Cultura | Winter 1998

Para Mi Abuela by José Medina If I'd speak to you with truth, blood would boil in your heart. You died when I was four. I remember your thick lips, your Indian face, strange, with a thousand wrinkles, and your hair like a long river of white water. You died when I was young, and my child's soul had not yet discovered lightning, big words, and the toys of God. Now I am a man, full of convictions, and tall like a tree. Now I fight with the sword of love with which God pierced my heart. I took the crown away from fear, and in its place, I opened light in the pasture. It's the hour of truth. I am homosexual. Love commands darkness and the emptiness of existence. I want your words, your truth. Tell me, when I speak truth, what happens in the depths of your soul? Let's talk. Abuela, who are you? What vampires fly behind your dark eyes covered by wrinkles? What's your worst nightmare? What makes you happy? Abuela, why did you never express yourself in words when you were alive? Why did you dream that children do not have voices? Your words still cross the silence of the church. Abuelita, why when I was a child did you never talk with me? Why did you speak to the silence which surrounded your words with its invisible hands?

Eternal Burning Flame by JoeLove   There is a whisper, A gentle whisper through the night. An admiration. Only constant when the thoughts of you are bright. An only affection. Brought forth from those memories, from those meanings that you whispered- so gently when the lights were dimmed, A heartwarming thought, that only brings inspiration- when a smile is made from your memory, that I still keep in thoughts...now and then. And when I think of you- the days only grow shorter- for part of my life, you will always be. For I will always love thee...but as time goes on, you will only remain a sweet pleasant memory. There is a whisper, as the wind gently blows- and when I close my eyes, I can still feel your love, for you have been the inspiration, the breath of life that will forever warm my soul; my eternal burning fire. There is a whisper gently saying your name... My eternal blowing flame.     Mi Gente, mi vida, mi amor: A Bus Ride Home by Louie García Again, I walk down the naked street solito at night with a broken heart. Why did I let him do this to me? I gave mi corazón to someone I thought I knew, but enough of that rat. My life is not a love song, and I never wished for that. The clock announces that it is eight o'clock, and the bus is here on time. It is on Chicano time, of course, fifteen minutes late. No big deal. Lately, things in my life have not been on time. On the bus, my people take up most of the seats. My people, the students; my people, the Chicanos; my people, the pochos. Y los jotos? Of course, there are none. At least none that I can see. Then again, my QV-dar has not been working properly. Me dice un amigo, "Nunca lo has usado? Lack of use will surely make it weak." He is referring to my recent coming out of the closet this past summer. I look around. No one looks at each other. My people, they seem almost lost in a world of confusion. All of us: somos gente reaching for something. But for what? The lady sitting across from me is flirting with me. Esta gordita, this lady, pero tiene rostro bonito. Tiene la cara de un angel, but not her mouth. She begins whispering to her friend...things that she wants to do to me tonight if she gets me alone. I am in a crowded bus where no one else is talking but her. Yes! I can hear you! Esta es mi parada. I get off the bus here. I catch two buses every day to get to school. It is the same thing going home. My car is in the shop so I must endure. There is no one on the second bus, except for a boy, un viejito, una señora, and myself. We spread throughout the bus como que ni fuéramos familia, as if we did not want to get to know each other. The boy is in the front; he is a cholo. Rugged, rough, young, and dark. One of his sweater's sleeves is up revealing a hidden tattoo on his forearm. I cannot make it out. He begins to play with his long thumbnail. He is cute. Uh-oh! He saw me staring. He is gonna kick my ass. He looks like he could break my heart -that or smash my face in. Okay, maybe if I just keep my eyes straight ahead, he will not think I am QV, or that I lust for him. Look straight! Look straight! I do not want another broken heart or a broken arm right now. If I have a love, it is my life. I am interested in making friends -- having a familia. I will find them. I live under big Texan skies. I know I am not alone ...just living and taking my time.   By the way, that cholo on the bus, se llama Natividad. Nati for short! *wink* I Still Have Me by Trebor Jacquez   If you could understand that my outside shell Is built like a brick wall; Stronger than any winds, Dryer than the sun, Wetter than a thunderstorm, More powerful than earthquakes, Not ever allowing me to be held by love, To depend on trust, Or to laugh with happiness.   For many seasons ago, I was naive like a runaway child seeking stardom on the street, Craving the attention I never got at home, Buying friends with hand gestures, And searching for love on paper napkins.   But that was then, and here I am now. Without too many friends, family, Or even a lover to make my coffee.   Yet, I arise without an alarm clock. Shit, shower, and shave within minutes. Out the door to work and pay the bills I so dearly dread, And to buy my next meal I really don't need.   I stand on my two feet, One strong body, but one lonely soul. And every now and then, I buy myself a lil' something, A bouquet of flowers, for I truly do deserve them.   Just to know that even in my loneliest moment, In my crying hour, In my hour of need, In the end, I still have me. And in the end, That's all I really need. <<Previous Article<< | >>Next Article>> Return to Winter Menu | Return to Main Menu