You touch my skin
Out Loud
Tears fall from my eyes
You lick each one
Love this tender
sets revolution in motion
la chalateca created by melli villafranco
Saturday, November 19, 2016
fractured memories
I see my shadow in the sidewalk, and realize I have redefined what grounded means
When I put both of my hands on my womb, I feel my insides moving, my energy centers warm and thumping against my skin. My mind wanders
to the pathways of blood inside this bag of flesh, blood just swimming around, blood just carrying nutrients to different parts of my body.
This body. This hairy body. This queer body. Remembers so much.
El Salvador. The first time I visited my family, I was five. I carried my baby blanket around with me everywhere when I was younger. I was, and still am convinced that is smelled like me. Clutching the fabric embossed with blue, green and yellow balloons - I remember my mom carrying me onto the plane
While the plane was still on the runway, I threw up all over blankey. I remember not wanting to leave Los Angeles because I was attached to my dad. Back Then, I thought my mom was mean to me. She always yelled at me for not wearing shoes or putting socks on at night. Or not drying my hair after the shower. I was crying so much on the plane that i made myself sick, hence the globs of mush on blankey right before my eyes. When I got to my Tia Blanqui's house in San Salvador, we tried washing blankey, but the smell of vomit and the remnants of separation somehow stayed in the thread.
I remember watching my Tia wring out the excess liquid from blankey. I remember watching her hang it with clothespins on a line. I remember watching blankey float in the wind on top of my Tias house. She has this winding staircase that moves from the center jardÃn up to the roof. I watched shoes ascending the stairs in fascination, from a distance. Dogs howled somewhere nearby, exhaust pipes heaved and sighed. The sounds punctuate my recollections of the moment. I have fractured memories. I remember seeing another kid naked, emaciated when we went to Santa Ana to see mama Luz. I remember these huge, red hormigas walking in a line outside of my Tia's house, a little world unfolding next to my dirty shoes. I remember watching them all move in all of their synchonicity, I remember how it felt when they bit my ankles. I remember sitting in the back of a pick up truck with my cousins as we rolled through Chalatenango. My prima who is named after my abuela had to poop in the bushes, and I remember thinking it was the funniest thing. my little belly rumbled with laughter. Later in the week, I tripped on a tile and almost toppled over a jar of curtido. I remember knock-off frosted flakes (my hermano's designation), how much sweeter the milk tasted. I remember being by a rio and eating pescado. My mom sucked the eyeballs out of the sockets. My nose crinkled. I remember my mom bringing a maleta of clothing and toys, and I remember being the indignant, spoiled american-cipota who didn't give my teddy bear to my primo because I felt possessive of it. I remember my mom later hissing at me for being ungrateful. I remember the shame in learning what it meant to be selfish and privileged, to be both from a place while being a stranger.
It is easy to speak of the ways I am estranged from my homeland, to speak of all the ways I feel distant, "Not Salvi Enough," never a tru trucha, only a shade of a chalateca, never the full embodiment
It continues to be difficult to speak of moments of disconnection, moments when my core feels like a straw, (a new umbilical cord). I strike the straw into the earth, and slurp up everything at the core. Plugged-in. Tuned-in. I could name all the ways that I've tried to remember, write down, put together, make sense of. Poured over pages, over dichos, questions in hospital rooms about mango verde y alguashte, fingers jabbing at a map to show me Potonico - "This is where we used to have land, before the dam broke..." Wasn't raised with Tonantzin, my worship came late in the night, when I would crawl into my mama's bed and she would narrate her life to me in puzzle pieces. I was there with her when Santana came to San Salvador (not in the flesh, but in the recesses of the mind), was there in each happy tear drop that licked my mama's mejillas during the sweet release of music. I was there when her father died, the abuelo I never had, que descanse en paz. I was there when she found her friend hanging from a tree who was targeted by the government, I was there when she made the decision to leave El Salvador to make the journey through Mexico por pie.
I felt it all.
I remember
attachment
I remember
displacement
I feel it all.
When I put both of my hands on my womb, I feel my insides moving, my energy centers warm and thumping against my skin. My mind wanders
to the pathways of blood inside this bag of flesh, blood just swimming around, blood just carrying nutrients to different parts of my body.
This body. This hairy body. This queer body. Remembers so much.
El Salvador. The first time I visited my family, I was five. I carried my baby blanket around with me everywhere when I was younger. I was, and still am convinced that is smelled like me. Clutching the fabric embossed with blue, green and yellow balloons - I remember my mom carrying me onto the plane
While the plane was still on the runway, I threw up all over blankey. I remember not wanting to leave Los Angeles because I was attached to my dad. Back Then, I thought my mom was mean to me. She always yelled at me for not wearing shoes or putting socks on at night. Or not drying my hair after the shower. I was crying so much on the plane that i made myself sick, hence the globs of mush on blankey right before my eyes. When I got to my Tia Blanqui's house in San Salvador, we tried washing blankey, but the smell of vomit and the remnants of separation somehow stayed in the thread.
I remember watching my Tia wring out the excess liquid from blankey. I remember watching her hang it with clothespins on a line. I remember watching blankey float in the wind on top of my Tias house. She has this winding staircase that moves from the center jardÃn up to the roof. I watched shoes ascending the stairs in fascination, from a distance. Dogs howled somewhere nearby, exhaust pipes heaved and sighed. The sounds punctuate my recollections of the moment. I have fractured memories. I remember seeing another kid naked, emaciated when we went to Santa Ana to see mama Luz. I remember these huge, red hormigas walking in a line outside of my Tia's house, a little world unfolding next to my dirty shoes. I remember watching them all move in all of their synchonicity, I remember how it felt when they bit my ankles. I remember sitting in the back of a pick up truck with my cousins as we rolled through Chalatenango. My prima who is named after my abuela had to poop in the bushes, and I remember thinking it was the funniest thing. my little belly rumbled with laughter. Later in the week, I tripped on a tile and almost toppled over a jar of curtido. I remember knock-off frosted flakes (my hermano's designation), how much sweeter the milk tasted. I remember being by a rio and eating pescado. My mom sucked the eyeballs out of the sockets. My nose crinkled. I remember my mom bringing a maleta of clothing and toys, and I remember being the indignant, spoiled american-cipota who didn't give my teddy bear to my primo because I felt possessive of it. I remember my mom later hissing at me for being ungrateful. I remember the shame in learning what it meant to be selfish and privileged, to be both from a place while being a stranger.
It is easy to speak of the ways I am estranged from my homeland, to speak of all the ways I feel distant, "Not Salvi Enough," never a tru trucha, only a shade of a chalateca, never the full embodiment
It continues to be difficult to speak of moments of disconnection, moments when my core feels like a straw, (a new umbilical cord). I strike the straw into the earth, and slurp up everything at the core. Plugged-in. Tuned-in. I could name all the ways that I've tried to remember, write down, put together, make sense of. Poured over pages, over dichos, questions in hospital rooms about mango verde y alguashte, fingers jabbing at a map to show me Potonico - "This is where we used to have land, before the dam broke..." Wasn't raised with Tonantzin, my worship came late in the night, when I would crawl into my mama's bed and she would narrate her life to me in puzzle pieces. I was there with her when Santana came to San Salvador (not in the flesh, but in the recesses of the mind), was there in each happy tear drop that licked my mama's mejillas during the sweet release of music. I was there when her father died, the abuelo I never had, que descanse en paz. I was there when she found her friend hanging from a tree who was targeted by the government, I was there when she made the decision to leave El Salvador to make the journey through Mexico por pie.
I felt it all.
I remember
attachment
I remember
displacement
I feel it all.
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