i cried for brickell the other day, i rode my bike through, but i couldnt see anything i knew
no street chickens, nicaraguenses, or bahamians, just cold, bare sides of condominiums
i thought of the sky blue, lime green and hot pink wooden plank houses on stilts... fishermen coming in from the bay with catches of red snapper, stone crabs and skrimps
coastal hardwood hammocks overlooking forests of mangrove, but now this progress and development has decimated places like coconut grove
sobe-... u mean south beach´s circle on lincoln road is where street kids would go dream... but after fashion and mtv this space is only fit for a monied gay stream
overtown, wynwood, they were once waaay more hood, and because so was deemed no good
this was long ago when crook and crome where arrested for tagging as the popo tried to restirct... but now... well with the midtown tumor miami growing, the performing arts center gleaming and the invasion of 4 dozen art galleries, they´ve turned the hood into an arts district.
miami's sweet water has turned bitter, yet we still think the expansion of concrete and asphalt is something better
tekesta... was once the name of this place and then miami as a colonizer came into replace
and as i said--i cried for brickell the other day
and while watching over the cracking concrete banks of the river maybe i shouldnt say
it left me waiting for miami to turn its full circle and watch all this bullshit sink into the bay
miércoles, 30 de septiembre de 2009
sábado, 26 de septiembre de 2009
What I’m from
i ride miami ave's west side just north of el portal. First the B, then a train ride and either the 9, 10, or 2 to get home after school. Jitney rides are always fun too. I come from those late 80s-early 90s gangs of citrus stealing west miami shores street children. the ones with anole lizard earings and afternoons spent in the Nispero tree where we were consumed by the savory, perfectly pear textured brown fruit.
in the 80s, zoe pound & crack houses were, and in the 90s gringafied latino newly weds and white gringo gay professionals are. i don't know anyone here. mi mama... is from a long line of strong, steadfast andean women whose lives are synomous to work. mi padre... is 2nd generation of the southern cone. i am the 1st gringo on both sides of this unique sudaka mix. i remember cracking my head open and bleeding in the mcdonald´s ball pit across the street from the olde 79th street immigration building. the one that is now a payless shoe store. the doctors tied me up to stitch my head shut, they said we were playing cowboys and indians and i was the indian. i hate cowboys.
this is where we say hello with either 'sak pase', 'que bola acere' or for my parceros?, 'kiubo pues?'. Weekends on south beach con la familia when still populated by plenty cubanos, boriquas, older jews & the occasional migratory retired french canadian snow birds. north was orlando. divine, are the body hugging bubbles after a dive on the 1st street pier. this is where we'd skip school and smoke weed in the mangroves, barbecue iguanas and where manatees and alligators explore urban canals.
where the guarani indigenous woman is still selling her watermelons by the 79th st. causeway bridge and mama took us swimming at the beach during tropical storms. this is where Port Au'Prince matters more then Washington and we were forced in school to learn 'no Castro' meant 'no problem'. i remember ... after lil haiti after aristide's first coup... the fight for the miami circle, against the homestead airforce base, the embarrisingly hypocritical elian spectacle, and most recently the F.T. double A. i’m from the miami, where the urban, feral, street chickens still roam free.
south, i’m from 32 1st cousins on mi mama´s side, which for most my life, has been the only side. summers nestled in my maternal andean cradle. june was spent in the branches of mango trees the tatarabuelos would climb. you strip the orange leathery skin with your two front teeth as the golden sun shine nectar slips down your lips, round your cheeks, past your neck, onto your chest. the sweet stickiness is cursed with pesky mango hairs that get stuck between your teeth. august closed with us into the canopies of cacao trees, slipping, sucking, & spitting the sweet pulpy seeds of the gods. abuelo claimed each seed was worth its weight in gold.
other foods include big assed ants from santander, yuca bread from behind the cathedral, great aunty fani´s morsilla-blood sausage, and fruits los gringos have never heard of. mmmmm, how about some mamonsillo, curuba, uchuva, chontaduro, granadilla, lulo, guanabana, pitaya, feijoa, o borojo, por favor. where our yuca is not frozen or covered in that foreign, fake, flakey, white, waxy shit.
to be more specific, find a map, this is south of la Jagua’s two waters, east of where la gaitana beheaded the conquistador pedro de añasco and west of the stream where the fire-breathing devil goat attacks nocturnal travelers. My adolescent abuelito included. exactly, this is where the aguacalientes creek feeds the suaza river. fresh picked coca leaf tea is still used for belly aches. from unfortunately, where the youth aspire to leave and not go back.
quality time spent with abuelito was horseback riding, cattle herding, & bloody cock fights. this in and around the town of the rare stork, where all that matters is 'what would would people think'. a place, descendent of a early on colonial raping of the Andaqui or Tama or Yalcon by the Spanish. thats our mestizaje. all this within the land of the upper Magdalena river valley, between the cordilleras central y oriental, a place named for our orange, snow capped-peak.
here a moments freedom can be earned in a 15 meter slow, thorny, muddy, rocky & even slippery climb straight up. its then achieved for mere seconds when returning to the whirling waters below within a slick cocoon of naked skin loving atmosphere pushing to resurface before reaching the rapids below. welcome, to el peñon... the peak. this and campfires with the gang, el parche de los pirobos, a bottle of guaro & a guitarra by the river is always severo plan. the best parties are still... during San Pedro in late june.
this is where the ugly, the dirty, lo salvaje is my preciosura. where multigenerational inherited baggage is to be dealt with tomorrow and everyday violence fornicates with the festive and the tranquil to be a surreal reality. going home is hardest on the heart and only leaving is harder. where family comes first and all else comes second, especially yourself. attempt to respect your elders even though they never practice what they preach. think this is a contradicting reality? im merely am what i’m from.
in the 80s, zoe pound & crack houses were, and in the 90s gringafied latino newly weds and white gringo gay professionals are. i don't know anyone here. mi mama... is from a long line of strong, steadfast andean women whose lives are synomous to work. mi padre... is 2nd generation of the southern cone. i am the 1st gringo on both sides of this unique sudaka mix. i remember cracking my head open and bleeding in the mcdonald´s ball pit across the street from the olde 79th street immigration building. the one that is now a payless shoe store. the doctors tied me up to stitch my head shut, they said we were playing cowboys and indians and i was the indian. i hate cowboys.
this is where we say hello with either 'sak pase', 'que bola acere' or for my parceros?, 'kiubo pues?'. Weekends on south beach con la familia when still populated by plenty cubanos, boriquas, older jews & the occasional migratory retired french canadian snow birds. north was orlando. divine, are the body hugging bubbles after a dive on the 1st street pier. this is where we'd skip school and smoke weed in the mangroves, barbecue iguanas and where manatees and alligators explore urban canals.
where the guarani indigenous woman is still selling her watermelons by the 79th st. causeway bridge and mama took us swimming at the beach during tropical storms. this is where Port Au'Prince matters more then Washington and we were forced in school to learn 'no Castro' meant 'no problem'. i remember ... after lil haiti after aristide's first coup... the fight for the miami circle, against the homestead airforce base, the embarrisingly hypocritical elian spectacle, and most recently the F.T. double A. i’m from the miami, where the urban, feral, street chickens still roam free.
south, i’m from 32 1st cousins on mi mama´s side, which for most my life, has been the only side. summers nestled in my maternal andean cradle. june was spent in the branches of mango trees the tatarabuelos would climb. you strip the orange leathery skin with your two front teeth as the golden sun shine nectar slips down your lips, round your cheeks, past your neck, onto your chest. the sweet stickiness is cursed with pesky mango hairs that get stuck between your teeth. august closed with us into the canopies of cacao trees, slipping, sucking, & spitting the sweet pulpy seeds of the gods. abuelo claimed each seed was worth its weight in gold.
other foods include big assed ants from santander, yuca bread from behind the cathedral, great aunty fani´s morsilla-blood sausage, and fruits los gringos have never heard of. mmmmm, how about some mamonsillo, curuba, uchuva, chontaduro, granadilla, lulo, guanabana, pitaya, feijoa, o borojo, por favor. where our yuca is not frozen or covered in that foreign, fake, flakey, white, waxy shit.
to be more specific, find a map, this is south of la Jagua’s two waters, east of where la gaitana beheaded the conquistador pedro de añasco and west of the stream where the fire-breathing devil goat attacks nocturnal travelers. My adolescent abuelito included. exactly, this is where the aguacalientes creek feeds the suaza river. fresh picked coca leaf tea is still used for belly aches. from unfortunately, where the youth aspire to leave and not go back.
quality time spent with abuelito was horseback riding, cattle herding, & bloody cock fights. this in and around the town of the rare stork, where all that matters is 'what would would people think'. a place, descendent of a early on colonial raping of the Andaqui or Tama or Yalcon by the Spanish. thats our mestizaje. all this within the land of the upper Magdalena river valley, between the cordilleras central y oriental, a place named for our orange, snow capped-peak.
here a moments freedom can be earned in a 15 meter slow, thorny, muddy, rocky & even slippery climb straight up. its then achieved for mere seconds when returning to the whirling waters below within a slick cocoon of naked skin loving atmosphere pushing to resurface before reaching the rapids below. welcome, to el peñon... the peak. this and campfires with the gang, el parche de los pirobos, a bottle of guaro & a guitarra by the river is always severo plan. the best parties are still... during San Pedro in late june.
this is where the ugly, the dirty, lo salvaje is my preciosura. where multigenerational inherited baggage is to be dealt with tomorrow and everyday violence fornicates with the festive and the tranquil to be a surreal reality. going home is hardest on the heart and only leaving is harder. where family comes first and all else comes second, especially yourself. attempt to respect your elders even though they never practice what they preach. think this is a contradicting reality? im merely am what i’m from.
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