Vida Mia Garcia 97 *5

...Rudy Sagastume

J e s s i c a

Do you have any idea how much I hate home? If you only knew. I hate this place. I hate the filthy streets. The special manner in which its denizens let their dogs shit all over the place. I hate how the apartment houses are built directly adjacent to one another. Stacked to three stories. I don't know what lies around the corner. All I know is that Sava's market is up the block. I hate the prices there. All I know is this little block on Brooks Street. I know it takes thirty five steps from the corner to get to 107. 107 Brooks Street, my fucking home away from home. Look at it folks, what a piece of shit. Who the fuck would live here other than the illustrious Bravo family? I mean look at it. Look at the rusted orange colored door. Look at the little diamond shaped window built into it. Isn't it nice the way the air pollution has collected on it, so that when one looks through it to look at the outside world they get a cloudy picture? Or is it the old green paint of the interior? The way in which it chips and subtly lets its inhabitants realize they're trapped? Look at the wooden steps. Do you see what I see? Some of them are rotting. Go up the stairs. You will find the rest to be the same. I have to stop here on the second floor. This is my home, apartment 2. Like I said outside it's the same thing. I hate the sneakers that decorate the sky, dangling from in between telephone wires. This is my hate, this is my home. This is the street that nurtured me and raised me. This is my daily torture. Look at these little kids running by, playing. There I go off on some imaginative adventure. I can never leave here. That's why I like Jessica so much. She doesn't know any of this nonsense. She doesn't know hate. Not to trust. Not to get close to someone. Not to love something or laugh without provocation. She knows of lands I grew up hearing about from my mother. Of a place where the people say hi to you on the streets and where its okay if you say hi back. When I look at her I see so much. Much more than the pretty face which I have come to memorize. I can see hope in her eyes. My hope. When I talk to her I can hear so much. Much more than the dainty voice that reverberates through the recesses of my mind. I can hear stories of a far off land that exists for so many but not for me. She tells me of her exploits riding horses. People actually ride horses? What's a horse? She might as well have told me that she rides a unicorn to make the fairy tale complete. I hate this place. This place inside me. I tell you that its like a God given talent that enables me to see the future. Have you ever felt pain at something that has yet to occur? I have. I feel it every time I see her with her friends. It's the same deep pain each time. I see her laughing and enjoying herself and enjoying life. Then she makes her way over to me. I can feel the change in her. It's like she's stepping into another world. Into darkness. That's part of the pain. I don't want to see her in darkness. I want to see her radiant light. I want that light near me but it dims the closer she gets. Then I look at her again, playing with her friends. This is when it hurts the most. That's not me playing along with her. It can never be me. Immediately my mind runs through all the possible scenarios between me and her. You see my pain comes from these visions. From looking at her I already know the answers. We cannot be because I can never be like that. Each time I look at her I can see it more clearly. It would not be me, laughing at anything, running and playing carefree. Even if I could bring myself to change I would never be accepted. My pain comes from seeing this, my dream, my nightmare. I can never achieve my success, and that is quite simply my happiness. Oh my God this hurts. Through my cloudy window I can see the muddled world so clearly. So I tell you one last time, I hate this place.

Moon and star

Antonio Alvarez

Moon and star, lying flat on a background of dark kues and contrasted by silhouette buildings protruding from tbe evening sky transforming tbe street into a hallway tbat leads nowhere. Moon and star, are you as barren as you seem? And if you are, wby do our eyes follow and long to reach you? Moon and star, in a perfectly clear nig k leave mankind breathless, as static as you are. Moon and star, bow I wis h God wo uld make us klind and slaves to darkness, like Odysseus and bis men to the Cyclops wben they "twirled fire point-hardened timber into his eyes", so we can be happy where we are and not long for what we see but cannot reacb

Una Carta...

Si los pajaros kaklaran Hoy te dirian lo cuanto Pienso en ti. Como segundo tras segundo No logro el korro de tu Imagen en mis sentidos. Como a cada pasar de las nukes oigo el Susurro de tu voz en Mis oidos, murmurando "Te Quiero".

Si la kriza cantara, Serias tu el canto Preferido. Canto que No calla nunca, Canto que alegra mi Alma, cura mis Hermidos, kaciendo Que todo pase.

Si los arkoles rieran, La sonrisa predilecta Seria por ti. Sonrisa fresca como una aurora. Sonrisa clara, que al sol emociona, Alumkrando mi vida si esta oscura.

La verdad es que Te extrano tanto, que Ni los pajaros, ni las Nukes, ni los arkoles Pueden consolarme. Deseo anciosamente Volver a sentir Tu tierno amor,

Querida madre.

...Wilson Quezada

Antonio Alvarez

Oracion a Mi Madre

Pronto el sueno me tomara en sus tiernos brazos

y me arruyara suavemente como la cuna donde tantas nockes mi madre me dormia cuando era un bebe. Mi santa madre que nocke tras nocke, dia tras dia, estuko al pie de la cuna cuidandome con tanta devocion en mis tiempos de enfermedad. Mi bella madre que tanto rezo y suplico en lagrimas a Dios para que no nos faltara n a<k Mi madre que lucko para mantenernos y protejernos cuando mi padre faltara. A esa madre que lleva arrugas, la marca del tiempo, le deko la vida. Mi madre que apesar de mi ausencia me extiende sus brazos, como en tiempos viejos, me arruya en mis suenos, me arruya en sus brazos. En mis suenos, en mi mente, koy y siempre mi madre.

Recuerdo a Mi Abuela

Recuerdo a mi abuela con pelo de plata y la piel tan suave como porcelana, aunque bastante arrugada.

Recuerdo a mi abuela en ese viejo jacal que fuera su casa por cetenta anos.

Recuerdo a mi abuela con el molcajete plantado en sus pi preparando un chile picoso con ajo y cebolla. ernas,

Recuerdo a mi abuela con el metate en sus manos, moliendo la masa, temprano por la manana.

Recuerdo a mi abuela que siempre al vernos nos llamaba a sus brazos y nos preparaba tacos de chile.

Recuerdo a mi abuela con la cara fija y la mirada triste en el dia de su muerte.

Recuerdo a mi abuela que dejo un vacio en la vida de mi madre, su hija mas pequena.

Recuerdo a mi abuela porque en mi mente guardo los recuerdos, y porque en el fondo, tambien me hace falta.

...Antonio Alvarez

.Besenia Rodriguez

Even before I knew all the pain she caused my mother, I had strong feelings towards, or shall I say against, my ahuela. That's what I had, an abuela, not an abuelita like most other kids. I always pretended that my abuela was like the little old abuelitas I always saw on the television who spent all day knitting and baking. Instead, she spent all day watching telenovelas and game shows. She did not knit. And she never cooked, much less baked.

My grandmother's days were spent with the at home look on her face, which differed greatly from the in front of visitors look. The woman never smiled unless she had to. She also never had anything polite to say to anyone in the family about anything. Oh, sure she was nice to outsiders, extended family, but even then she usually didn't mean it. They must have thought of her as the most wonderful, kind, giving woman. But we knew better.

When my mother was at work or at school, my grandmother used to pick me and my sisters up from day care and bring us back to her apartment where, on the hottest of days, my thighs would get stuck to the slick plastic on her couches, making it difficult to distinguish whether it was my legs that were sweating or the couches themselves. We all had to stay at her house until Mami arrived. At abuela's house, we could never watch cartoons. We could never play anything fun because she always thought we were making too much noise; it didn't matter if we whispered. We were stuck having to play with those stupid Barbie dolls that never did anything but sit there. The worst was when she tried to cook or comb our hair; she burned everything and she pulled too tight! It seemed like she knew nothing about parenting. I will never forget the day I first discovered that the woman was crazy. I was eight years old and playing dress-up in her apartment, my titi's room of course. Red pumps so high that I could barely climb into them, my favorite beige silk scarf that would add the perfect grown-up touch, the matching blazer that my aunt never wore because of the missing button. I even added her black hat as a finishing touch. I knew better than to go near the make-up and the earrings that I could see shining on the dresser from the closet, my mother had always made that perfectly clear. Beeeeeetty, ique haces? I am not doing anything, abuela. iPues ven aca! Yes abuela, I am on my way. I went into the living room with its gloomy brown atmosphere and, knowing the exact discomfort that would await me, I unwillingly sat on the couch. What seemed like a few seconds later, she got up with the familiar annoyed look on her face and her eyes told me that she was doing me a favor by allowing me to stay at her house. She went into my aunts bedroom to assess the supposed damage I had done. I sat there. Anxiously. I haven't done anything wrong, bhe has no right to yell at me. Think. Think. What could I have messed up? What could I have done wrong? She came out and did not say a word. I could not even read the look on her face. Well, it can't be that bad, I mean, if it were, she definitely would have said something. Or maybe it's so serious that she's going to tell Mami first, or worse, papi. The time went by so slowly that the next hour seemed like four. Finally, my Mami arrived, and my grandmother briefed her on the days events. She then looked over at me, her eyes filled with contempt and her voice filled with anger. Your daughter stole thirty-five cents from

me! Wait a minute. Which daughter? How can she say this ahout me? Doesnt she know me at all? Feeling smaller than I had ever felt in my life, I silently wept. How long before I drown in good intentions? When is it ever enough for her? Isn't anything I do ri ght? The idea that my mother could possibly believe her lies hurt like hell. My mother did not respond. Pues, ique esperas? This is your chance. Just go ahead now... Talk. Explain yourself. Make sure she knows the truth ahout you. I couldn't, though. I could not speak. We went to our apartment which was just down the hall. When we got home, my mother did not bring it up and simply asked me what I wanted to eat for dinner. I shut away the sound of her voice. But more importantly, I shut away the sound of my own voice. My tears were still silently streaming down and they began to warm my face. My Mami joined me in the living room and told me that she knew the truth, that by the look in my eyes, she knew I didn't do it and that my ahuela had done the same thing to her when she was a ckld. I know that look in your eyes, she said. The look that says, why me?, the look that says, I wish you would just disappear and let me he a kid like everyone else, like the younger kids even though you are only eight years old and especially like the hoys. I know that look because I owned it throughout an entire childhood of silences. Of wishing that she could hear my mumbles and my pensamientos. Of wanting so badly to he like the oth er ei ght year olds, your tios and primos. I still own it. I am thirty years old and I have four children of my own hut your ahuela still controls what I can say and what I can't. You think that because I am an adult that I am not my mother's daughter or my husband's wife. Much like my Mami, I could not speak. I could not defend myself. I had been wellconditioned by the elders in my family. I knew exactly what would have happened to me. My grandmother's expression was indicative of that. My grandmother and all of my elders dictated silence. Age was so revered that children did not have a voice. Often times, we did not even know what we had done wrong, hut we could read the glares which had become so familiar to us throughout our short lives. The glares that told us to quit while we were still far behind. When adults spoke, it was our duty, our obligation to listen. But we could not listen intently enough to seem nosy because everyone knows that children should not he involving themselves in grown-up talk. And for the duration of the grown-up talk, we could not even look at each other, for that would he a show of disrespect. Whatever we thought was too important to he said later was not. In fact, nothing that we could have said would have been important enough that it could not have waited. And if you had an opinion like I always did, you were better off mute for two reasons: either you would he yelled at for mentioning it or no one would even notice that your lips were moving. I could not stop trying, though, for I could see all of the power that their voices were giving them. There I was, eight years old, and my grandmother, with one he, had just as much power over me as she wanted. Thank goodness my mother knew her better than to believe her. But I was powerless. I soon realized that I could not, that I would not spend my life in silence. That I was sick of trying to read glares and tired of guessing whether I could respond to what the grown-ups were saying or if I should not have been listening at all. As soon as I made the decision to he heard, I knew I could not stop trying. At home, I continued trying to speak out,at any expense. For anyone. At school, now that was a separate story.

.Vida Mia Garcia

Authentic Mexican Tamales

Two or three Jays prior to Christmas celebrations, soak ahout 150 corn shucks in a tuh of warm

water. This makes the shucks more pliahle anJ less susceptible to rips anJ tears when the masa is

spreaJ over them. Buy a hog's heaJ at the cameceria; a gooJ price is ahout ten Jollars.

Every Christmas the house fills up with gente: aunts anJ uncles, granJmas anJ granJpas,

anJ so many cousins you start to lose track of who's relateJ to who anJ how. Beers pop open,

guitars are strummed, anJ children race, screaming, underfoot. The sounds of a good Mexican

party filter throughout the neighborhood, which obviously went downhill ever since we moved in.

Eventually the process begins, and a subtle hut distinct transformation occurs: the men wander

outside to drink and smoke while the women form their assembly lines in the kitchen and out into the dining room. There is a strict hierarchy.

Be sure to flush out all remaining mucus in the pig's head by placing it under the faucet

and running a stream of hot water through its snout and out its mouth. Wash off any dirt and

place it, along with one or two good-sized pork roasts, in a vat of boiling water. Allow the water to

boil down to a thick gravy and cook until the roasts are tender and meat is falling off the animal's face in chunks.

It usually takes two to pull the head out of the vat, so Lupe, my grandmother, and my

mother would grab the pig's ears and yank to a chorus of "iorale!" and "ino te cayes, mujer!" They

were strong women. We sat hack in the corner, waiting to he given directions or, hopefully,

assigned to a place in the line of bodies along the dinner table. Everybody took a turn at ripping

the flesh from the cheeks and neck, where the meat was so tender. My sister, always the fearless

one, never failed to volunteer to poke out the hapless creature's eyes and pluck out its teeth. Lucia

approached this job with unbridled zeal, leading my mother to declare that surely her daughter was

destined to he a surgeon. Or a vet. We had a lot of hope for Luce. This was her favorite chore until

her thirteenth or fourteenth tamalena, when she suddenly decided she was above such menial tasks. Already there were four or five cousins ready to take her place.

After the eyes, teeth, skull, and brain were disposed of (unless, of course, someone

happened to he in the mood for the latter delicacy), nimble fingers plucked and pinched and

poked their way through the piles of pork in front of them, searching for elusive and deadly hones

that might end up hidden in an otherwise perfectly innocuous tamale. The ones from around the

neck were the worst. Small and splintery, the proverbial needles, they were. We sat in the corner and waited until our hands grew big enough and smart enough to find the hones.

Strip the meat from the hones of the roasts as well. Using your hands, mix everything together.

Knead well. Add comino, rosemary, thyme, basil, black pepper, and coriander to taste.

The men usually walked in ahout tkis time, ostensibly to grab another six-pack or to yell at

the game on TV, but we all knew, even us little ones, that they were coming in to make sure we

seasoned the meat correctly. "iQue 'stas kaciendo, eb? No pongas tanto pa' que se sale bruto."

My father took tbis as bis time to strut around tbe kitcben, peeping over our shoulders and

murmuring about bis secret ingredient that we all knew was sage. "Chinga'o, you girls think you

know everything, don't you?" he'd say when we let him know tbe sage bad been added in a half

hour ago. "That's not even tbe real secret ingredient. I have that stashed away somewhere special."

We didn't have tbe heart to tell him tbe menudo mix bad gone in an hour ago.

After tbe spices and tbe meat have been mixed together, return tbe filling back to tbe fire

and simmer for thirty minutes, allowing tbe water to boil down three or four times. During tbis time, prepare tbe cooking masa using at least a quart of pure lard for every 50 lbs of raw masa.

Knead tbe ground corn, water, and lard together to form a thick paste. Add salt, pepper, and

menudo mix. Tbe shucks should be spread out across a large working surface.

I loved working with tbe masa. It was tbe one thing I could do, and do well. There was an

artistry to my stroke, my agile forehand backhand wrist maneuvers that spread tbe doughy paste

with one fell swoop across tbe insides of tbe corn busks. Tbe trick was even distribution: not too

thick, not too thin. The gritty feel of tbe commeal and tbe greasy lard comforted me back in tbe

days before I began counting fat grams and calories. As I spread I'd curl my fist around tbe masa

and squeeze, feeling it ooze out from in between my fingers. Then I'd pass tbe busk to my aunts

or cousins, who would spoon in tbe meat mixture and then close and wrap tbe shuck tightly

around its contents.

Tbis would continue for hours, until finally tbe tamales were arranged in concentric circles

and steamed, eaten with gusto and lots of cheap beer, and tbe process was completed for another

year. "Oye, these are tbe best ones we've made yet!" Every year, tbe same proclamation. It was a

great chain of being kind of thing.

Makes 12 do zen.