restaurants, she always orders chicken breastsany style: grilled, breaded, with garlic, or peppers. But it has to be breast meat. She is emphatic with the waiter, saying that if it is any other part of the chicken, she’ll send it back. I took her to Ruth’s Chris Steak House for her birthday. I wanted to know if her preference was circumstantial. I admit that I did it on purpose. I could’ve taken her to Paco Pollo, but I disguised my true motives behind the fanciness of the restaurant. I thought a nice sirloin steak or a delicious New York strip might tempt her.

As soon as we sat down, the waiter came and handed us our menus. She made her decision in less than a minute. She chose the only chicken dish: a whole roasted chicken marinated in herbs. Half an hour later, beneath the gaze of some fellow diners who I suppose couldn’t believe their eyes, my girlfriend received a small, bland chicken from the waiter and devoured only the breast. She didn’t even graze the wings with her fork, let alone the thighs.

I’m very worried. She acts as if this is normal. Next week, I’m going to take her to meet my mother, who’s dying to see her. She’s already told me she’s planning to prepare a famous dish everyone in our family admires her for: chuletas can-can, deep-fried pork chops. What should I do?

The bare-breasted boyfriend

Dear bare-breasted boyfriend:

Love relationships should be based on communication and sincerity. You should be upfront with her and tell her about your concerns. What you’re describing here doesn’t seem to me to be a case of obsessive-compulsive

disorder, but is more likely to be simply a matter of personal preference. Ask your girlfriend if she has an aversion to red meat or fish.

For the meal at your mother’s house, I suggest you ask her to cook a chicken breast and serve it with the chuletas can-can, something like an “earth and sky” dish. That way, you can offer your girlfriend an option.

Dear Dr. Aphrodite:

Thank you for answering my letter. I took my girlfriend to meet my mother, and as you suggested, I asked my beloved progenitor to include a chicken breast on the menu. So she wouldn’t be suspicious, I told her that it was I who felt like eating white meat. What happened that night was so calamitous that, even as I recall it, I feel anxious and jittery all over again.

The food was already served when we took our seats at the table. Mamá prepared her delicious chuletas can-can and also chicken breast. Since I had mentioned it was for me, she placed it on a small plate next to my meal. After we said grace, we tucked into our food. Several minutes passed before what I had feared came to pass: My girlfriend ate the salad and mashed potatoes but didn’t even look at the chuletas can-can. I was pale and sweating, my hands shaking. I had to think quickly: on the one hand, my girlfriend would go hungry; on the other, my mother would be offended if my sweetheart rejected her culinary masterpiece. What would you have done in my place?

It occurred to me that I should ask mamá to bring more mashed potatoes. If only you had seen her joy when she got up to get it! I took advantage of the fact that she left us alone to ask my girlfriend why she hadn’t eaten the chuletas can-can. All smiles and relaxed, she replied that she wouldn’t eat them. She went even further: She asked for a piece of my chicken breast. I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to indulge her, but I was afraid my mother would be offended if she saw the chuletas can-can untouched on my girlfriend’s plate. I tried to convince her to take at least one bite and promised that we would share the chicken breast afterwards. Again, she told me that she would not eat pork. So I decided to deny her what she had requested, to put pressure on her. Even today, my heart aches when I remember the look of sadness on her face. Her eyes filled with tears, and she stifled a sob. When I sensed Mom was returning, I grabbed the knife, cut a slice of the pork chop from my girlfriend’s plate, and gulped it down. I wanted our hostess to think that her guest had eaten at least a bit of the meat.

My beloved didn’t say a word for the rest of the meal, nor when I took her home. Since last week, I haven’t heard from her at all. What should I do?

The bare-breasted boyfriend

Dear bare-breasted boyfriend:

I am very sorry for your suffering. Sometimes, life presents us with situations that are hard to accept. If your girlfriend’s preference for chicken breasts is something you simply cannot live with, it’s best to break up. It’s painful, but it’s better to suffer now than later. If, on the other hand, you think it’s possible to get over this and even eat a chicken breast now and again yourself, I think you should call her. Weigh the things you like about her against the things you don’t. If the balance tips toward the positive side, you should try to patch things up.

Dear Doctor Aphrodite:

Thanks again for answering my letter. As soon as I read your advice, I called my girlfriend, because I understood that I still loved her even though she had disdained my mamá’s chuletas can-can. She replied dismissively. I told her that we had to talk, that we ought to save our relationship. The minor setback had not altered my feelings for her. She replied that she could never love someone who would deny her a chicken breast, because love means giving your all. I told her that was true, but that love also forgives all, and I was willing to beg her. She said she forgave me but wouldn’t take me back because “today it’s chicken breast, but tomorrow it could be something else,” and she would never marry such a cheapskate And with that, she hung up the phone. I haven’t heard from her since.

Life’s not fair, doctor. While I sit here, alone and without hope of a reconciliation, she is as happy as a clam. A friend told me that he saw her two days ago at Martin’s Barbecue devouring not one but two charcoal-grilled chicken breasts as if nothing at all had happened. Meanwhile,even though it’s been almost a month since we broke up, I haven’t even touched my mom’s chuletas can-can again, or chicken breasts, or anything else that reminds me of the great love I’ve just lost because I fell for an uncompromising, fanatical woman.

The bare-breasted boyfriend

Awilda Caéz is the author of Adiós, Mariana y otras despedidas (2010), which won the Interuniversity Literature Contest at the University of Puerto Rico. In 2013, she published Manchas de tinta en los dedos. In 2014, she edited the anthology Latitud 18.5, which won the International Latino Book Award in the Best Fiction Multi-Author category. In 2019, she was one of the coauthors of the novel Nadie descubrirá tus huellas, which received second place in the Best Mystery Novel category of the International Latino Book Awards; the PEN Club of Puerto Rico awarded it an Honorable Mention as one of the best novels of the year. In 2023, she published the novel Todo el mal necesario, for which she won the International Latino Book Award in two categories: Best Latina Themed Book and Best Popular Fiction Novel, as well as an Honorable Mention from the PEN Club of Puerto Rico for being one of the three best novels published that year. Her stories have been anthologized in the U.S.A., Mexico, Spain, Argentina, Italy, and Puerto Rico collections. The Autonomous Municipality of Caguas has recognized her as a Distinguished Writer and Outstanding Woman in the Arts. She holds a master’s degree in Creative Writing from Sacred Heart University and a PhD in Cultural Studies from Ana G. Méndez University.

POEMAS CHIQUITOS PARA REÍR

Carajita jabladora

Carola habla sin parar, desde el lunes hasta el mar. Cuenta cuentos, inventa líos, y a veces charla… ¡con el río!

—¡Que el gato canta flamenco!

—¡Que mi tía viaja en cuenco!

Nadie sabe si es verdad, pero igual reímos sin parar.

La maestra le ha pedido que haga un “minuto en silencio”.

¡Pobrecita, qué castigo!

¡Casi explota como incendio!

Perro andariego

El perro Nerón no tiene correa, se escapa a diario por la azotea. Se va de tour por el callejón, saluda a gatos y come jamón.

Se monta en guagua, entra al colmado, le sirven huesos y está encantado. Lo han visto incluso en televisión, bailando bachata con un ratón.

Cuando regresa, ¡ay, qué tragedia! Trae cinco pulgas y media comedia. Pero su dueña no dice ni pío… ¡porque Nerón le espanta el frío!

Geraldine de Santis

Pajarito al ataque

Hay un pajarito loco en el zaguán, que ataca a la gente como un capitán. No quiere migajas, ni pan, ni alpiste… ¡solo robar gorras con gran despiste!

Se lanza en picada como avión de guerra, espanta a los niños, despeina a la perra.

Y si te descuidas en el balcón, ¡te arranca un botón del pantalón!

Dicen que antes fue mensajero, que vivió en Roma y en Marrero…

Pero ahora es un lío tropical, ¡con pico veloz y furia letal!

Doña Parlanchina

En la casa de mi abuela, vive una cotorra estrella: ¡habla más que un locutor y hasta opina del amor!

Se llama Doña Parlanchina, y a veces canta ópera fina. Imita al gallo, al carnicero y hasta al cura dominguero.

—¡Buenos días, doña Juana!

—¡Hace mucho no se baña!

—¡Ese bochinche no es verdad!

—¡Y apaga ya la electricidad!

Cuando llega visita, se acomoda, se maquilla y grita:

—¡Mira qué pluma más fina tengo!

—¡Ese peinado yo no lo entiendo!

Un día la abuela, desesperada, la mandó callar… ¡nada!

La cotorra se puso brava y empezó a hablar ¡en alemán y en árabe sin traba!

Hasta le han dado un programa en la radio, con voz de dama. Se llama: «¡Cotorra sin censura!» y es famosa en la llanura.

Geraldine de Santis nació en República Dominicana. Es narradora, investigadora, traductora. Desde el año 2006 escribe narrativa juvenil e infantil, además de investigaciones históricas. En el 2018 gestionó la adhesión del capítulo dominicano de la Organización Internacional para el Libro Juvenil (IBBY) y lo presidió del 2019 al 2022, cuando se creó el Fondo Bibliográfico IBBY RD-UNIBE, que alberga la colección privada más amplia del mundo de LIJ dominicana. Ha realizado numerosas investigaciones bienales sobre LIJ para la Fundación SM España mediante el Anuario Iberoamericano sobre el Libro Infantil y Juvenil-Literatura SM. Como autora, su bibliografía alcanza los treinta títulos publicados, entre los que figuran Nela, la revoltosa, Premio Barco de Vapor 2016, Dominicanas Fuera de Serie: +150 mujeres que transformaron la R.D, y La temible banda de los atracadores de sueños, ambos galardonados con el Premio Aurora Tavárez Belliard 2020 y 2023 del Ministerio de Cultura de la República Dominicana. Geraldine ha sido jurado de prestigiosos premios internacionales como Premio de LIJ Casa de las Américas 2024 y Premio El Barco de Vapor Caribe 2023, entre otros.

LITTLE POEMS JUST FOR LAUGHS

Translation from Spanish by Emily Hunsberger

Chatty Charlotte

Charlotte talks nonstop as if she’s on a mission, all week long, from Monday to fried chicken. She spins tales and stories into a tangle, she even gabs... to her own left ankle!

“My cat can sing flamenco and dance!”

“My aunt once flew in a bowl to France!”

No one knows if what she says is true, but we still laugh ‘til our faces are blue.

The teacher has pulled her aside in private sentencing her to “a minute of quiet.”

Poor thing, being punished to such extremes! She looks as if she’ll explode at the seams!

Nero, The Runaway Dog

Nero doesn’t have a leash, or even a collar. He slips out the door without a care or a bother.

Up and down the alley he does his daily laps, greeting the cats and slurping up scraps.

He hops on the bus and takes it to the store, where they pat his head and give him bones galore.

He even appeared on a show on TV, dancing bachata and barking with glee.

When he finally comes home, oh, what distress! He has five biting fleas and looks an absolute mess.

But his owner doesn’t scold him or take a harsh tone... because Nero is what makes her house a home.

Geraldine de Santis

Beware Of This Bird

There’s a daffy little bird flying loose in the hall, who charges at people like he’s ready to brawl. He turns his beak up at breadcrumbs and bird seed... he’d rather steal buttons off clothes like a fiend!

He swoops and nosedives like a military jet; the kids are terrified, the dog senses a threat. If you think you’re safe outside, don’t be misled, he’ll snatch the hat right off your head!

They say he was a messenger bird long ago, that he used to live in Rome and Bordeaux... But now he’s migrated to a tropical climate, a feathery menace with a dangerous diet!

Lady Babblesmith

When my grandmother’s pet parrot flies down from the garret, she gossips more than a talk show host, using her voice to roast and boast!

Lady Babblesmith is her name, and singing opera is her game. She also imitates Uncle Herman, and Father Leopold’s Sunday sermon.

“Well, good morning to you, Mrs. Wade!”

“It’s been a while since you last bathed!”

“All those rumors are untrue!”

“Please remove your smelly shoes!”

And should a visitor come around, she shouts loudly, all preened and proud:

“Finer feathers you’ve never seen!”

“My, you need a new haircare routine!”

Desperate, Grandma finally told her bird to shut her beak... not one more word!

But since this parrot is not out to please, she started squawking in Japanese!

The solution was to give her a podcast, and now she talks only if broadcast.

“Parrot Uncensored” is her brand, and the Lady’s gone viral throughout the land.

Geraldine de Santis was born in the Dominican Republic. She is a writer, researcher, and translator. Since 2006, she has been writing literature for children and young adults, as well as works of historical research. In 2018, she led the formation of the Dominican chapter of the International Board on Books for Young People (IBBY) and served as chair from 2019 to 2022.

The Fondo Bibliográfico IBBY RD-UNIBE, which houses the largest private collection of Dominican children’s literature in the world, was created during her tenure. She has conducted numerous biennial studies of Dominican children’s literature for the Spanish educational foundation Fundación SM España; these appeared in the publication Anuario Iberoamericano sobre el Libro Infantil y Juvenil-Literatura SM [Ibero-American Yearbook of Children’s and Juvenile Literature-Literatura SM]. As an author, her bibliography encompasses thirty published titles, including Nela, la revoltosa [Nela the Troublemaker], winner of the Barco de Vapor Prize in 2016, Dominicanas Fuera de Serie: +150 mujeres que transformaron la R.D [Dominicanas that Broke the Mold: Over 150 Women that Transformed the D.R.], and La temible banda de los atracadores de sueños [The Fearsome Band of Dream Burglars], both of which received the Aurora Tavárez Belliard Prize in 2020 and 2023, respectively, from the Dominican Ministry of Culture. Geraldine has served as a judge on panels for prestigious international literary prizes, such as the Casa de las Américas Children’s Literature Prize in 2024 and the Barco de Vapor Caribbean Prize in 2023, among others.

Guillermo G mez Peña

SELECTED POEMS FROM THEPANDEMIACHRONICLES

My Lab Test Results in Pandemia

50% lard

30 % Scotch

15 % sugar

And the rest…?

Red, very red blood cells

And parasites, lots of parasites

With ineffable names like…

• Tyrannosaur-starving parasite. ...

• Web-manipulating wasps. ...

• Male-killing bacteria. ...

• Ant-deceiving butterfly. ...

• Eye-infesting worm. ...

• Feminizing barnacles. ...

• Head-bursting fungus. ...

• Tongue-eating crustacean. Cymothoa exigua, or tongue-eating louse.

You barely made it, ése.

Desert Tarot

Since pandemia began, I have become an aficionado of tarot. My wife, a Cabot Priestess, is my mentor. She knows by heart the history and symbology. I don’t. I am just a psychomagic performance artist who tampers in the occult. Here are some samples of my self-styled tarot.

First card:

Work in the darkest corners of human condition:

• self-doubt = de/centered fear;

• the double mirror

• white supremacy is a historical brain injury

• your guilt & shame R created by historical amnesia

Porque buzo:

• artistic envy prays on your suicidal tendencies

Next Card:

The Empress @ The Border

a divination dance w/ swords am I alive or dead?—you ask to yourself while coughing blood

—A no-brainer

Keep breaking through The empress still speaking— Pendejo!

Come to terms with the color of your skin

— No. I did not choose to be born Mexican I’d rather be Russian or French

…I mean, for a day or two.

Next Card:

Not a good day to look in the mirror.

Next Card:

I ask the mirror, What does the end of Empire look like?

La 2-spirited Reina/King responds: “Black mirror/obsidian/not a window”

WHAT THE F*CK?

Next Card:

• An open window perhaps

• White guilt on your gallery walls

• Slowly dripping blood

—To whom is she asking this question?

Next Card:

• Brown invisibility on the liquid screen

The obsidian mirror of the bathroom…

• Red ghosts & cryptids, skinwalking across the desert

(I speak in tongues)

—I don’t get it yet— you think out loud

Translation to the social realm:

Big city memory:

Black blood on the streets of America ...and silence, glitch, white silence & fragility

Lots of privileged silence surrounding my 512-year-old wounded body My shining scars, las otras ...&, I almost forgot.

The 6th Card:

the macabre Russian doll you gave me S embedded in my Solar Plexussssss…

Weird phrase. Delete.

Covid Prayer I

1. Who is your potential killer? —you ask me

A white supremacist teen on meth?

A crime cartel sicario paid by your ex?

An unmasked baby? The neighbor´s lap dog?

A tiny white-haired grandma named Bridget standing behind you in the Walgreens pharmacy line?

A handsome European tourist?

Pedro, the generic Mexican gardener?

A random lover with a fake vaccine document?

Listen to me, pendejo…

Now, is not the time to take off your condom.

Guillermo Gómez-Peña is a performance artist, writer, activist, radical pedagogue and artistic director of the performance troupe La Pocha Nostra. Born in Mexico City, he moved to the U.S. in 1978, and since 1995, his three homes have been San Francisco, Mexico City and the “road”. His performance work and 21 books have contributed to the debates on cultural, generational, and gender diversity, border culture and North-South relations. His artwork has been presented at over one thousand venues across the US, Canada, Latin America, Europe, Russia, South Africa and Australia. A MacArthur Fellow, USA Artists Fellow, and a Bessie, Guggenheim, and American Book Award recipient, he is a regular contributor to newspapers and magazines in the US, Mexico, and Europe and a contributing editor to The Drama Review (NYU-MIT), the Venice Performance Art Week Journal, and Hemisférica, the publication of the Hemispheric Institute of Performance and Politics (NYU). Gómez-Peña is currently a Patron for the London-based Live Art Development Agency, and a Senior Fellow in the Hemispheric Institute of Performance and Politics.

Urayoán Noel

IMPROVISED AND RECORDED ON MY PHONE WHILE WALKING ALONG SPA BEACH, FLORIDA

Hello again. Now I’m improvising. My speech. My bah speech across from Spa Beach. Demens Landing Park. Really? Did I misread? Is my voice readable on your page. Or is my rage? Am I wearing enough rouge? Am I rogue enough? No road before me. Eroding always. As is my meaning. I invoke voices never in vogue. So goes my brogue. Where I go. Where I am now. In Florida again. Only a few hours from my mom. A bay beside me. A boy inside me. A buoy across from me. I’m here for a reading organized by Gloria Muñoz of Danzirly fame. (I mispronounced.) I love her book’s bilingual play. She’s Colombian American. She’s an official bard here. As official as any of us can be. Some of us officially or unofficially barred. We should never be fishing for officialdom. We should be afraid, very afraid, when condo developer luxury means playing Cream’s “Sunshine of Your Love” for who knows who and who knows for how long. Never really for us, I’m guessing. Whoever us is. Us in a more obvious sense for me here and now is me and you, my reader. Reading words I improvised on my phone and have since puked on a page for your pleasure. Us, inasmuch as why I’m here reading, would be me and fellow Boricua Amy Álvarez, Queens AfroNuyorican bard. Amy, Gloria, and I bonded a year ago during our Macondo sojourn. Gloria kindly decided she would organize a reading for us here and so Eckerd College will be welcoming us. I hope we read for some local Boricuas. I hope we can channel a hummingbird’s song, a mockingbird perhaps. Channel and bays. Our people here. Our many diasporas. Our soldiers and our shipwrecks. Our scars of empire. Ongoing. Free! Free! Free! Free every one of us from a museumized version of who we are. May we reclaim our words as weapons of any kind. Words are like weapons and can wound. Cher said as much. I’ll be her son for now. Women are always our builders amid empire’s meddling. Beyond a middling music. I claim somehow a symphony of poems, a deeper music, as you well know, dear reader (you’ve read enough by now). You have me read. Off-red is my bunion’s color, inflamed once again. From my airplane ride, a working bard’s voyage. Mobile in my privilege. More and ever more bile in my form. Why are we here? Why are Boricuas in Florida? Beyond Disney. Beyond jobs. Beyond colonial dispersals. My mom came here seeking a reprieve, perhaps, and now she may never leave. Her medical needs, her life companion, her decades here. Missing her weekend walks in Viejo San Juan, she shares

images of her old Old San Juan on her Facebook. I’m half relieved she may never see how her old Old San Juan has been displaced. Her, my, our old Río Piedras in ruins. A developer churn beginning. Bulldozed dreams. Never bulldozed memories. I admire my friends who came back or who would never leave. For organizing. For finding a way. For showing us a way. Showing me. I who am away. A wayward child. Son as in sound. As in guarachas I will always remember. Or how rhymes keep me linked. Never lip-synced will I be. You shall face my presence, dear reader, dear viewer. I am your page’s reckoning, your screen’s unwakening. Meanings unfreezing. Becoming free is for me an improvised journey. And always will be willy-nilly. And silly if need be. Beach speech is all I have. I am all legacy publishers will never embrace. Broods of voice enshrined in a wracked bodymind. Empire’s ships and airplanes have carried us and somehow we carried our own meanings. Defined all designs. Sea foam is my language. My spell is spelled in shells. My language of sargassum will keep you guessing. Nourishing algae of my uneasily flowing neural seas. Someone said modern life is an oceanic feeling. I feel oceanic everyday in my déjà vu and jamais vu. In my psychedelic lobes. My fried synapses are love handles of meaning (chichos del significado en boricua). Fun, if you can hold on. Which can be hard (music unheard). New meanings ushered in every day as we survive. Eckerd College will experience our reading, our eroding of monolingual meanings. Our gleaning. Possible universes hidden inside us. Alongside our given one. No language is given here amid so many cabbage palms. We’ll find our ravaged songs. No meanings embalmed for me. Give me sand. Cordgrass, please. Give me weeds. Of meaning. And meanings by way of weed, in honor of Reverend Pedro, even if I never really smoked. I always spoke and speak inside my weeds of language. My vocabulary of reeds. Driven by breeze. By all claimable air. Even as I err. My lungs. Ecologies. My road. Beyond all hegemonic boardwalks. Full of dark flashes. Lacking any warning. Where is my Caribbean Sea here? Now see here, dear reader. Dear viewer. Airplanes will fly across and along your bodymind if I’ve done my job. If I’ve become a seaside goldenrod. Lapping in your neural sea. A propeller of meaning. Awnings of sound. A possible dawning. A fragile ecology. Is who we are. A handful of mixed recyclables in a massive landfill of dispersals and upheavals. We’re people playing, finding speed, and also slowing down. As need be. So we can smell and hear and grasp and savor and visualize for once, in one fell swoop, so many dimensions of who we are and always have been. A poem is an experience in one fell swoop and any novel of mine will only ever be a succession of swoops. No prose will ever fell. Do you feel me, reader? Viewer, can you follow me? Here where worlds end and meanings begin. I respin like Haroldo de Campos. In my galaxies. Meço. Remeço. Recomeço. And so on. Amid so much horror, may a book’s promise be peerless. No dock or pier where meaning can be moored. An unmoored language is all I have ever wished for. One you and I can share. In my convulsive loneliness. In my

shame. In my preciousness and self-indulgence. As an only, an unhomely, an ungainly. [My words here are indecipherable.] On a lark. Meaning machine. No privileged view of progress. Meaning always remains. Remade anew. Remaindered. From corpses. Fossils. Of which? My bird will never be hooked. My word. Marine life. Submarine. Submerged. Go fishing elsewhere. For meaning. No ordinances apply here. We can fly. Neural seas. Flowing long and hard as only our neural seas can. A powerful breeze begins. Silencing my voice. And a new meaning is revealed. A new hum. A new buzz. Uncovered. Knowing no awning. I’m okay. Even when silence finally comes for me. A long way coming. Blazing fire. Lanes in a global brain. I embrace whichever hush becomes my song’s becoming. I learned and earned my oceanic silence as a child. On beaches or on docks. Piers. Like one in California. Alongside my dad. And his mom and dad. Who would die soon. Oceans are how we share. Aware. [We are air.] People die soon. [Again as indecipherable as my bodymind is insufferable.] I would never idealize silence. I remember my dad’s family. So many uneasy silences. So much unsaid. He and I. Especially. A silence. Mean less. How we avoid speaking because of fear. How we embrace our unmeaning. I find peace. Amid so much. Remains. Unsaid. No longer seeking a magical approval. Beyond ourselves. Maybe I’m enough for now. Finally. Here. As I am. In all my brokenness. [I can hear only shards of breeze. Debris of voice. A shrieking gull. Lungful of brine.] Language. A self. Published. As spoken. A car goes by and honks. A sign reads: “Smile, you’re on camera.” And I can see so much irony. Here I am claiming an improvised spiel on a phone as a journey of freedom. Phones and cameras and cyberspaces. Working for a global overlord. A global brain. Will never free us. Even so. We use whichever means we can find. And sing our mind’s eye. Our broken memory. Yes, I’m referencing Arcadio Díaz Quiñones. Knowing fully well we can never rewind. No going back. Only going deep. Deeper. Oceanically. Dissolving. Becoming one and none. Sunbaked meaning. Soaked and drenched syllables. Razed synapses. I’ve said before and I will say again. A book is always and can only ever be an acropolis. Which, paradoxically, is why books keep me alive. Each day. I see myself reborn. And dying. Defying. Myself. My language and yours. Claiming a sky I have never seen before. And will never see again.

Author’s Note: from Neural Sea, a hybrid work which avoids a specific glyph—following S and coming before U in our English ABCs—as a way of conveying a given queer Boricua bodymind’s experience of epilepsy, diaspora, and more. You may find my original video recording of “IMPROVISED AND RECORDED ON MY PHONE WHILE WALKING ALONG SPA BEACH, FLORIDA,” voiced beyond all voiceless alveolar plosives, here:

Urayoán Noel is a Bronx-based performer, professor, scholar, and producer of language-based works across several genres and fields. Originally from Río Piedras, Noel has published eleven books in English and Spanish: seven volumes of original poems, a performance score, a prize-winning monograph on Nuyorican verse, and English-language versions of Pablo de Rokha and Nicole Cecilia Delgado’s poems. A former Mellon, Ford, Howard, and Schomburg fellow, Noel has also received a Macondo fellowship for prose memoir and has performed for Barcelona Poesia, Enclave Global (Mexico), and Haus für Poesie (Berlin). Noel’s verbivocovisual works (including memes and video and sound poems) have been displayed in museums and gallery and performance spaces across New York and Borikén.

Yolanda Arroyo Pizarro

ME PARIÓ MI ABUELA, LA DE LA CHANCLETA

VOLADORA

La primera vez que lo dije tenía seis años y una convicción inquebrantable en el alma:

—A mí me parió mi abuela Petronila.

Lo dije así, con el ceño fruncido y la misma autoridad con la que se dicen cosas como “la leche con chocolate sabe mejor en taza roja” o “si pisas una grieta, se rompe la espalda de tu tía”. Verdades universales.

La gente adulta me miró como quien mira a un niño que acaba de decir que tiene un unicornio guardado en el cuarto. Pero yo estaba convencida. Convencidísima.

Si parir es criar, cuidar, alimentar, espantar cucarachas a chancletazo limpio y salvarte la vida con una infusión de albahaca, orégano y rezos susurrados… entonces, sí: ¡Me parió mi abuela!

Petronila no era cualquier abuela. Era una señora de voz gruesa, brazo fuerte y chancleta con GPS integrado. Bastaba que yo pensara hacer algo indebido y ¡zuaaaac!… la chancleta ya iba en el aire trazando la curva perfecta de la justicia. Yo sospecho que tenía estudios en física cuántica porque doblaba esquinas y me encontraba donde fuera. No había escapatoria.

Y, sin embargo, a pesar de los chancletazos —que para hacer honor a la justicia fueron pocos— yo la amaba como se aman a los aguacates maduros: con devoción y un poquito de miedo al pensar en no tenerla.

Ella me preparaba el desayuno como si fuera un ritual sagrado. Le ponía mantequilla al pan con la delicadeza de quien pinta un ícono bizantino. Y si yo decía que no tenía hambre, sacaba su frase de advertencia:

—¿Tú quieres que yo vuelva a parirte, pero a chancletazos?

Una aprendía rápido.

A mi mamá, la biológica, la veía poco. Trabajaba mucho y vivía en otros lugares lejanos a mi casa de Cataño. Siempre llegaba con cara de cansancio y olor a oficina cerrada. Cuando llegaba, me daba un beso y se iba a mi cuarto, a saquear los regalos que abuela Petronila me había hecho. Yo no tenía nada contra ella, pero mi devoción por abuela superaba el amor a la biológica, porque es que mi abuela era otra cosa. Ella no me pedía que la quisiera. Se lo ganaba a punta de cuentos, remedios caseros, regaños con refranes, y una puntería olímpica.

Una vez, en la escuela, la maestra nos preguntó:

—¿Quién los trajo al mundo?

Yo levanté la mano con entusiasmo:

—¡Mi abuela Petronila!

Hubo risas, claro. Pero yo no entendí el chiste. ¿Que no me creían? ¿Quieren pruebas? Tengo la marca en la pierna izquierda de una chancleta voladora del 78, y en el alma una Enciclopedia Cumbre entera de enseñanzas con olor a eucalipto.

Claro, yo sé que ahora la cosa es distinta. Que hoy en día el castigo físico se mira con otros ojos —y con razón—, que hablamos de crianza respetuosa, de inteligencia emocional y de no andar lanzando proyectiles domésticos. Pero déjenme aclarar algo: la chancleta de mi abuela no era exactamente violencia… era un mecanismo ancestral de corrección a distancia. Un boomerang emocional. Un wifi con forma de suela de goma de zapatería La Gloria que te recordaba los límites sin necesidad de gritos. Nunca hubo odio en sus vuelos. Había cálculo, corrección, precisión… y cariño con coraje.

Además, Petronila tenía una herramienta aún más poderosa que la chancleta: la mirada telepática. Esa mirada que atravesaba paredes, saltaba conversaciones y te llegaba directo al sistema nervioso central. Era una mirada que hablaba en código Morse: “Te estoy mirando. Sé lo que hiciste. Vas a ver.” Uno podía estar en la sala llena de visitas, fingiendo inocencia, y de repente sentir ese láser visual clavado en la nuca. Bastaba con levantar la vista y... ¡boom!, allí estaba ella, sin decir una sola palabra, pero con la ceja arqueada y los ojos encendidos como Wi-Fi de 5G. Y una reprendía la conducta de inmediato. Carraspera, tosecita disimulada y a corregir se ha dicho.

A veces me pregunto si ella era telepática o si yo nací con un chip incorporado que solo respondía a su frecuencia. Lo cierto es que nunca necesitó levantar la voz. Su presencia bastaba. Era la dueña de un poder que no se enseñaba en los libros de crianza: el arte del regaño silencioso, la pedagogía del gesto, la diplomacia del “no me hagas levantarme de este sillón”. Y una aprendía, ¡vaya que sí! No por miedo, sino por respeto. Porque sabías que detrás de esa mirada había una historia, una lucha, y un amor tan fuerte que hasta te corregía con elegancia.

Petronila me instruyó a cómo resistir el mundo. A no quedarme callada. A comer con ganas. A contestar con gracia. A tener orgullo, sin perder la humildad… ni la agilidad, por si la chancleta venía en camino. Así que no importa lo que diga el certificado de nacimiento. Ni el hospital. Ni los papeles.

Yo sé quién me parió. Fue una mujer de bata floreada de tiendas Capri, turbante de madama en la cabeza, chancleta en mano y corazón de tambor. Se llamaba Petronila y hacía el mejor arroz blanco con sabor a ajo del universo. Si alguna vez tengo que nacer otra vez, que sea de su risa, de sus ojos comunicadores y de su chancleta.

Yolanda Arroyo Pizarro es escritora y profesora universitaria. Es Premio Letras Boricuas 2022 de Mellon Foundation y Premio Narrativa 2024 de PEN International por su libro Afroalgoritmos. Recibió el Premio PEN Club

Puerto Rico National Short Story Award 2021 y el Premio del Instituto de Literatura Puertorriqueña National Creative Award 2021 por su libro Calle de la Resistencia. Su libro Afrofeministamente ganó en ese mismo año el galardón mayor otorgado por por PEN International a un poemario. En 2022 se convirtió en la primera autora boricua en publicar para Plaza Sésamo, con el proyecto ¡Listos a jugar! Storybook, y en octubre de 2022 la casa editorial de Columbia University Sundial House lanzó en edición bilingüe sus libros Negras y Yo Makandal. Su obra se ha traducido al alemán, francés, italiano, inglés, portugués, húngaro y kreyol. Ha brindado talleres en CUNY conferencias para Yale y Harvard, entre otras instituciones universitarias.

Yolanda Arroyo Pizarro

I WAS BIRTHED BY MY GRANDMOTHER, SHE OF THE FLYING FLIP-FLOP

Translation from Spanish by D. P. Snyder

The first time I said it, I was six years old and felt an unbreakable conviction in my soul:

“My abuela Petronila gave birth to me.”

I said it as simply as that, with a furrowed brow and the same kind of self-confidence with which one says things like, “Chocolate milk tastes better in a red cup” or “Step on a crack, break your mother’s back.” Universal truths.

The adults contemplated me the same way one would regard a child who had just announced they were keeping a unicorn in their bedroom. But I was convinced. Totally and utterly convinced.

If giving birth means raising, caring for, feeding, scaring away cockroaches by swatting them with flip-flops, and saving one’s life with an infusion of basil, oregano, and whispered prayers... then, yes: My abuela gave birth to me!

Petronila was no ordinary abuela. She was a woman with a gruff voice, strong arms, and flip-flops with built-in GPS. All I had to do was think something inappropriate and ¡zuaaaac!… the flip-flop was already flying through the air, tracing the perfect curve of justice. I suspect she had studied quantum physics because it would go around corners and locate me wherever I was. There was no escaping it.

And, nevertheless, despite the thwacks with a flip-flop, which, in all fairness, were few, I loved her the way one loves ripe avocados: with devotion and a bit of dread at the thought of not having her there.

She made breakfast for me as if it were a sacred ritual. She buttered my bread with the delicate touch of someone painting a Byzantine icon. And if I told her I wasn’t hungry, she issued her warning:

“Do you want me to give birth to you again by smacking you with my flip-flop?”

One learned quickly.

I didn’t often see my mother, the biological one, I mean. She worked a lot and lived in other places that were far from my home in Cataño. She always arrived looking exhausted and smelling like the inside of a stuffy office. When she got there, she would give me a kiss and then head off to my room to plunder the gifts that abuela Petronila had given me. I didn’t have

anything against her, but my devotion to my abuela surpassed any love for my biological mother because it’s just that my abuela was another kettle of fish. She never asked for my love. She earned it with stories, home remedies, scoldings containing proverbs, and Olympic-level marksmanship.

Once at school, the teacher asked the class:

“Who brought you into the world?”

I eagerly raised my hand:

“My abuela Petronila!”

Of course, there was laughter. But I didn’t get the joke. Was it that they didn’t believe me? Do you guys want proof? I have a scar on my left leg from a flying flip-flop in 1978, and in my soul, the wisdom of an entire Enciclopedia Cumbre, redolent of eucalyptus.

Sure, I know things are different now. I know that today corporal punishment is seen in a different light—and rightly so—, that we talk about respectful upbringing, emotional intelligence, and not going around throwing household items as projectiles. But permit me to clarify one point: My abuela’s flip-flop was not exactly violence... it was an age-old mechanism for remote correction. An emotional boomerang. Wi-Fi in the form of a rubber sole from La Gloria’s Shoe Store that made you aware of your limits without any shouting. There was never any hatred in their flights. There was only calculation, correction, precision... and a tender courage.

What’s more, Petronila had an even more powerful weapon than the flip-flop: her telepathic gaze. That gaze that penetrated walls, skipped over conversations, and hit you square in the central nervous system. It was a gaze that spoke to you in Morse Code: “I’m watching you. I know what you did. Just wait and see.” You could be in a room full of guests, feigning innocence, and suddenly feel that optical laser beam piercing the back of your neck. All I had to do was look up and... boom! There she was, not saying a single word, but with an eyebrow raised and eyes flashing like 5G Wi-Fi. And one corrected the behavior promptly. Some throat clearing, a little fake cough, and let’s make a correction.

Sometimes I wonder if she was telepathic or if I was born with a built-in chip that only tuned in to her frequency. What’s certain is that she never had to raise her voice. Her presence was enough. She was the owner of a power not taught in child-rearing books: the art of the silent rebuke, the pedagogy of the gesture, the diplomacy of “don’t make me get up from this chair.” And one learned. Oh boy, did one learn! Not from fear, but respect. Because you understood that behind that gaze there was a history, a struggle, and a love so strong that it could mete out discipline with elegance. Petronila taught me how to get along and resist in the world. How to not stay silent. To eat with gusto. To answer politely. To be proud without losing my humility… or agility, lest the flip-flop be headed my way. So it doesn’t matter what my birth certificate says. Or the hospital. Or the paperwork.

I know who gave birth to me. It was a woman in a floral robe from the Capri discount store wearing a madam’s turban on her head, with a flip-flop in her hand, and a drum for a heart. Her name was Petronila, and she made the best garlic-flavoured white rice in the universe. If I ever have to be born again, may it be from her laughter, her expressive eyes, and her flip-flop.

Yolanda Arroyo Pizarro is a writer and university professor. She is the recipient of the Mellon Foundation’s 2022 Letras Boricuas Award and PEN International’s 2024 Narrative Award for her book Afroalgoritmos. She received the 2021 PEN Club of Puerto Rico National Short Story Award and the 2021 Puerto Rican Literature Institute National Creative Award for her book Calle de la Resistencia. Her book Afrofeministamente won the highest award given by PEN International for a collection of poems in the same year. In 2022, she became the first boricua author to publish for Sesame Street with her project ¡Listos a jugar! Storybook, and in October 2022, Sundial House, a publishing project at Columbia University in New York, launched a bilingual edition of her books, Negras and Yo Makandal. Her work has been translated into German, French, Italian, English, Portuguese, Hungarian, and Creole. She has led workshops at the City University of New York (CUNY) and given conferences at Yale and Harvard, among other institutions of higher learning.

Angelina Sáenz

SELECTED POEMS

Is This Teddy Bear Undocumented?

The 3rd grader whose turn it was to take care of the classroom teddy bear at lunch asked her friend in the line if this bear had papers and should she handcuff him?

Isla mujeres

Aquí hay mujeres grandes por todas partes

Ellas dominan

Sus caderas desbordantes se derraman sobre los asientos de las scooters

Sus cascos cubren sus melenas de leona

Senos sin sujetador, ajustados en blusas sin tirantes

Sus hijos agarran sus piernas arenosas mientras sus hombres y mujeres caminan orgullosamente con el brazo alrededor de su cintura

Amplias sonrisas yucatecas se juntan en las aceras de la isla

Cantan carcajadas mayas mientras se reúnen frente a la taquería al [atardecer caribeño

Isla Mujeres

There are big women everywhere here

They dominate

Helmets cover their leona manes

Overflowing hips pour over scooter seats

Braless breasts snug in tube tops

Their children grab at their sandy legs as their men and women proudly walk arm around their waist

Wide smiles of Yucateca confidence on island sidewalks

Sing Mayan laughter as they gather at Caribbean sunset in front of the [taqueria

Calentando comida

en la cocina amarilla de mi suegra, con la pintura descascarada en la Calle Santa Ana en South Gate

El calor del comal se eleva y los frijolitos burbujean

La ansiedad de ser madre sin madre me trae aquí unos días a la semana

Para que me ayuden con mi bebé llorón que amamanto sin cesar

Duermo en una cama tamaño twin que huele a historia mientras mi suegra canta canciones de cuna a Amir presionando sus gordas manos juntas en cada sílaba

La puesta de sol señala la exageración diaria de Primer Impacto

Volteo las tortillas mientras escucho a la propaganda neoliberal maldigo en silencio como los medios aseguran nuestra continua colonización

Pero la música de introducción de Walter y Las Estrellas suspende el agotamiento, la depresión y el cinismo

Apago todo y me siento en el sofá, pongo al bebé en mi regazo y espero mi horóscopo

Leo. Eres la reyna absoluta del zodiaco. Reyna de corazones. Dondequiera que te encuentres, brilla la luz, el amor, la autoridad, el arte, la elegancia y el buen gusto. Eres la máxima en la maternidad, tienes fuerzas espirituales que te protegen. Superarás obstáculos y enemigos, y nadie puede decir que ha sido amado si no ha sido amado por ti, Leo.

Y por ese momento soy todo

lo que Walter dice que soy

I’m At The Stove

in my suegra’s yellow chipped-paint kitchen on Santa Ana Street in South Gate Comal heat rises and frijolitos bubble

Unmothered mother anxiety brings me here a few days a week to help with crying baby that I am endlessly nursing I nap in twin-sized bed that smells like history Falling asleep to suegra singing lullabies to Amir pressing his fat hands together on every syllable

Sunset signals Primer Impacto’s daily exageración I flip tortillas to their neo-liberal Latin American propaganda quietly cursing their contribution to our continued colonization

But Walter y Las Estrellas intro music suspends exhaustion, depression and cynicism

Apagando todo I sit on couch, scoop baby into my lap and wait for my horoscope

Leo. Tu eres el rey absoluto del zodiaco. Rey de corazones. Donde tu te ubicas, brilla la luz, el amor, la autoridad, el arte, lo refinado y el buen gusto. La máxima en la maternidad, tienes fuerzas espirituales que te protegen. Tu vas a vencer obstáculos y enemigos y que nadie diga que ha sido amado, si no ha sido amado por ti, leo.

and for that moment I am everything Walter says I am

Primera cita en el restaurante taix en Echo Park

Dices

Oye, ¿Sabes que es lo peor? Lo que, de verdad, me cae gordo. Es cuando dicen palabras de inglés con acento de español: Troca, marqueta, rayte. ¿Qué es eso?

¿Y a ti que te importa?

¿Qué me importa? Pues que no es correcto.

Sabes. Mi madre era inmigrante. Trabajaba graveyard y llegaba a las 6 de la mañana para llevarnos a la escuela. Llevaba 10 horribles años en este puto país, buscándose la vida. ¿Si a caso ella llegaba a decir marqueta o troca o rayte, qué pinche importa?

Pero Angelina. Si estamos hablando tranquilos. ¿Por qué te tienes que poner agresiva?

¿Pues, por qué tienes que ponerte de pendejo?

You’re not a fun date Angelina.

And you’re not a smart date, cabrón.

First Date at Taix Restaurant in Echo Park

You say

You know what really bothers me? The thing that that gets on my last damn nerve? When people use English words, with a Spanish accent, and think they’re talking Spanish. Troca. Marqueta. Rayte. What is that?

What do you care?

Why do I care? Because it’s not correct, Angelina.

You know, my mom was an immigrant. She worked graveyard, got home at 6am to take us to school. She spent 10 fucking years in this country, trying to make it as a single mom with five kids. If she happened to say, troca, marqueta, or rayte, who fucking cares?

Hey, I thought we were having a civil conversation. Why are you getting all crazy?

Why are you getting all pendejo?

You’re not a fun date, Angelina.

And you’re not a smart date, cabrón.

Good Night, Moon

Good night, platoon

Good night, baby, whose feet are trapped in the rubble Good night, [never-ending trouble

Good night, clocks ticking on bombs

Good night, burns on my palms

Good night, pancaked house

Good night, rashes and louse

Good night, cart carrying all my family’s belongings Good night, my hope [and longing

Good night, blackout and no water

Good night, my disappeared father

Good night, stars

Good night, guitars

Good night, drone explorer

Good night, horror

Good night, all the witnesses who think it’s none of your businesses

Good night

Angelina Sáenz is a Chicana writer, poet, and an award-winning educator based in Los Angeles, CA. Sáenz is a UCLA Writing Project fellow, an alumna of the VONA/Voices Workshop for Writers of Color, and a Macondo Writers Workshop fellow. She is the author of the poetry collections Maestra (FlowerSong Press, 2024) and Edgecliff (FlowerSong Press, 2021), and the children’s book Waiting for Luna (CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform, 2015). Her poetry has also been published in venues including Diálogo, Split This Rock, Out of Anonymity, Angels Flight Literary West, Every Other, Cockpit Revue Paris, and Acentos Review

Lagares

INFORME SECRETO REMITIDO AL CONSEJO SUPERIOR DE GANÍMEDES, POR Q-KITO

Informe Secreto remitido al Consejo Superior de Ganímedes

Año Solar 171 de Ganímedes | Año terrestre: 2025

Explorador: E.M.A.O. (Entidad Mnemónica de Avanzada Observación)

Sector de Observación: Isla de Puerto Rico, Tierra

Clasificación: Codex VII-B / Anales de lo Improbable Emisión 1.0

Oh, Soberano Cabrón Muni, eminencia galáctica de Ganímedes. En el viaje hasta esta ínfima porción del planeta Tierra me dediqué a programar mi condicionamiento lingüístico para adaptarme al idioma de los locales, y en verdad, en verdad, las tormentas solares alteraron el chip. Ahora hablo hasta una variante que se llama Spanglish, infiltrada por el vernáculo boricua, el cual prolifera entre la gente de a pie, con uso singular y limitado de ciertas libertades semánticas. De una canción muy popular aprendí «Puerto Rico está cabrón», y no me quedará duda de eso. Creo. El signo «cabrón» es muy eficaz y puede tanto granjear aliados como causar conflictos. De todos modos, aquí estoy, según su voluntad, para la cual me creo en entera capacidad y con la babilla necesaria. Babilla: término que denota valor, aunque en esta región a menudo se manifiesta como violencia armada, según me dice el Predictive Algorithm for Polylingual Integration, y a quien ya le digo PAPI de cariño. PAPI también me dice que muchas veces tener babilla se demuestra a tiro limpio. No sé quién limpia los tiros, pero eso es así. Ya sé que le debe sonar raro, pero los boricuas son intensamente poetas para todo. El asunto es que cuando aterricé mi nave procuré hacerlo en un sitio poco discreto, según me instruyera usted, Oh, Soberano Muni. Los boricuas no se sorprenden con nada y una nave espacial es tan alarmante como un carrito de helados.

En fin, una vez descendí en un lugar que llaman El Escambrón, a la gente le valió un güevo en qué yo había llegado —en una nave espacial— e igual me cayeron a tiros, por lo que desistí de salir de la nave y opté por un lugar menos conspicuo, al que llaman Río Piedras. Allí, me recibieron con cordialidad. Entré a un local nombrado El Boricua, donde los nativos

Elidio La Torre

consumen una bebida efervescente llamada cerveza. Me integré, en la medida que mi programación lo permitió.

El chip sigue glitcheando, Oh, Soberano Muni. Espere mi próximo informe.

Clasificación: Codex VII-B / Anales de lo Improbable

Emisión 2.0

Oh, Soberano Muni, en su última emisión telepática usted me ha dicho pendejo y que qué mierda le importa a usted el cannabis. A veces usted tiene la arrogancia de los humanos, que es inquebrantable. No pierda la paciencia conmigo. Le aseguro que encontraré a mi madre, aunque sea difícil, pues en esta aldea minúscula, que no rebasa los trescientos mil vecinos, cada uno presume descender ya del Delfín de Francia, ya de Carlo Magno, o al menos de un eco empobrecido de la casa de Austria, cuando no son descendientes de abuelas españolas. Sin embargo, la cifra real de habitantes encubiertos — negros, mulatos, encerradas en la penumbra demográfica— rebasa las dos terceras partes. Hay que joderse, Oh, Soberano Muni. Pero le cuento: luego de mis consideraciones con la fumadera de pasto, me sentí más en sintonía con el corrillo. Dos mujeres se acercaron a mí y me preguntaron de dónde yo era y por qué era tan cabezón, y les dije que venía del Reino de Muni, en Ganímedes, luna de Jupiter. Se rieron. Me preguntaron el nombre y les dije que me llamaba Q-Kito. Volvieron reír como locas y yo también, porque me daba risa escucharlas reír y ellas se reían de mi risa y así estuvimos largo rato. Decían que mi risa sonaba a un burro con asfixia, cosa que estoy por investigar. Debe ser por la laringe extendida que tenemos los ganimedianos. Anyway, una de ellas, que dijo llamarse Sasha, sacó una vejiga de animal llena de Blue Bull, que es una mezcla de ron isleño y una bebida energizante llamada Red Bull. Explosiva, Oh Soberano Muni, y ni a Sasha ni a Ninoshka Marie, como se llamaba la segunda, les pareció afectarle. Sasha era alta, corpulenta, ébano tallado a la perfección; Ninoshka Marie tenía el pelo de zanahorias y la cara salpicada de insinuaciones de melanina. A mí, la bebida me pareció un néctar de los que emanan de las fuentes de fresoquideas en Ganímedes. Le digo, Oh, Soberano Muni, que en el margen anónimo de una fiesta olvidada, estas boricuas —incansables en su tarea de contrariar a la muerte— mezclaron dos líquidos opuestos en su esencia: el Red Bull, promesa alquímica de alas y vigilia, y el Ron 151, encarnación feroz de la embriaguez y la caída, y hasta pensé que sería útil para arrancar cualquier motor o encender incendios forestales en planetas menores de esos que conquistamos. Encima de eso, aparecieron más humos verdes en forma de porro.

Esa mezcla —que unos llamarían temeridad y otros, ritual secreto— es menos una bebida que una invocación sin fe: invocar la exaltación total

del cuerpo mientras se entrega simultáneamente a su ruina. Consumir esta mezcla es pretender, aunque sea por instantes, burlar la linealidad del tiempo: saltar de la lucidez a la amnesia, del vértigo al abismo, en un solo sorbo. Por supuesto, me dije a mí mismo: «Que se joda», y tomé escuchando una música extraña y pegajosa que llaman reggaetón. Oh, Soberano Muni, bien duro. Le di pa’ bajo. Luego apareció más de la yerba que el jodón de calle, con pereza o afecto, nombra marihuana. Los árabes la cultivaron en sus jardines ocultos como quien guarda una llave para entrar en los patios interiores del alma. Los ascetas hindúes, temerosos de la precariedad de la vigilia, la fumaron en lentas ceremonias para recordar que lo que llamamos el mundo no es más que un enjambre de imágenes desordenadas. Mi interés, Oh, Soberano Muni, era enteramente científico. A fuego. What the fuck? Creo que no existen actos triviales: cada elección, incluso la de un vaso, encierra el eco de todas las eternidades posibles y perdidas. Excepto si una de las mujeres con las que yo bailaba, Ninoshka Marie, la colorá, suponía ser la compañera del bichote al que llamaban El Josco, que en esta tribu es como un cargo superior parecido al suyo, Oh, Soberano Muni. El tipo llegó allí, encojona’o, y preguntó quién era este mamabicho. El mamabicho era yo, por supuesto, Oh, Soberano Muni, y la palabra alude a un individuo que es humillado por medio de la práctica de la felatio. Usted sabe, bajar al pilón. Bajar al pozo. Conferencia de prensa. Chupa chupa. The works. Me dio risa porque los ganimedianos tenemos los dos órganos sexuales de los humanos y no me hacía sentido tampoco, porque nuestra conducta de placer, como bien nos he enseñado usted, Oh, Soberano Muni, es metafísica y de contacto bioenergético. Pero El Josco lo tomó a mal y me dijo y que cabrón, ¿de qué te ríes? ¿Quieres que te tumbe los dientes? Y yo le respondí, en medio del éxtasis vegetal que produce el humo verde, «Chupa aquí pa’ ver que sientes». No me dio tiempo a reírme porque se abalanzó sobre mí como un toro, pero Sasha y Ninoshka Marie salieron a defenderme y entonces él las golpeó porque nadie les había dado vela en aquel entierro, y yo pensé que era mi entierro, y que me matarían, así que salí a defenderlas diciendo si le dan a ellas, me dan a mí, cosa que no tardaron en cumplir y me molieron a puños, patadas, y hasta creo que sentí un bate de jugar béisbol en las costillas. Luego le cuento sobre el maravilloso deporte del béisbol, Oh, Soberano Muni, donde un humano lanza una esfera a 90 millas por hora y otro pretende golpearla con un baturro de madera. Un prodigio. Pero me golpearon hasta dejarme sin fuerzas físicas.

Lo último que vi fue a la gran Sasha levantarse y derribar a cuanto lambetuerca acompañaba al Josco. Luego explicaré qué es un lambetuerca. Lo que sí diré es que, mientras cerraba los ojos, no dejaba de sonreír. Esa Sasha golpeaba como hombre. Quizá era de nuestro planeta y tenía los dos órganos sexuales también. Fui feliz.

Clasificación: Codex VII-B / Anales de lo Improbable

Emisión 2.2

Cabrón, Muni, ya sé que mi vieja es boricua y que era solo cuestión de tiempo en lo que me salía el boricua interior. ¡Pues lo soy! ¡Pa que tú lo sepas! La conversión es irreversible y ya hasta quiero vestir escafandra de la bandera de Puerto Rico. Ayer me fui con Sasha y más del humo verde en mi nave a gritarle «¡Wepa!» a la gente en el tapón hacia Caguas. El «tapón» es un ritual inadvertido de embotellamiento vehicular: miles de automóviles, esas caducas prolongaciones metálicas del cuerpo humano, se congregan no para avanzar sino para detenerse. Y encima contaminan el jodido planeta. Es un extraño pacto: los individuos, que creen moverse hacia una meta, consagran largas horas a no moverse. Cada vehículo es una célula aislada, una mínima cápsula de tiempo detenido, y cada conductor es un monje involuntario, atrapado en la ceremonia de la espera. La verdad más íntima es otra: el tráfico detenido es una representación fiel del universo.

La isla, aunque pobre en equidades o libros, es pródiga en frutos: plátanos abundantes, arroz modesto, naranjas dulces como un recuerdo que se resiste a morir. De la piña y del limón se extraen aromas casi inmortales, y aunque no hay granaduvas como las de las riberas antiguas de la Ciudad de Muni, los campos reviven en silenciosa obstinación, aunque todo el mundo quiere un trabajo con maletín y corbata o ser abogado. More on that later, Oh, Soberano Muni. Digo, cabrón.

La pobreza no es solamente obra de la pereza ni del clima, sino también del cerco continuo de enemigos: los políticos corruptos, el gobierno colonial, las tempestades, todos saqueadores que reducen a la isla a una soledad de asedio permanente. Los habitantes, por costumbre o desesperanza, no pescan, no cazan, no buscan redención en la industria y prefieren sobrevivir comprando cosas en un súper fortín de víveres que se llama Costco. No es gratuito ni de intercambio, como en la Ciudad de Muni, y ahí sí que te la doy, cabrón.

Bueno, pues la gente del tapón nos vio y se formó tremenda conmoción. Como dicen aquí, se cagó medio mundo. Yo me fui con Sasha a una comarca junto al mar, Loíza, donde el tiempo, fatigado de sus reiteraciones, parece detenerse en el acto elemental de freír un alimento. No es un manjar sofisticado ni una invención de alquimistas: es apenas un trozo de bacalao, inmerso en una pasta simple y dorado en aceite ardiente. Lo llaman bacalaíto, como quien disminuye el nombre para conferirle afecto o humildad y no parecer que uno es un tragón.

Pero la humildad de los bacalaítos es engañosa. Quien los prueba, entiende —aunque no sepa decirlo— que no está comiendo sólo pescado ni harina, sino una síntesis de muchas historias olvidadas: la diáspora de los vascos que comerciaron el bacalao seco; la astucia de los esclavos africanos que improvisaron festines con lo escaso; la devoción de las mujeres loiceñas

que, como artesanas de la transitoriedad, saben que todo banquete verdadero es una victoria contra el tiempo.

La señora que nos atendió —una mujer de facciones rígidas, pero bondadosas— no quiso cobrarnos, como si el intercambio de monedas fuera un acto irrelevante frente a lo que había de enseñarnos. Con una voz que parecía recordar más que enunciar, dijo que yo era hijo de Elegguá, el mensajero entre los mundos, el guardián de todos los caminos posibles y de todas las encrucijadas imaginables. Afirmó que su potestad no conoce fronteras, pues se extiende tanto en el mundo visible como en ese otro, más vasto y verdadero, que apenas entrevemos en sueños. Para que entiendas, cabrón, Elegguá es quien abre y quien clausura los portales, quien decide, con un ademán secreto, el acceso o el extravío a los otros niveles de existencia, que no son menos reales por ser invisibles. Así, en un acto que fue menos hospitalidad que conjuro, nos dejó entrever que toda puerta abierta es un enigma y que todo encuentro —aun este, trivial en apariencia— participa del antiguo y sagrado juego del tránsito entre las esferas.

Creo que me quedaré en Loíza para siempre.

Clasificación: Codex VII-B / Anales de lo Improbable Emisión 3.0

Oh, Soberano Cabrón Muni, ¿cómo que no me puedo quedar? ¡No voy a volver un carajo! Tengo asuntos que arreglar aquí con dos o tres mamabichos. Sí, eso; lo dije otra vez. Sabrás que mientras el sol parecía repetirse como un antiguo dios menor, se nos acercó Doña Milla con dos alcapurrias. No es, como se podría pensar, una simple fritura. Es un artefacto comestible, una cápsula de historia envuelta en masa, un acto de mestizaje vuelto costumbre y fuego.

Consiste en una envoltura de yautía y plátano verde, raíces arrancadas con esfuerzo de la tierra, trituradas hasta parecer olvido. En su interior —como en todo mito que se respeta— hay un corazón de carne sazonada, a veces de cangrejo, a veces de res, a veces de otro tiempo.

La alcapurria se sumerge luego en aceite, como si cada ejemplar repitiera, en miniatura, el destino del pendejo de Ícaro: ascender al ardor y ser transformado por él. He visto hombres comérsela con devoción y prisa, como si intuyeran —sin saberlo— que ese bocado los sitúa en una genealogía secreta, donde conviven el machete del jíbaro, el condimento del cimarrón y la memoria andaluza del adobo.

La alcapurria no se sirve con ceremonia. Pero aquella mujer de manos ungidas en aceite y sal me ofreció la alcapurria envuelta en papel y silencio. Y cuando la probé, recordé que mi misión era encontrar a mi madre, cuyo cuerpo era de bruma y cálculo. Yo, que en mi corta estadía había caminado entre los humanos sin comprender sus ruidos, ni sus danzas,

ni sus dolores, sentí aquella masa tocar mi lengua y el universo cambió de forma. Yo, el viajero sin patria, tuve una revelación. Le dije a doña Milla: «Tú no me diste la vida, pero me diste su sabor. Por eso te llamaré madre». Y sentí misión cumplida y mi identidad completada: Ya yo era boricua, pa que tu lo sepas.

Y así fue cómo, por una fritura dorada bajo el sol de Loíza, una estrella adoptó la carne, una historia digna del Libro de los Sabores Perdidos. Y justo nos decorábamos en sus delicias, cuando llegaron los lambetuercas del Bichote, y vieron a Sasha, que les había dado de arroz y de masa la noche anterior, y se pusieron como guavás —que no sé en realidad lo que son dichos “guavás”, pero así dicen aquí—, y sacaron sus armas y dijeron: «A ver si tienen babilla, cabrones», y abrieron fuego como si rociaran plomo en un jardín de vacas. Me tomó por sorpresa, pero mi mente ganimídica, como bien sabes, cabrón Muni, es adimensional y ve presente, pasado y futuro, y, pues, se protegió, a ella y a mí, pero no a Sasha ni a doña Milla. La Sasha sacó su arma de donde quiera que la tuviese escondida —no podía ser una película de Chuck Norris, y me importa un carajo si no sabes quién es, cabrón— y se batió a tiros con los lambetuercas, que por lambetuercas eran bestias, y dispararon a diestra y siniestra, que es como le dicen a las extremidades superiores aquí, y se cargaron a la Sasha y a doña Milla y a medio mundo más, menos a mí, el protegido de Elegguá. Ya sé a quiénes limpian los tiros.

Aunque este fragmento de la Tierra se revela como un espejo roto del Paraíso prometido: hay hambre y mayor es la falta de medios para combatirla; donde quieran matan a una persona, a dos y a tres, o como ocurrió en Piñones, como a siete. La brisa acaricia, pero el sustento escasea; la memoria de catástrofes pasadas justifica la parálisis presente. Es una isla sitiada por su propia fatalidad, que es ser colonia de un imperio que se hunde como el Titanic. Me importan tres cojones si no sabes lo que es el Titanic, foquin Muni. La carencia es una alegoría, cada fruta una nostalgia de lo imposible.

Pero ya cumplí mi misión. Que se joda. ¿Contento? Encontrar el origen es también una forma de muerte.

Elevo este informe con la esperanza de que se conserve en los Archivos Imaginarios de Ganímedes, donde quizás algún lector —o soñador— lo encontrará un día, y pensará que todo esto no sucedió, sino que fue apenas soñado.

Mientras tanto, lloraré a mi madre. Lloraré a Sasha. Flotaré sin patria.

Oh, Soberano Cabrón Muni, no vale la pena invadir el dolor.

Firmado:

E.M.A.O. (Explorador Menor de la Alta Oficina)

P.D.

Si no me convierto en bichote, quizá entre a la política por algún partido con posibilidades de ganar. More on that later.

Elidio La Torre Lagares (Puerto Rico) posee un MFA en Escritura Creativa de la Universidad de Texas. La Torre Lagares ha publicado varias colecciones de poemas, incluyendo Vicios de construcción y Cuerpos sin sombras. Ha recibido premios del Pen Club de Puerto Rico por la colección de cuentos Septiembre, así como por las novelas Historia de un dios pequeño y Gracia. En 2008, recibió el Premio de Poesía Julia de Burgos por su colección de poesía Ensayo del vuelo, publicado por Atelier Libros en 2024. En 2014, su poema Santurcesutra recibió el Primer Premio en el concurso anual de la Casa de los Poetas. La Torre Lagares, como escritor bilingüe, publicó la colección de poemas en inglés Wonderful Wasteland and other natural disasters, seleccionada en 2019 para la Serie de Nuevas Voces en Poesía y Prosa de la University Press of Kentucky. En 2020, Wonderful Wasteland fue finalista del Premio de Poesía Juan Felipe Herrera. En 2024 La Torre Lagares quedó finalista del Premio Paz de Poesía de la National Poetry Series con su libro Derecho al olvido. En enero de 2025, Valparaíso Editores lanzó Aguacerando: mitologías domésticas de lo que nunca fuimos.

Q-Kito

Elidio La Torre Lagares

SECRET REPORT SUBMITTED TO THE GANYMEDE HIGH COUNCIL, BY Q-KITO

Translation from Spanish by D.P. Snyder

Secret Report Submitted to the Ganymede High Council Solar Year 171 of Ganymede / Earth Year: 2025 Explorer: M.E.A.O. (Mnemonic Entity for Advanced Observation) Observation Sector: Island of Puerto Rico, Earth

Classification: Codex VII-B / Annals of the Improbable Transmission 1.0

O, Sovereign Cabrón Muni, galactic eminence of Ganymede. While on the voyage to this minuscule corner of planet Earth, I spent my time programming my linguistic conditioning to adapt to the local lingo, but the solar storms truly and really reprogrammed the computer chip. As a result, I now speak a variant called Spanglish, which is permeated by the Puerto Rican vernacular and proliferates among the common people with a unique and limited use of certain semantic liberties. From a popular song, I learned that “Puerto Rico is cabrón,” and of that I have no doubt whatsoever. I believe. The term cabrón is very efficient and can win allies as easily as it can provoke conflicts. Anyway, here I am, in accordance with your will, for which I believe myself to be fully capable and with all the required babilla. Babilla, literally meaning spittle, is a term that indicates courage, although in this part of Earth it often manifests itself as armed violence, according to the Predictive Algorithm for Polylingual Integration, which I now affectionately refer to as PAPI. PAPI also tells me that having babilla often exhibits itself a tiro limpio, or in a clean shot, which is to say directly, without subterfuge, or in a hail of bullets. I don’t know who cleans the shots, but that’s how things are here. I know all this must sound peculiar to you, but the boricuas are intensely poetic about everything they do. The thing is, when I landed my ship, I attempted to do so in a location that was not overly conspicuous, as you instructed me, O Sovereign Muni. The boricuas aren’t surprised by anything and, for them, a spaceship is about as shocking as an ice cream truck.

Anyway, once I made my descent in a place called El Escambrón, le valió un güevo, which is to say, it did not matter a gonad to them that I had

arrived in a spaceship, and they shot at me anyway. So I abandoned the idea of getting off the ship and opted for a less conspicuous place, which they call Río Piedras. There, I received a warm welcome. I dropped into a venue called El Boricua, where the locals drink a fizzy beverage called cerveza. As much as my programming allowed, I tried to blend in with the people.

The chip keeps glitcheando, O, Sovereign Muni. Stand by for my next report.

Classification: Codex VII-B / Annals of the Improbable Transmission 2.0

O, Sovereign Muni, in your last telepathic broadcast, you called me an idiot and said that you don’t give a damn about cannabis. You occasionally exhibit the same unshakeable arrogance as these humans. Do not lose patience with me. I assure you that I will find my mother, even if it proves difficult, because in this tiny village, which has no more than three hundred thousand inhabitants, everyone claims to be descended from the Dauphin of France, or Charlemagne, or at least from some impoverished branch of the House of Austria, if they are not descended from Spanish grandmothers. Nevertheless, the actual number of covert inhabitants—Black, mulatto, or those confined to the demographic shadows—exceeds two-thirds. What a pain in the neck, O, Sovereign Muni. But I’ll tell you what: after turning my attention to smoking weed, I felt more attuned with my social group. Two women came over to me and asked where I was from and why my head was so big, and I told them that I came from the Kingdom of Muni in Ganymedes, a moon of Jupiter. They laughed. They asked what my name was, and I told them I was called Q-Kito. They started laughing like crazy again, and I did, too, because it made me laugh to hear them laughing, and they laughed at my laughter, and we continued on that way for a good long while. They said my laugh sounded like a suffocating donkey, something I am going to research. It must be because of the extended larynx that we Ganimedians have.

En fin, one of them, who said her name was Sasha, pulled out an animal bladder filled with Blue Bull, which is a mix of island rum and an energy drink called Red Bull. Explosive, O Sovereign Muni! And neither Sasha nor Ninoshka Marie, as the second one was called, seemed to be affected by it at all. Sasha was tall, heavyset, perfectly carved ebony; Ninoshka Marie had carrot-colored hair and a face splashed with hints of melanin. To me, the drink seemed like nectar flowing from the Fresoquidean fountains on Ganymede. I tell you, O, Sovereign Muni, that in the anonymous margins of a long-forgotten party, these Puerto Rican women—tireless in their quest to defy death—mixed two liquids that are diametrically opposed in their very essences: Red Bull, alchemical promise of wings and wakefulness, and Rum

151, the savage embodiment of drunkenness and collapse. I thought it might even be good for starting engines or lighting forest fires on smaller planets like the ones we conquer. Additionally, more green smoke appeared in the form of spliffs.

That mixture—which some would call recklessness and others a secret ritual—is less a drink than a faithless invocation: a call for the total exaltation of the body while simultaneously sending it straight to its ruin. Consuming this mixture is to attempt, even if only for a moment, to outwit the linearity of time: to leap from lucidity to amnesia and from vertigo to the abyss, in a single sip. Naturally, I said to myself: Fuck it! And I drank while listening to strange, infectious music called reggaeton. O, Sovereign Muni, I really got into it. I got jiggy. Then more of the weed appeared, which the streetwise, lazily or affectionately, call marijuana. The Arabs cultivated it in their secret gardens as if it were a key to the inner courtyards of the soul. Hindu ascetics, fearful of the precariousness of the waking state, smoked it in slow ceremonies to remind themselves that what we call the world is nothing more than a hodgepodge of images. O, Sovereign Muni, my interest was entirely scientific. On fire. ¿Qué coño?

I believe that there are no unimportant acts: Every choice, even the selection of a drinking glass, echoes with all potential and all lost eternities. Except that one of the women I was dancing with, Ninoshka Marie, the redhead, was supposedly the girlfriend of the Big Bichote they called El Josco, who in this tribe is something of a high-ranking official, not unlike you, Oh, Sovereign Muni. The guy showed up, encojona’o, that is to say, royally pissed off, and asked who the mamabicho was. The mamabicho was me, of course, O, Sovereign Muni, and the word denotes an individual who is humiliated by means of fellatio. You know, bobbing for kiwis. Giving head. Scuba diving. Sucky sucky. The job. It made me laugh because we Ganimedians have both human sexual organs, and it didn’t make sense to me either, because our way of experiencing pleasure, as you have taught us so well, O Sovereign Muni, is metaphysical and involves only bioenergetic contact. But El Josco took my mirth the wrong way and said, “What, you bastard? What are you laughing at? D’you want me to knock your teeth out?” And, in the throes of the vegetable ecstasy produced by the green smoke, I replied: “Suck this and see how you like it.” I didn’t have time to laugh because he charged me like a bull, but Sasha and Ninoshka Marie rushed to my defense, and then he hit them because they had no business getting involved. I thought it was my funeral and that he was going to kill me, so I rallied to their defense, saying, “If you beat them up, you have to beat me up, too,” which they didn’t take long to do. They thrashed me with punches and kicks, and I think I even felt a baseball bat on my ribs. I’ll tell you about the marvelous sport called baseball later, O, Sovereign Muni, where one human throws a ball at 90 miles per hour and another attempts

to hit it with a wooden bat. An absolute marvel. But they beat me until I had no physical strength left.

The last thing I saw was the mighty Sasha get to her feet and knock down every kissass in Josco’s crew. Later, I will explain what a kissass is. I will only say now that, as I closed my eyes, I couldn’t wipe the grin off my face. That girl Sasha hit like a man. Maybe she was from our planet and had both sets of sexual organs, too. I was happy.

Classification: Codex VII-B / Annals of the Improbable Transmission 2.2

O Cabrón Jackass, Muni, I know my old lady is boricua, and it was only a matter of time before my inner boricua emerged. Well, I am! ¡Pa que tú los sepas! The conversion is irreversible, and now I even want to wear a spacesuit with the Puerto Rican flag on it. Yesterday I went with Sasha and some more of the green smoke to ride in my spaceship and shout ‘Wepa!’ at the people stuck in traffic on the way to Caguas. The tapón is an involuntary ritual, a traffic jam: Thousands of cars, those obsolete extensions of the human body, congregate not to move forward, but to come to a standstill. And on top of that, they pollute the jodido (adj. colloq., fucking) planet. It’s a strange pact: Individuals who believe they are on their way to a destination devote a great many hours to not going anywhere at all. Each vehicle is an isolated cell, a tiny capsule of suspended time, and each driver is an involuntary monk, trapped in the ceremony of waiting. However, the most profound truth is something else: Traffic at a standstill is an accurate representation of the universe.

Though poor in equities or books, the Island is abundant in produce: plentiful bananas, modest rice, and oranges sweet as an undying memory. Almost immortal aromas are derived from pineapple and lemon, and though there are no granaduvas like those on the ancient riverbanks of Muni City, the fields are coming back to life in quiet defiance, even though everyone wants a job with a briefcase and a tie or to become a lawyer. Más al respecto ahorita, O, Sovereign Muni. Most Excellent Jackass, I mean.

The poverty here is not only the result of laziness or the climate, but also of the never-ending assault of enemies: corrupt politicians, the colonial government, storms, and all those plunderers who reduce the island to a solitary state of permanent siege. The inhabitants, whether out of custom or despair, do not fish, hunt, or seek redemption in hard work, preferring to survive by buying things at a huge, fortress-like grocery store called Costco. It is not free or based on barter, as in Muni City. There, I have to give it to you, Most Excellent Jackass.

Well, the people in the tapón saw us, and there was a big hullabaloo. As they say around here, half the world shit itself, that is, they were quite

spooked. I went with Sasha to a seaside district called Loíza, where time, weary of its endless repetitions, seems to come to a stop in the basic act of frying food. It is not a refined delicacy or an alchemist’s concoction: it is simply a piece of cod, dipped in a simple batter and fried in sizzling oil. They call it bacalaíto, like someone who shortens a name to express affection or humility—and to avoid appearing to be a chowhound.

But the bacalaíto’s humility is deceptive. Whoever eats it understands—though they may lack the words to express it—that they are not just eating fish and flour, but a distillation of many forgotten stories: The diaspora of Basque traders who sold dried cod; the ingenuity of African slaves who improvised feasts from meagre rations; the devotion of the women of Loíza who, as craftswomen of transience, know that every true banquet is a victory over time.

The señora who served us—a woman with stern but kindly features—did not want to charge us, as if the exchange of coins was irrelevant to what she had to offer. In a voice that seemed to be recollecting rather than speaking, she said I was the child of Eleguá, the messenger between worlds, the guardian of all possible paths and all conceivable crossroads. She asserted that his power knows no bounds, since it extends as far as the visible world and beyond, into that other, vaster and truer world that we can barely glimpse in our dreams. Just so you understand, Most Excellent Cabrón, Eleguá is he who opens and closes portals, and who, with a mysterious sign, grants access to or sends us astray from other levels of existence, which are no less real for being invisible. Thus, in an act that was less one of hospitality than sorcery, she offered us a glimpse into the fact that every open door is an enigma and that every encounter—even one as seemingly trivial as that one—is part and parcel of the ancient, sacred game of passage between spheres.

I think I will stay in Loíza forever.

Classification: Codex VII-B / Annals of the Improbable Transmission 3.0

O, Sovereign Cabrón Most Excellent Jackass Muni: What do you mean I can’t stay here? No freaking way I’m going back! I have some business to take care of here with two or three mamabichos, that is to say, cocksuckers. Yes, that’s right: I said it again. You may be aware that, as the sun seemed to repeat itself like an ancient minor god, Doña Milla approached us with a couple of alcapurrias. This is not, as one might think, merely deep-fried street food. The alcapurria is an edible artifact, a history capsule wrapped up in dough, an act of mestizaje transformed into tradition and fire.

It consists of a casing made of yautía and green plantain, roots pulled by force from the ground and crushed into something like oblivion. Inside— as in any self-respecting myth—there is a core of seasoned meat, sometimes

crab, sometimes beef, sometimes from another time. The alcapurria is then submerged in oil, as if each one were repeating in miniature the fate of that fool Icarus: rising up to the fiery heat and being transfigured by it.

I have seen men devour this dish with devotion and urgency, as if they sensed, without being aware of it, that this delicacy places them in a secret lineage, where the machete of the Jíbaro, the spices of the Cimarrón, and the Andalusian memory of the marinade live together in peace.

The alcapurria is served without ceremony. But that woman with her hands anointed with oil and salt offered me the alcapurria swathed in paper and silence. And when I tried it, I remembered that my mission was to find my mother, whose body was made of mist and minerals. I, who in my short stay had walked among human beings without understanding their noises, dances, or sufferings, felt that dough touch my tongue, and the universe shape-shifted. I, a stateless wanderer, had a revelation. And I said to doña Milla: “You didn’t give me life, but you gave me the taste of life. And because of that, I will call you mother.” I felt that it was mission accomplished and my identity was complete: I was now Puerto Rican, pa que tu lo sepas. And so it was that, thanks to a fritter browned beneath Loíza’s sun, a star wrapped a meat, a story worthy of the Book of Lost Flavours.

And just as we were tucking into her delicacies, the Big Bichote’s henchmen, a crew of lambetuercas, arrived and saw Sasha, who had given them rice and dough the night before—by which I mean, she had utterly humiliated them. And they went completely guavás—I don’t actually know what guavás means, but that’s what they say around here—and drew their guns, saying, “Let’s see if you’ve got any babilla, fuckers,” and they opened fire like they were spraying lead in a cow garden. It took me off guard, but, as you well know, Cabrón Muni, my Ganymedian mind is dimensionless and sees the present, past, and future all at once, so it protected itself and me, but not Sasha or Señora Milla. Sasha drew her gun from wherever she had it stashed—it couldn’t be a Chuck Norris film, and I don’t give a carajo if you don’t know who he is, cabrón—and she fought with the lambetuercas, who were shooting like animals to the left and right, which is what they call the upper limbs here. And they killed Sasha and Doña Milla and half of the rest of the world, all except for me, the child of Elegguá.

Now, I know who gets cleaned by the shots.

Although this little piece of Earth reveals itself as a shattered mirror of the promised Paradise, there is much hunger and an even greater lack of means to combat it. Wherever you turn, they are killing one person, two, three, or, as happened in Piñones, around seven. The breeze caresses, but sustenance is scarce. The memory of past disasters excuses the paralysis of the present. It is an island beset by its own fate: to be a colony of an empire that is sinking like the Titanic. I don’t give three cojones if you don’t know what the Titanic is, fuckin’ Muni. Scarcity is an allegory, and each fruit is a yearning for the impossible.

But my mission is accomplished. So, fuck it. Are you happy now? Discovering your origins is also a form of death.

I upload this report in the hope that it will be preserved in the Imaginary Archives of Ganymede, where perhaps some reader—or dreamer—will one day find it and believe that none of this ever happened but was only a dream.

Meanwhile, I will mourn my mother. I will mourn Sasha. I will keep drifting along, without a homeland.

O, Sovereign Cabrón Most Excellent Jackass Muni, there’s no point in invading such grief as this.

Signed:

¡VENGO, MARÍA, DITO!1

Texto para performance o bululú

Q-Kito (alias, Coquito)

M.E.A.O. (Minor Explorer of the Astral Office)

P.S.: If I don’t become a drug kingpin, maybe I’ll go into politics representing a party that has a shot at winning. Más al respecto ahorita.

Elidio La Torre Lagares holds an MFA in Creative Writing from the University of Texas-El Paso. La Torre Lagares has published several books of poetry in Spanish, including Vicios de construcción (2018) and Ensayo del vuelo (2012). He has won awards from The Puerto Rico Pen Club for his short story collection, Se ptiembre (Cultural, 2000), as well as his novels Historia de un dios pequeño (Plaza Mayor, 2001), and Gracia (Oveja Negra, 2004). In 2019, the University Press of Kentucky selected Wonderful Wasteland and Other Natural Disasters as part of its New Voices Series. The author is currently working on several projects, including the publication of his MFA project, a novel titled T he Gravity of Loss. La Torre Lagares is an Associate Professor at the University of Puerto Rico-Río Piedras Campus.

Esta víctima del huracán María en Puerto Rico viste como un rastafari y habla con una trabajadora social de FEMA en el Centro Cultural Julia de Burgos del Barrio, en la Ciudad de Nueva York (Hispanic Harlem). Su discurso se proyecta ante la audiencia a través de un dialecto puertorriqueño muy isleño.2

ay mira misis ayudeme que vengo mariadito, dito.

uno llega aqui a Nueva Yol y la gente mira a uno como pajaro raro.

llegue buscando un sitio que se llama Julia de Bulgo y nadie disque sabia.

entonces, so ay practik de fiu inglish ay nou because I chiu a litel inglich, yu nou.

bicos ay wud laik wer wos de adres dat mai fren fron Puerto Rico esplein mi dear. an yu nou

1 This performance text is published in its original form of Spanglish and without a translation at the request of the author to maintain its unique dialectal specificity.

2 The stage directions in Spanish translate as follows: “This victim of Hurricane Maria in Puerto Rico dresses as a Rastafarian and is speaking with a FEMA social worker at the Julia de Burgos del Barrio Cultural Center, in New York City (Hispanic Harlem). His speech is delivered to the audience through a very island-specific Puerto Rican dialect.”

Carlos Manuel Rivera

guat japen dey didin undestan mi bicos mi acento.

vengo mariadito, dito...

mira, eso que dicen los medio en Puelto Rico e intelnacionarmente es una mentira.

si es veldá que casi el cien pol siento de la isla no tiene lu

pero las condiciones que pasamo son casi fuera de serie.

havia que hacel fila en ese aeropuelto

y yo que lo último chavo que me havia ganadoo tu sabe... alla en la isla con lo mio lo tube que usal pa esto.

ay vengo mariadito, dito eso politico de alla y de aca son uno corrupto.

mira cuidao a quien uno le manda ese dinero y eso menestere de ayuda.

se lo repalten ello mismo y la jente sigue caresiendo.

ay vengo mariadito, dito

y despue el cara de china ese que viene a tiralno papele de toile

como si jueramo inodoro.

Asi es que nos consideran, ¿veldad? escreta, por no decir miel...

Mielcoles fue que yo llegue aqui...

y vengo mariadito, dito.

oiga, señora, ¿aonde queda el Julia de Bulgo?

me dijeron que si hago tulno alli me van a dal un apaltamento con ayuda y güelfeal. ¿E veldad?

mira que vengo mariadito, dito.

la jente no save y lo medio ezageran yo llevo dia desde que encontre la jayuda esas de FEMA haciendo unos tulnos lalgos. uno se pasa todo el dia alli en el dichoso Julia de Bulgo.

y la jente habla que habla. belwenza ajena me dan eso boricua.

ahora me mandaron a otras oficina las antipatica jesa... polque yo me estoy quedando y que en el Bronz

oiga y el poquito de dinero que traje ya tu sabe de que me lo he tenido que gastal to.

grasia a dio de que una amiga mia que tiene otra amiga que es amiga del amigo

de donde yo me estoi quedando e podido descansal un poquito.

ahora, dejeme contarle señora trabajadora social to lo que yo he pasao aqui.

Polque aqui en Nueva Yol ay gente bien calne puelca.

ahora, no digo de los blanquito o sea los gringuitos esa jente de color son mas rasistas que los mismo blanco. como me ven asi y hablo españor me tratan peol. nada y no le cuento

lo que pase en esa entrevista masticando el difizil.

polque cuando mas racistas se ponen es con el idioma jeso moreno. eso era lo que decia mi vesina que vivio en Nueva Yol mucho jaño. te ven asi y te maltratan. bueno... lo unico es que yo se misis es que vengo mariadito, dito.

aora disque me van a dal cupone, un plan medico pa que me chequee y que en el Lincon Jospital porque vengo mariadito, dito. y aora mañana me mandan pa un cheltel alla en un otel del Bronz. Ah y tengo que aguantarle tanto a esa gentusa que binieron pa aca, son tan innorante.

Es que vengo mariadito, dito.

Ahora es que se van a ponel lo juevo a peseta porque esos nuyoricans tampoco no entienden. se imajinan y que es un paraiso.

nada mucho de ello

lo que estan es cojiendo pon

pa eso de hacelse famoso pol los medios.

y no digo solo los de aca de nueva yol tambien los de la isla.

si porque mas que consiencia sobre la situasion

lo que buscan sel son estrellas de joliwud, digo de boriwud.

que se vayan pa alla y vean lo que pasa y paso en la isla

como hizo el gobelnador de Nueva Yol porque vengo mariadito, dito...

Carlos Manuel Rivera is a Latino, Puerto Rican writer, performer, and poet. He has authored several books in Spanish, including Bululú: perfume y veneno (Editora Educación Emergente, 2024). Rivera is a professor of World Languages and Cultures at Bronx Community College and lives in the Bronx, New York.

Herbert Sigüenza

BAD HOMBRES/GOOD WIVES

About The Play

Take two parts Shakespeare (Romeo & Juliet and Hamlet), three parts Molière (The School for Wives), a soupçon of Oscar Wilde (The Importance of Being Earnest). Toss in a sprinkling of banda music, macha feminism, macho narco-traficantes, and cheesy telenovelas. And what do you get? You get Bad Hombres/Good Wives! a tasty and hilarious comedy/farce.

After the success of Manifest Destinitis, I found myself revisiting Molière’s rich repertoire. While Tartuffe crossed my mind (who hasn’t seen that one a million times?), I opted for a hidden gem: The School for Wives, penned in 1662. In the intimate yet vibrant world of Parisian theater, this play caused quite a stir. Previously looked down upon by the literary elite as a mere triviality, comedy was transformed by Molière into a mirror reflecting real life—a daring move that left audiences both laughing and thinking. He famously said, “You’ve achieved nothing if you don’t get people of today to recognize themselves.”

Molière’s bold exploration of controversial themes met with public outcry, establishing him as a fearless provocateur, much like Aristophanes before him. After years with Culture Clash, I find myself following in these footsteps, though I wouldn’t dare call myself a comedic historian. Yes, my work harkens back to the comic heroes I grew up watching Red Skelton, Carol Burnett, Jerry Lewis and Cantinflas. Later, I enjoyed the silliness of Mel Brooks, the absurdity of Monty Python, and the bite of Richard Pryor. I wasn’t reinventing the wheel here. I’m basically a traditionalist, using double entendre, the rule of three, pratfalls, disguises, etc. Bad Hombres/Good Wives (BHGW) is a good example of all those influences.

The concept of wrapping this comedic toolbox in the style and world of a Mexican novela struck me after seeing Karen Zacarias’ delightfully hilarious Destiny of Desire at South Coast Rep. It was my “Aha!” moment, guiding me to capture that very spirit for my Molière adaptation. At the same time, the television landscape was saturated with a slew of narconovelas and gripping series like Narcos and Queen of the South, so I thought, “Why not create the first narco-comedy?” Set in 1992, amidst the turmoil of Sinaloa’s drug trafficking heyday, I playfully embraced an era of analog chaos where characters juggled enormous antennaed mobile phones while

donning garish Versace shirts, jeans, and cowboy hats—every costume designer’s dream!

BHGW had its first public reading at the San Diego Rep’s Latinx New Play Festival in 2018. It then received an extensive staged reading at Cygnet’s Finish Line Festival in 2019, featuring a live band from the School of the Creative and Performing Arts, directed by Tamara Hartfield Page. The actors were directed by Daniel Jaquéz Pritchett. The audience enjoyed the performance, and it seemed poised for selection in Cygnet’s upcoming season. However, when a show at the Rep was canceled, I was offered the opportunity to present Bad Hombres/Good Wives as a main stage production directed by Rep’s Artistic Director Sam Woodhouse.

We had a dream cast that brought the script to life. The fabulous Roxanne Carrasco, the veteran actor and singer John Padilla, the lovely Yvette Angulo, the amazing José Balistieri, the hilarious Salomón Maya, Daniel Ramos III and I got in drag as the housekeeper Armida. We were especially lucky to have my Culture Clash compadre Ric Salinas come down from LA to perform various comic roles. Sean Fanning’s resourceful set proved perfect for the frequent location shifts, while Carmen Amon’s memorably over-the-top costumes, Chris Rynne’s lighting, Matt LescaultWood’s sound and Samantha Rojales’ projections were likewise first-rate.

Production History

The San Diego Rep World Premier ran from October 3-27, 2019.

NYU Tisch Drama Department, 2020.

Teatro Audáz of San Antonio, 2022.

Contra Costa College Theatre Department, 2025.

Palomar College Theatre Department, 2025.

Herbert Sigüenza, 2025

BAD HOMBRES/GOOD WIVES (2019)

An Excerpt

Time and place:

1992. Culiacán, Los Mochis and Monte Verde. All located in the State of Sinaloa.

Cast of characters:

DON ERNESTO: Head of a powerful Sinaloa drug cartel. Very macho and controlling. In the city of Culiacán, he’s known as Don Ernesto Quezada but outside the city in Monte Verde, he goes by Professor DON RAMIRO BUNBURI.

ARMIDA: She is Don Ernesto’s house manager. She tries to be strict and proper and hold her tongue but that’s too hard for her. She knows everything that is going on. Did I mention she’s deaf?

PADRE ALBERTO: The local corrupt Catholic priest. Very slick and slimy but charming. May also play MARIO GRANDE SR. Mario’s deceased Narco father. A ghost. Plays NUN.

EVA: Beautiful young woman who has been raised by nuns in a convent and is truly innocent but not naïve. She is well-read, devours news and is an intellectual feminist.

MARIO GRANDE JR.: A handsome young man who comes back home to Sinaloa following a tragic death in the family.

LUCHA GRANDE: She is Mario’s mother. She is an older Banda singer. She is tough as nails and a self-made woman. She wears an eye patch and is very macha. Plays NUN.

LEO: A Hit Man, Pedrito the backup dancer, Creepy guy.

TITO: A Hit Man, Pedrito the backup dancer, Bodyguard and Creepy guy.

Set:

Should be multi-purpose. City apartment to ranch interior and cemetery. A couple of doors. A bar. Two windows with shutters. A center wall with framed artwork that rotates indicating which house we are in or better yet, a turntable stage.

Music:

A live tuba plays along with music tracks and is roving on stage.

SCENE 3 NUN’S CONVENT. LOS MOCHIS

Lights up on Armida on her knees praying in a small chapel to a painting of the Virgin of Guadalupe on the wall. TWO NUNS cross upstage.

TWO NUNS: Ave María que come tortilla. Abajo la silla. Con mantequilla…

Nuns exit. EVA appears. Armida stands up. She is young and beautiful, dressed in a modest cotton dress. Even Armida is impressed by her natural beauty.

EVA: Hola. You must be my mistress, Armida. Yo soy Eva. Mucho gusto.

ARMIDA: Dios mio, you’re younger and more beautiful than I expected. (Under her breath) That stupid old viejo doesn’t deserve her.

EVA: Qué?

ARMIDA: Nothing. Before you come with me you need to know something. I am deaf but I can read lips.

Eva does sign language.

EVA: No problem. I know sign language.

Armida signs.

ARMIDA: Wow! I’m muy impressed by you already, muchacha.

Eva speaks. Armida reads her lips.

EVA: Soooo…. Where’s Ramiro?

ARMIDA: Who’s Ramiro?

EVA: My soon to be husband.

ARMIDA: Ramiro? Oh! Si! Ramiro Bunburi!

EVA: The nuns tell me he’s a professor.

ARMIDA: He is?

EVA: From la UNAM.

ARMIDA: Qué? Oh! Si! Si! He’s a professor.

EVA: What does he teach?

ARMIDA: What does he teach?

EVA: Yes, what does he teach?

ARMIDA: Ehhhh… (Improvising) International business…exportation… pharmaceuticals!

EVA: Oh, he sounds brilliant. What’s he like?

ARMIDA: Who?

EVA: Ramiro!

ARMIDA: He’s…

EVA: Is he earnest? Is he gentle and kind? Chivalrous like Señor Darcy of Pride and Prejudice? Courageous like Sir Lancelot?

ARMIDA: No. He’s Mexican. Vámonos, muchacha. It’s late. We’re taking a train to Culiacán.

EVA: I’ve never seen or been on a train before! I’ve only read about them in romantic novels. Let’s go! I’m ready!

ARMIDA: Wait, don’t you have a suitcase, m’ija?

EVA: I don’t have anything. I only own what I have on. Vamos!

Eva skips out the door. Armida goes to the Virgin of Guadalupe painting.

ARMIDA: How can someone so young and innocent belong to someone so old and evil? It’s not fair. All I ask, Virgencita madre, is that you watch over her and protect her. Outside, we hear a car screech and angry car horns! Eva! Watch out for the cars! Ay, muchacha!

Armida runs out. Car horns blaring. Black out.

SCENE 5 TRAIN STATION, CULIACÁN

“BIENVENIDOS A CULIACÁN SINALOA” poster on the back wall. A wooden bench is placed center stage. Armida and Eva have arrived at their destination and enter arm in arm.

VOICES (Public Address System): “Bienvenidos a Culiacán. Ferrocarril para la ciudad de México en la vía siete. Ferrocarril para la ciudad de Monterrey en la vía cinco… Ferrocarril para León, Guadalajara y Tampico y puntos este del país en la vía catorce… Tacos de asada, Tacos de carnitas...”

EVA: That train ride was so exciting! Is Ramiro picking us up?

ARMIDA: (Looking around) No, his asociados Tito and Leo were supposed to be here to drive us to Monte Verde. But, they’re so stupid they’re probably lost. I will go look for them. Eva listen to me. Listen to me very carefully. Sit on this bench while I look for them. Do-not-move-or-talk-to anyone, entiendes?

EVA: Armida, don’t leave me! In Mexico, machismo has led to increased rates of femicide and rape due to the hierarchical belief that masculinity is superior to femininity.

ARMIDA: Qué? Where did you hear such a thing?

EVA: I listen to NPR.

ARMIDA: Don’t worry, muchacha. I’ll be right back.

Armida exits. Eva sits on the bench.

VOICES (recorded and live): “Tacos! Tacos! Tacos de cabeza y buche!

“Con dinero o sin dinero sigo siendo el Rey…”

“Ferrocarril para Chihuahua y Ciudad Juárez y puntos norte del país en la vía ocho” …

“Tengo Pepsi, Fanta y Jarritos!” “Obla Di-Obla-Da” …

“Ferrocarril para Chiapas, Veracruz y el estado de Yucatán, la visiting diez…”

The audio stimulation freaks Eva out. She gets up from the bench and wanders around in fear.

TWO CREEPY GUYS enter with a boombox blasting “La Macarena.”

CREEPY GUY 1: Oye, oye.

CREEPY GUY 2: Changuita! Qué paso? Te veo perdida mi reina.

CREEPY GUY 1: Ven conmigo. No? Let’s dance. Do you know how to Macarena?

CREEPY GUY 2: Bailemos!

EVA: No Señor! I don’t know how to dance!

The guy grabs Eva and dirty dances on her. Suddenly, a handsome young man MARIO GRANDE JR. enters with a suitcase and sees Eva in distress.

EVA: No! Get off me, Señor! Armida! Help!

MARIO: Hey! Didn’t you hear la Señorita? She doesn’t want to dance with you, güey!

CREEPY GUY: Y este güey? Toma!

Creepy Guy swings a punch and misses. Mario punishes both guys with expert blows to the face and body. The Creepy Guys grab their boombox and hobble out. Mario assists Eva off the ground

MARIO: Are you ok?

Their eyes lock and it’s love at first sight!

EVA: You saved me like Prince Valiant.

MARIO: I’m hardly a prince pero gracias. I’m Mario.

EVA: I’m Eva. I’m sorry but I’m not supposed to talk to strange men.

She tries to exit. He holds her back.

MARIO: Wait! Where are you going? Who are you with?

EVA: I’m with Armida, my chaperona. She told me to wait for her here on this bench.

MARIO: Well, sit down. I’ll wait with you until she gets back, de acuerdo? They sit on the bench.

EVA: Ok…you seem so nice for a man. The nuns warned me about all men except Don Ramiro.

MARIO: Who is Don Ramiro?

EVA: Don Ramiro Bunburi.

MARIO: Ramiro Bunburi?

EVA: He’s going to be my husband.

MARIO: Your husband? No. Please don’t tell me that!

EVA: He’s a professor of Pharmaceuticals in La UNAM.

MARIO: The University? I just graduated from la UNAM in Economics and I’ve never heard of a Professor Ramiro Bunburi.

EVA: We’re going to live happily ever after in his country house in Monte Verde.

MARIO: Ramiro Bunburi from Monte Verde? I’ve never heard of him, and I was introduced to every important man in the state of Sinaloa by my father. (Starts crying)

EVA: What’s wrong?

MARIO: My father died of a heart attack two days ago.

EVA: Oh no…I’m so sorry to hear that.

MARIO: Gracias. I’m here from Mexico City to attend his funeral tomorrow.

Mario is overcome with emotion. She comforts him with a hand on his cheek.

EVA: You’re the most beautiful, sensitive man I have ever met.

Mario grabs her hand and looks at her.

MARIO: “Love comforteth like sunshine after rain.”

EVA: (Excited) You know Guillermo Shakespeare?

MARIO: Yes! I studied and performed theatre in Mexico City.

EVA: How exciting!

MARIO: Without my father knowing, of course. If he knew he would have killed me. (Imitating) “M’ijo un culero actor? N’ombre lo mato!” Mi viejo was a sexist, racist, homophobe—but I miss him.

ARMIDA: (O.S.) Eva!

EVA: That’s Armida! My chaperone. Go! I shouldn’t be talking to you.

MARIO: When can I see you again?

EVA: Never! (Realizing) How sad, verdad? Now I finally understand the emotion behind, “parting is such sweet sorrow.”

ARMIDA: (O.S.) Eva!

EVA: Go!

MARIO: This is not over. I will find you. I promise.

Mario exits. Armida enters and stops.

ARMIDA: Who was that young man? Wearing (sniffing) Hugo Boss?

EVA: Nobody.

ARMIDA: Vámonos. Leo y Tito are waiting in the car to take us to Monte Verde. Ándale, muchacha!

Armida and Eva leave arm in arm. Mario Jr. re-enters watching the women leave. He is totally in love and in a really dramátic mood.

MARIO: “She’s beautiful, and therefore to be wooed: She is a woman, and therefore to be won.” Chingado, I must be in love! I’m even quoting pinche Guillermo Shakespeare!

The two Creepy Guys come out like a man teasing Greek chorus.

CREEPY GUYS: Cuuuuuuuulerrrrrrroooo, Cuuuuuuuulerrrrrrroooo…

Mario threatens the creepy guys, and they run out. Mario exits on a love cloud. Blackout.

Scene 6 HACIENDA IN MONTE VERDE

Classical music is heard. There is a gaudy framed Rubens painting of voluptuous naked women on the back wall. Don Ernesto as DON RAMIRO BUNBURI paces nervously. Armida enters.

ARMIDA: Don Ernesto…

DON RAMIRO: Don Ramiro!

Don Ramiro gives her a dirty look.

ARMIDA: Digo, Don Ramiro.

DON RAMIRO: Is Eva ready to be presented to me?

ARMIDA: Presented to you like a calf before the slaughter.

DON RAMIRO: What are you waiting for? Bring her in!

Armida brings in Eva. She wears a beautiful dress and heels. Her hair is made up. She looks more beautiful than yesterday. A living princess.

ARMIDA: Eva. This is Don Ramiro Bunburi…

EVA: Don Ramiro. I’ve been preparing my whole life for this moment. To meet the man that I have anxiously been waiting for, to be his loyal and loving wife. A sus órdenes, Don Ramiro.

She bows to him. Long beat… Don Ramiro says nothing. He walks around her looking at his prize.

DON RAMIRO: Ha, ha, ha, ha! She’s perfect! She came as promised!

Eva signs to Armida.

EVA: Armida can I have a word with you?

ARMIDA: Si.

The women go downstage for privacy.

ARMIDA: Qué pasa?

Eva signs.

EVA: Guillermo Shakespeare wrote, “Expectation is the root of all heartache.”

ARMIDA: What the hell does that mean?

Eva signs.

EVA: I’m disappointed. My expectations were too high. Don Ramiro is… old…fat…

BOTH: …and ugly!

DON RAMIRO: Qué dice, Armida?

ARMIDA: She says she was nervous to meet you because she did not know how handsome, how guapo, you are.

DON RAMIRO: (Assuredly) Pos sí, pobrecita, I’m sure I intimidate her. (Proudly) She’s never been around a real hot-blooded hombre before.

ARMIDA: Ándale, muchacha. Go talk to him.

Eva cautiously approaches Ramiro.

EVA: My dear fiancé?

DON RAMIRO: Sí, mi amor?

EVA: Armida tells me you’re a professor.

DON RAMIRO: That’s correct.

EVA: In pharmaceuticals, verdad?

DON RAMIRO: Qué? No…

ARMIDA: Sí!

DON RAMIRO: Sí?

ARMIDA: Sí.

DON RAMIRO: Sí! No sé! (Unsure) And I also teach…. books.

EVA: Literature?

DON RAMIRO: What’s that?

EVA: Books!

DON RAMIRO: Yes, books!

EVA: I love books! Who are your favorite authors?

DON RAMIRO: Authors?

EVA: Writers! You’re so silly!

ARMIDA: (Jamming him) Yes Don Ramiro, who are your favorite writers?

DON RAMIRO: Who are my favorite writers?

ARMIDA: Yes, who are your favorite writers?

DON RAMIRO: Uhmmmm…. writers? I have many…

ARMIDA: Like?

DON RAMIRO: Like …Chevrolet Ford!

EVA: I’ve never heard of him before.

DON RAMIRO: He’s an American writer…from Detroit!

EVA: Wow! What is your favorite novel of all time?

DON RAMIRO: You sure ask a lot of questions.

EVA: I’m inquisitive.

DON RAMIRO: Qué es eso?

ARMIDA: She’s curious. It’s a good question, Don Ramiro. What is your favorite novel?

DON RAMIRO: Ummmmm… I have so many… too many to count!

ARMIDA: Like?

DON RAMIRO: Like…Ferdinand the Bull!

Eva and Armida giggle.

DON RAMIRO: (Hurt) What’s so funny?

EVA: (Laughing) Ferdinand the Bull! A children’s book? Ha! Ha! That’s funny! I love an intelligent man with a self-deprecating sense of humor. They all laugh.

DON RAMIRO: Eva my dear, I’d like to stay and get to know you better

but I’m sorry, I have to go. I’m attending a funeral in Culiacán later today.

EVA: I met a charming young man who’s attending a funeral today!

DON RAMIRO: What man? (To Armida) Armida?

ARMIDA: I don’t know what she’s talking about.

DON RAMIRO: Did Eva talk to a man on the train?

ARMIDA: Of course not!

DON RAMIRO: Were you watching her at all times?

ARMIDA: Of course I was!

DON RAMIRO: Every second?

ARMIDA: Sí! Chingado.

DON RAMIRO: Tell Tito and Leo to tighten security around the rancho.

ARMIDA: Sí, Señor.

DON RAMIRO: Eva, when I come back, I expect you will have dinner ready for me, yes?

EVA: Of course, dear.

DON RAMIRO: I have the means to hire the best chefs in the country, but I believe a wife should cook for her husband, don’t you agree?

EVA: Absolutely. The nuns taught me classic French cuisine and traditional Mexican cooking from every region.

DON RAMIRO: Just like I paid them to do.

ARMIDA: This is silly, I can cook for you.

EVA: As an appetizer, I will serve you a glass of carbonated vanilla extract and cola nut accompanied with a tortilla hecha a mano stuffed with fromage de vache.

DON RAMIRO: Mmmmm, que rico. I’ve never had that.

ARMIDA: Yes, you have. It’s a Coke and a quesadilla.

DON RAMIRO: Cállese! Eva, I love music. Will you sing for me after dinner?

ARMIDA: I can sing for you… (Sings awful) “Solamente una vez. Amé en la vida. Solamente una vez. Y nada más…”

DON RAMIRO: Silencio! You sound like a goat! Leave us alone you tone deaf, over the hill, stu-pid wo-man!!!!

Armida gets her feelings hurt and exits crying. Eva gets in Ramiro’s face.

EVA: Ramiro, that was not very nice! Why do you have the need to flaunt your male privilege and abuse Armida?

DON RAMIRO: Why are you defending her?

EVA: Your attitude is obviously embedded in patriarchal, misogynistic and sexist beliefs that allow you to be demanding, assertive and insensitive. I’m very surprised and disappointed in you and if you want to proceed with our nuptial agreement then I suggest you check your toxic masculinity at the door. Armida, wait!

Eva runs out.

DON RAMIRO: I have no idea what she just said but I think she just insulted me!

Blackout.

SCENE 7 CULIACÁN CEMETERY

A fresh pile of dirt on the ground. A religious relief sculpture on the back wall. Church bells ring sadly.

Everyone wears Narco black. Mario’s mother, Lucha Grande wearing a veiled face enters with her son Mario Jr. A real black widow. Padre Alberto says the Farewell Prayer.

PADRE ALBERTO: We commend unto thy hands of mercy, Most merciful Father, the soul

Of our brother Mario Grande departed, And we commit his body To the ground, earth to earth, Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

ALL: And let light perpetual shine upon him. Amen.

Only Mario Jr. is visibly upset. He is comforted by his mother in black.

PADRE ALBERTO: Doña Lucha…

Lucha Grande steps up and sings “Fue Tan Poco Tu Cariño” Music ends. Beat. Only Don Ernesto applauds.

DON ERNESTO: Bravo! Bravo! Otra! Otra!...

Everyone looks at him. He stops. Don Ernesto is intrigued by the mysterious Lucha Grande. He approaches her.

Señora, my condolences… I never had the pleasure of meeting you. Don Mario was a lucky man. I’m Ernesto Quezada.

He extends his hand. Lucha walks away from him. Armida shyly approaches Lucha.

ARMIDA: Disculpe, Doña Lucha. Mis condolencias.

LUCHA: Muchas gracias.

ARMIDA: I’m a big fan! I loved your last album, “Men Are Doormats”.

LUCHA: Gracias.

ARMIDA: Can I please have your autograph?

LUCHA: Por supuesto. What’s your name, mujer?

ARMIDA: I’m Armida, a sus órdenes.

LUCHA: Ah, you work for Don Ernesto.

ARMIDA: Yes, unfortunately.

LUCHA: His reputation precedes him. I hear he’s a big macho pig.

ARMIDA: Oh sí. “I got the biggest truck, I killed the most men, I seduced the most women”.

LUCHA: He’s a child that needs a spanking.

ARMIDA: I think he’d love that!

They laugh.

LUCHA: Órale mujer, I like you!

ARMIDA: And I love you! Mucho gusto.

LUCHA: Mucho gusto. Us mujeres have to stick together. You have a smoke?

ARMIDA: Un cigarrito? Follow me…

They exit. Mario Jr. stands over his father’s grave. Don Ernesto approaches Mario.

DON ERNESTO: My condolences, Mario.

MARIO: Gracias, Don Ernesto.

DON ERNESTO: Your father and I had a complicated relationship, to say the least.

MARIO: Yes, I know. I hope ours will be better.

DON ERNESTO: Come to my penthouse in Culiacán tomorrow and we can talk further about our mutual interests. De acuerdo?

MARIO: Si, Don Ernesto, muy amable. Gracias.

Don Ernesto wants to shake hands but Mario Jr. hugs him instead. Awkward for Don Ernesto. Narcos don’t hug! Ernesto exits. Lucha Grande re-enters and approaches her son.

LUCHA GRANDE: M’ijo, mucho cuidado, eh? Be careful. I’ve heard a lot about that cabrón.

MARIO: He seems reasonable enough, amá

LUCHA GRANDE: I know a snake when I see one.

PADRE ALBERTO: Ladies and Gentlemen! You are all invited to Doña Lucha’s mansion. Please no weapons at the reception.

ALL: Awwwwwwwwwww.

PADRE ALBERTO: But there will be carne asada!

ALL: Yay!

They exit. Church bells are heard. Black out.

Herbert Siguenza was Playwright in Residence for the San Diego Repertory Theatre and is a founding member of the legendary performance group CULTURE CLASH. Along with Richard Montoya and Ric Salinas, Culture Clash is the most produced Chicano theater troupe in the United States. Founded in San Francisco in 1984, the trio has performed on the stages of America’s top regional theaters including the Mark Taper Forum, The Kennedy Center, The Arena Stage, The Alley Theater, San Diego Rep, Syracuse Stage, and countless universities and colleges. Siguenza has cowritten, and or performed in the following Culture Clash plays: Bordertown Now, American Night, Palestine New Mexico, Chavez Ravine Zorro in Hell!, A Bowl of Beings, The Mission and others.

As a solo writer and performer, Mr. Siguenza has written and produced Cantinflas!, A Weekend with Pablo Picasso, Steal Heaven, El Henry, Manifest Destinitis, Beachtown, Bad Hombres/Good Wives, A People’s Cuban Christmas Tale, It’s A Wonderful Vida, Star of Ocotillo, The Many Sins of Diego Rivera, and the musical Birth Day. Siguenza teaches Chicane History of Dramatic Arts at San Diego City College and master classes in playwriting at different institutions and centers. He is also an accomplished visual artist and has exhibited both nationally and internationally, as well as a television and film actor and voice artist.

Sylma García González

LA CARRERA

Mi amiga Cristina y yo nunca fuimos muy atléticas que se diga en nuestros años escolares ni lo somos ahora tampoco, por decir lo menos. Tan así es que, cuando se formaban los equipos de cualquier deporte en la clase de Educación Física, los capitanes se peleaban por no tenernos en el suyo. A nosotras nos resbalaba (y nos resbala aún). Nadie puede ser bueno en todo. Nos iba muy bien en las otras clases. ¿Qué más se podía pedir? Sin embargo, nadie nos podía acusar de odiar los deportes. Nada más lejos de la verdad. Los deportes nos gustaba mucho verlos desde los bleachers, con refrescos y dulces en mano. Animar a nuestros compañeros atletas desde los asientos era nuestra vocación.

Nuestros compañeros de clases estaban más que satisfechos con ese arreglo, pero el maestro de Educación Física, no. Por eso, nos anunció que, en el Field Day, debíamos participar en una de las carreras. Era darle la vuelta a la IUPI saliendo del portón principal. ¡Qué horror! ¡Moriríamos de cansancio en el intento! Maestro Raúl se volvió sordo ante nuestros ruegos y promesas. No hubo excusas médicas ni mareos ficticios que lo convencieran. Como somos dos chicas de lo más cool, nuestros compañeros de grupo decidieron darnos ventaja en la salida. Lo cierto es que entrenamos bien poco, pues estábamos convencidas de que una especie de milagro nos salvaría, ya fuera un buen catarro o un diluvio de esos que no escasean en nuestra isla. “¡Sin miedo al éxito!”, decíamos convencidas de que bastaba con mantenernos positivas. El día de la carrera supimos que el maestro se había olido nuestras intenciones y nos había puesto a correr con el otro grupo de quinto. ¡Oh, oh! Solo nos quedaba tragar gordo y correr; no había de otra. Al acercamos a la línea de salida, los otros corredores nos miraban divertidos, pero nosotras estábamos con la frente en alto. Al sonar el pito, los demás iban más ligero que meme viral. A un grito del maestro, salimos corriendo tan rápido como pudimos. No habíamos llegado a la esquina, cuando ya estábamos agotadas. Cristina insistía en que necesitaba una ambulancia. Después de un rato recostadas en un muro, decidimos no lamentarnos más. Había que seguir. Sabíamos bien que todos nos esperaban en la meta, así que planeamos una llegada triunfal. Nos acercamos, con nuestras mejores sonrisas de pasta de dientes, a un par de universitarios que acababan de rentar dos scooters, de esas que se alquilan en el recinto para llegar de un edificio a otro sin sudar mucho. En la recta final, los otros corredores habían llegado a la meta: ¡ya

hasta habían repartido las medallas a los ganadores de todos los eventos! Solo esperaban por nosotras dos; no solo ellos, sino toda la escuela, con más curiosidad que entusiasmo. Justo cuando maestro Raúl miraba su reloj por milésima vez, antes de decidirse a salir a buscarnos, aparecimos nosotras agarradas, a duras penas, de las cinturas de los dos universitarios en sus scooters, tan veloces como nos lo permitían sus pequeños motorcitos. Atravesamos la meta en un tiempo récord de dos horas. Ni siquiera el maestro Raúl pudo evitar que se le escapara una risita. ¡Fue la mejor y única carrera de nuestras vidas!

Sylma García González es natural de Aguada, Puerto Rico. Completó su doctorado en Estudios Hispánicos en la Universidad de Puerto Rico, Recinto de Río Piedras. Entre los premios y reconocimientos que ha recibido se encuentran el Premio El Barco de Vapor de Ediciones SM (2025), el Primer Premio Nacional de Literatura Juvenil del Instituto de Cultura Puertorriqueña (2014), una mención de honor del PEN Club de Puerto Rico Internacional (2015), el Premio Nacional de Literatura Juvenil del Pen Club de Puerto Rico Internacional (2022) y dos medallas de plata de los International Latino Book Awards (2022). Ha publicado artículos, cuentos y reseñas en periódicos y revistas académicas. Se ha desempeñado como profesora en varios recintos de la Universidad de Puerto Rico, así como anterior editora de la prestigiosa Revista de Estudios Hispánicos, de dicha institución, y como jurado del PEN de Puerto Rico y del Instituto de Cultura Puertorriqueña. Entre las novelas infantiles y juveniles que ha publicado se encuentran El diario de MQ, Consultores de misterios, y La niña que llegó del mar.

Sylma García González

THE RACE

Translation

from Spanish by

D. P. Snyder

My friend Cristina and I were not what you might call the most athletic girls, to say the very least, during our school days, nor are we now. To such a degree we weren’t that when teams were being picked for any sport in Phys Ed, the captains would fight over who would not have to select us for their squad. We couldn’t care less (still don’t). Nobody can be good at everything. We were doing quite well in our other classes. What more could you ask? And yet, no one could accuse us of hating sports. Nothing could be further from the truth. We loved watching sports from the bleachers, equipped with refreshments and candy. Our true calling was cheering on our fellow athletes from the stands.

Our classmates were more than happy with that arrangement, but the Phys Ed teacher was not. And so, he announced that we had to participate in one of the races on Field Day. It involved running out the main gate and then all the way around the Río Piedras campus of the University of Puerto Rico. What a nightmare! We would die of exhaustion in the attempt! Maestro Raúl was deaf to our entreaties and promises. There were no medical excuses or invented fainting spells that could change his mind. Since we are two of the coolest girls around, our classmates decided they would give us a head start at the beginning of the race. The truth is that we trained almost not at all, since we were convinced that some kind of miracle would save us, whether it was a nasty cold or one of those torrential downpours that are so common on our island. “¡Sin miedo al éxito!” we said, “Onward to victory!” confident that all we needed to do was to maintain a positive attitude.

On race day, we found out that the teacher had caught wind of our plan and made us run with a different fifth-grade group. Oh, no! All we could do was grit our teeth and run. There was no choice. As we approached the starting line, the rest of the competitors regarded us with amusement, but we held our heads high. When the whistle blew, the others took off faster than a viral meme. A shout from the teacher sent us running off as fast as we could, but before we made it to the corner, we were already pooped. Cristina kept saying she needed an ambulance. After leaning against a wall for a while, we decided to stop feeling sorry for ourselves. We had to forge on. We knew everybody would be waiting for us at the finish line, so we plotted our triumphant arrival. Wearing our best toothpaste commercial smiles, we approached a couple of college students who had just rented two scooters,

the kind you can hire on campus to get from one building to the next without breaking a sweat. On the home stretch, we saw that the other runners had already made it to the finish line. Medals had even been awarded to the winners in all the events! They were all just waiting around for the two of us to arrive—and not just our classmates, either, but the entire school, all of them more curious than excited. Just as our teacher, Maestro Raúl, was glancing at his watch for the thousandth time and was on the verge of heading out to search for us, we came into view, hanging on for dear life to the waists of two scooter-riding college students who were driving as fast as their tiny engines could go. We crossed the finish line in a record time of two hours. Not even Maestro Raúl could suppress a little chuckle. It was the best and only race of our lives!

Sylma García González is from Aguada, Puerto Rico. She completed her PhD in Hispanic Studies at the University of Puerto Rico, Río Piedras Campus. Among the awards and recognitions she has received are the El Barco de Vapor Prize from Ediciones SM (2025), the First National Prize for Youth Literature from the Puerto Rican Cultural Institute (2014), an honorable mention from the PEN Club of Puerto Rico International (2015), the National Prize for Youth Literature from the International PEN Club of Puerto Rico (2022), and two silver medals from the International Latino Book Awards (2022). She has published articles, short stories, and reviews in newspapers and academic journals. She has lectured at various campuses of the University of Puerto Rico and served as editor of the prestigious Revista de Estudios Hispanos (Journal of Hispanic Studies) published by the university, as well as on juries at the Puerto Rico PEN Club and the Institute of Puerto Rican Culture. Among the children’s and YA novels she has published are El diario de MQ [The Diary of MQ], Consultores de misterios [Mystery Consultants], and La niña que llegó del mar [The Girl Who Came From the Sea].

Carlos Morton

ON THE BORDER A MYSTERIOUS STRANGER

ARRIVES

An excerpt

Cast in this excerpt:

HEY-ZEUS

AYATOLLAH ABOTT

ROMAN GUARD #1

ROMAN GUARD #2

Lyrics:

By Carlos Morton and Michael Mufson

SCENE VI

ON THE BORDER A MYSTERIOUS STRANGER ARRIVES

In a remote corner of the Roman Empire, on the Texas border, two Roman soldiers have arrested a barbarian who tried to cross the border. They drag in the prisoner, handcuffed.

ROMAN #2: What we got here, Billie Joe?

ROMAN #1: A desperado, Bobby Jack. What were you doing out there boy?

HAY-ZEUS: Crossing the river with my family.

ROMAN # 1: Crossing illegally with your family? Where are they?

HAY-ZEUS: They got caught up in the barriers set in the middle of the river.

ROMAN #2: Well, that’s what them barbed wire barriers are for, boy, to keep out barbarians like you!

ROMAN #1: He definitely looks like a bad hombre.

ROMAN #2: Military age, hombre?

ROMAN #1: Yep. Military aged, bad hombre with a beard!

ROMAN #2: Mark of Cain. Let’s take him to the calabozo.

ROMAN #1: What’s your name, boy? Come on, now speak up ‘a for I take you to the juzgow.

HEY-ZEUS: Jesus.

ROMAN #1: What he say?

ROMAN #2: Hey-Zeus! You trying to pass yourself off as Zeus!!

ROMAN #1: Hey-Zeus, who the hell you think you think you are!! Billy Joe, don’t this boy look like, you know, the one who brought down the towers!

ROMAN #2: Oh yeah, Obama Ben-Dar.

ROMAN #1: Obama Ben-Dar, done that. Spitting image.

ROMAN #2: You speak Roman, boy? What’s your name, again?

HEY-ZEUS: Jesus.

ROMAN #2: Hey-Zeus, my ass. You’re one of them Obama Ben-Dar, boys!

ROMAN #1: Where ya from?

HEY-ZEUS: Palestina.

ROMAN #2: Palestine. Oh boy, we got us a winner!

ROMAN #1: Look what I found, a book.

ROMAN #2: What kind of book?

ROMAN #1: I don’t know, I can’t read.

ROMAN #2: I can’t either.

ROMAN #1: Let’s take this book and boy before the Ayatollah for further interrogation.

ROMAN #1 AND #2: We’re the Texas Taliban, And we’re coming after you!

Reprise song. They exit.

SCENE VII. INTERROGATION AT THE TEMPLE OF AYATOLLAH ABBOT

AYATOLLAH ABBOT: I am Ayatollah Abbot of the Texas Taliban. What do you call yourself?

HEY-ZEUS: Jesus of Palestina.

AYATOLLAH: Hay-Zeus of Palestine. What is your profession?

HEY-ZEUS: I’m a preacher.

AYATOLLAH: A preacher! What is your message?

HEY-ZEUS?: My message is in this book.

AYATOLLAH: You can read! What does the book say? Pointing to a passage. This passage here?

HEY-ZEUS: Reading out loud. It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle, than it is for a rich man to get into the Kingdom of Heaven.

AYATOLLAH: What does that mean?

HEY-ZEUS: Feed the man dying of hunger, because if you do not, you murder him!

AYATOLLAH: Very Un-Roman.

HEY-ZEUS: Simply put, that we are not to your liking because we do not look like you. And we are despised for being “in low esteem.”

AYATOLLAH: You speak in riddles. Also, you bear a striking resemblance to Obama Ben-Dar, the one who took down the towers.

HEY-ZEUS: I guess I don’t look like your typical Roman toy boy Bradus Pittus!

AYATOLLAH: My informants tell me you were preaching in the wilderness. What were you doing there?

HEY-ZEUS: I was with my wife and child, but we got separated crossing the border. I was preaching our gospel.

AYATOLLAH: Which is?

HEY-ZEUS: Blessed are you when people insult you, persecute you and falsely say all kinds of evil against you. Rejoice and be glad, because great is your reward in heaven, for in the same way they persecuted the prophets who were before you.

AYATOLLAH: Where did you get those liberal talking points!

HEY-ZEUS: I’m literally quoting scripture.

AYATOLLAH: You come here into our country with this book, speaking in parables – ILLEGALLY.

HEY-ZEUS: I came to work.

AYATOLLAH: Well then, go to Rome! Ask them liberal Senators to give you a job! You’ll be dumped on a sidewalk and made to live in the streets. I’m going to call the Guards. Turning his head to call the guards. Guards! Guards!!

HEY-ZEUS: Who will guard the guards? He disappears.

AYATOLLAH: Take this man and . . . Enter the guards. He disappeared . . . the prisoner disappeared!! Where did he go? Search behind the curtains! Search the audience! They look very suspicious to me!!

ROMAN GUARD #1: We’re the Texas Taliban.

ROMAN GUARD #2: AND WE’RE COMING AFTER YOU! Blackout.

Carlos Morton has over one hundred theatrical productions, both in the U.S. and abroad. His professional credits include the San Francisco Mime Troupe, the New York Shakespeare Festival, the Denver Center Theatre, La Compañía Nacional de México, the Puerto Rican Traveling Theatre, and the Arizona Theatre Company. He is the author of The Many Deaths of Danny Rosales and Other Plays (1983), Johnny Tenorio and Other Plays (1992), The Fickle Finger of Lady Death (1996), Rancho Hollywood y otras obras del teatro chicano (1999), Dreaming on a Sunday in the Alameda (2004), and Children of the Sun: Scenes for Latino Youth (2008). A former Mina Shaughnessy Scholar and Fulbright Lecturer to Mexico and Poland, Morton holds an M.F.A. in Drama from the University of California, San Diego, and a Ph.D. in Theatre from the University of Texas at Austin. Morton has lived on the border between Mexico and the United States since 1981, teaching at universities in Texas, California and Mexico. He is currently Professor Emeritus of Theater at the University of California, Santa Barbara.

Susana Chávez-Silverman

TOY STORY/THE GANG’S ALL HERE CRÓNICA

29 abril, 2025, Claramonte, Califas

Para Pedro Lemebel y Alejandra Pizarnik (en tu cumple), in memoriam. And for my Outlander

I’m gonna ignore the news and the fads and the outrage because baby— heart is mostly all I have. That and some fight on the side. —Alex Dimitrov

Que si te han encargao una croniquita sobre la “current situation” pero— here’s kicker—with humor. WTF? ¿Cómo coño hago eso? Si he estado aplataná, just literally (como dicen mis Gen Z students) comatose ever since el KarrotKop asumió, only 100 days ago. Nothing’s seemed funny in aeons. Todo lo contrario. Por ejemplo, este epic problem: aren’t las tarifas que según el brand-new president were gonna fix everything pa’ todo el mundo (well OK…al menos for us anygüey, digo for the US) actually poised—when he unpresses the pause button—para hacer que suban a heights unknown los prices de tus TikTok-touted (not like you actually go there) yet somehow still mysteriously, satisfyingly bajo-el-radar imported Korean skincare products? The horror, the horror.

Pero pensándolo bien, who’s the funniest person you know? Among the living, Wu. Y mi hermana Sarita. Y el Outlander (pero I want to focus on la empresa at hand, so I’ll leave him for later). And without question, entre los deads, mi papá. Pero how could that be? Si Daddy creció en el Bronx durante la Great Depression. Pasó sus teens durante World War II. Conoció a mamá en 1949, en la cubierta del transatlantic liner taking them to a summer of study abroad y multiculti (avant la lettre) meet ‘n’ greets en sunny Spain. Ummmm…¡chiste! Actually, según Mom, despite its beauty, Spain era un forbiddingly isolated, dark country just 10 years after the Civil War had ended, dejando instalado al dictador, el Generalísimo Francisco Franco. Who—por inconcebible que parezca—actually bent down from his horse during a military parade y le besó la mano a mamá, te lo juro. After

which she threw away the beautiful kid glove his labios had defiled—pero esa es otra.

Como te decía, patrás a papá. If Daddy could live through all that and come out funny, entonces suck it up, muñeca. ¿Quién demonios te crees, wailing and moaning ante la “current situation”? Que si el roller coaster ride de tus jubilation funds, que si la visa de tus international students pa’ ni mencionar los undoc students. Que si tu life work—tu dedication a los estudiantes de color, a la Felicidad, a los gender and sexualities studies— rendered no solo irrelevant sino possibly illegal, according to the caprichos del KarrotKop. So órale, how ‘bout a little gallows humor?

Erase una vez there were three little…No, hold up. Chale a los three chanchitos—way too cute! How ‘bout Los Tres Caballeros? No güey, Jo-zaaay. Way too South of the (newly militarized) Border. So… Los Tres Mosqueteros? Simón. They seem harmless enough. So just lance yourself already, como dijera tu papá…

Once upon a time… había un Trompo muuuuy Travieso. He’d been here before, hace un ratito, pero nadie creía que he would really make it back to this planeta de nuevo. Era demasiado naughty and besides, gordinflón, machista y Tasmanian Devil or, ¿por qué no? true to his name: tromperil. He whirled this way, giraba pa’llá. Sus amigos eran una bola de outsiders, medio clueless. Cual asteroide, ese Trompo fue scary, pero kinda random. Ballenesco, often blundering, he followed his own rhythms e instintos y carecía, al menos so it appeared, de tendencias bélicas. Poco antes de despedirse, a ese Trompo le hicieron impeach, fíjate. Twice. ¡Qué risa! Pero now he knows better. Digo, he knows more. El Trompo Versión 2 es más como stealth missile: a weapon of mass destruction. Este Trompo sigue siendo, at heart, un little hair caprichoso (so, no known onboard guidance system) pero más purposeful, less chaotic. Cual misil furtivo, en estos sus first 100 days, he’s kinda snuck in bajo el radar. He’s struck faster than lightning y PLAF! Nos ha jodido, on so many fronts…a dizzying, ever-growing list. Y checa su external guidance system: el second-in-command, el deceptively chipmunk-cheeked, trucho hayseed Wolverine MataPapa (QEPD Pope Francisco). El vato es tan ferocious, aggro, cunning y bold (I mean, ¿quién coño se atreve a discutir de temas litúrgicos con el mere mere Papa? Hubris, much?) y hirsute, if I were you temería casi casi más al Wolverine MP que a su Jefe.

LITTLE EYE: let’s not forget el #3. This one deserves his own paragraph. El chainsaw-wielding, DOGE-style multi-billonario Almizcle, “advisor” del Trompo somehow anointed—digo appointed Special Government Employee. “Director” del No Sé Qué governmental Eficacia Equipo. Este former S’th Effrican draft dodger, sin un punto de governmental experience by the güey, se encuentra as we speak slashing and burning through 15 federal agencies, DEI programs, Medicare, el Depto. de Educación, the FAA, the IRS, the NIH, la VA y un chingo de nuestra

encrypted data. Este compinche del Trompo es el más peligroso de todos, pues how did he even get here? (Ya sé, ya sé…it’s all about the Benjies, bebé) El Almihcle es como el guard dog(e) del presi, su Dogo (a HUGE hunting mastiff tan dangerous que es, creo, illegal alien en los USA—and for sure in the UK), pa’ remitir culturally a otro boludo autoritario (BTW el OG chainsaw-wielder): el Argentine pres Javier Milei. Coincidentally BFF del Almizcle. Y como éste, también semi-spectral, medio incel-looking or, to be charitable, al menos socially AWK deluxe. Ay, ay, ay. Have we had enough yet?

En besos, no en razones —Francisco de Quevedo

Ojalá tuviera—como en los fairy tales—una magic wand pa’ adormecer 100 años a estos 100-day evil juguetes gone rogue. O para adormecerme a mí. Pero the next best thing (maybe even better) es mi máximo superpower: la imaginación y la memoria. And so…esta “current situation,” este abysmal panorama se desvanece (si bien no desaparece, OB-vio), it fades away cuando pienso en tu risa, your ridiculous semi-Dad jokes, when I hear you murmur—there you go, as you enter me. Lo dices casi cual consuelo, cual homecoming. Cuando pienso en tu boca, your tongue— entregarme a ese pleasure. Cuando pienso en mi boca, atrevida pero at home, or my avid, curious fingers que trepan, rumbean, van cartografeando tu cuerpo, todos tus hidden places, cuando te escucho gemir.

Now…where were we? Ay, Outlander, mira el superpower que tienes. Me has sacado esa evil clica—el Trompo, el Wolverine MP y el Almizcle—right outta my head. Ay, aléjalos de mí. Mándales al carajo. Send ‘em all to Mars (total, el Almizcle vive allí part-time anyway, que no?) and kiss me again. Besame mucho.

Susana Chávez-Silverman is a writer, professor, and performer. Her first bilingual memoir, Killer Crónicas (UWP 2004), was described by Publisher’s Weekly as “not a memoir written outside the box; it is a memoir written to obliterate it.” Her second bilingual book is Scenes from la Cuenca de Los Angeles y otros Natural Disasters (UWP 2010). Her third book, Heartthrob: del Balboa Cafe al Apartheid and Back (UWP 2019)—2nd place winner for Best Autobiography at the 2020 International Latino Book Awards—is a longer-form work with a distinctive narrative arc. Her brazenly bilingual (and sometimes polyglot) crónicas have been widely published in online and print journals and anthologies, such as the inaugural Norton Anthology of Latino Literature (2010) and in Ambientes: New Queer Latino Writing (2011). As a scholar of Latin American and US Latine literature, she co-edited Tropicalizations: Transcultural Representations of Latinidad (UPNE/Dartmouth 1997) and Reading and Writing the Ambiente: Queer Sexualities in Latino, Latin American and Spanish Culture (Wisconsin 2000). She has published extensively on Argentine poet Alejandra Pizarnik, as well as on other Latin American and US Latine authors. Her interests include: poetry and poetics, gender and queer sexualities, memory, trauma, life writing, and alternative or “minor” literary genres (epistolary, diary, memoir, email and text messages).

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Una publicación del Instituto de Escritores Latinoamericanos/ A publication of the Latin American Writers Institute Eugenio María de Hostos Community College of CUNY giannina braschi sylvia aguilar zéleny isaac goldemberg rolando pérez marcos pico rentería haydée zayas-ramos josefina báez ahmel echevarría awilda cáez geraldine de santis guillermo gómez peña urayoán noel yolanda arroyo pizarro angelina sáenz elidio la torre lagares carlos manuel rivera herbert sigüenza sylma garcía gonzález carlos morton susana chávez-silverman