reflections on race on ethnicity for the 2010 census

its been a long way since the 2000 census. senior year of high school still living with my nuclear family, my mother and two younger sisters. do not really recall how race and ethnicity were differentiated on that census though my mother was the one to fill it out, chances are were noted as as latino (colombia) and white.

now, ten years later, in the same city, not far from where i grew up, i see the issue completely differently. the complexity that each of us holds beyond our melanin content, beyond our phenotypes, our lineages, our peoples... are something completely different than what this white supremacist obsessed society ridden with internalized oppressions where self advancement is achieved by the slander and debasement of those that attempt the same. individualist self advancement through an aggressive pecking order.

before i can speak of who i am, i have to recognize those who came before me. in respect for the body that bore me, raised me and guided me, as well as with the territory of earth by which i belong to, i will start with my matraline.

where the aguacaliente creek comes down from the oriental mountain chain of the andes and feeds the suaza river, a tributary in the upper magdalena river valley. that was a native community. the suaza river valley once being a stronghold and still recognized as part of the ancestral territory of the andaki but also the tama people in the lower part. my mothers region, her parents region, their parents, and their parents and so forth. my people. the whole upper magdalena river valley being a territory rich with other originals peoples of different languages and customs... such as the yalcon, nasa, pijao, tama and andaki, to name just some. all of them severely crippled, displaced or both by successive waves of iberian invasions that started since the original liberation wars headed by the yalcon cacica gaitana in the 1530s.

as a result of invaders, the tama stayed throughout the region, enslaved and many loosing their identity, the nasa towards tierradentro and are now are mostly but no entirely in cauca, the pijao into tatacoa desert and mostly in the tolima, the andaki barely remain in upper suaza to near acevedo, huila and in belen de los andaquies, caqueta and the yalcon barely self identify and the yanacona are descendants of quechuas brought over by the spanish in the 1600s. while the original peoples of huila are rich and present throughout the territory, many of those that remained in the territory, mixed either culturally and matrimonially and with time became campesinos, subsistence farmers or day workers on large estates, few recognizing their original ties to this land.

as for the presence of invaders they are remembered by their long collection or sirnames from males relatives.... luna, cabrera, mendez, lara, escobar, and on and on... all that is known of these is that they have been in the region for some 3-400 years. what combinations of these sirnames are a relative´s name, a relative´s patron, master or rapist´s name, don´t really know.... as for all the women´s names that are never taken into account, its even more lost. beyond being mediterranean, i can´t even really verify if these people are iberian, moors, sephardics, roma or canary islanders who changed or bought their sirname in escape of catholic persecution. this is my matriline.

original to those lands i have only unearthed the story of sinforoza ramón.  was a native women, not sure of which peoples, from the ramón hill in the municipality of then la jagua and today garzón. she was grandfather´s great grandmother.

my father´s kin, while has had little to no role in my forming, they are still donors of half of my genetic makeup. my father is born and raised in the southern cone immigrant, port city of montevideo, uruguay. in 1914 his parents came as infants, both under a year of age, from the balkans mostly ashkenazi. my grandfather came from romania and my grandmother from the ukraine, at a time that ukraine was part of russia. that is all i know

both of my parents came to this country and 17 years of age, in the mid 1970s with lil to no family here. no high school diplomas either. they would eventually settle in miami for the linguistic, cultural and environmental likeness to their places of origin. 60% of the city´s 3 million has a similar story.

when you look at my siblings, we are a palette. i am the lightest, the one that "can pass", my middle sister has the non descriptive "latina" look and my youngest sister is the color of these continents, a brown... red, earth. this earth. so when the census arrives and i the lightest one in my immediate family is the one that puts for ethnicity colombian-uruguayan and for race native-other-mestizo, while back at my family´s place, my phenotipically unchallenged and completely acknowledged sisters and mother, put white. it stings like a lemon dipped stab in the rib. a whirlwind of memories of challenged identities, unaccepted affiliations and unacknowledged experiences and existences flood the present in my mind from the lost memorial chambers of the brain.

in the territory of tekesta, now refereed to by the long since sweet river´s name, Miami, is now in many ways our territory. whether the mayan from yucatan, the tainos and caribs of the islands, or chibcha speakers from kuna yala through tayrona of the sierra nevada of santa marta, all of these peoples had established relations with the tekesta and calusa of the southern part of the peninsula we now call florida. and recognizing that first, before came columbus, we had relations of reciprocity and mutual respect and aid with africans. just the way the xicanos trace their ancestral geography throughout the occupied territory of aztlan, what the usa now calls california, nevada, utah, colorado, new mexico, arizona, texas. we, the peoples of caribbean; islands, south & central america have ours here, in south florida, where we can grow our maiz, frijol, yuca, platano, banana, tomate, calabaza, mango, aguacate & cocos like we did home. here where xango, yemaya, kukulkán and la pachamama all overlap.

while historical military interventions and recent neoliberal economic policies have degraded our arrivals from piragua flotillas to balsas and barge containers and our returns are controlled, near impossible or all too often are impossible. a land where the seeds and the fish, the fruit and the feathers are relations of our original places... like aztlan, across the gulf, was occupied first by the spanish and then by the gringos. on this peninsula is where alliances between hichiti and creek-muskogean speakers together with africans would eventually lead to three wars where this alliance remained unconquered by the white supremacist, ethnic cleansing forces of the united states govt... this until some were be forcibly relocated to aztlan and then mexico, others left to seek haven on andros island in the bahamas and then others to take refuge in glades to where some remain today, the seminoles and miccosukee.

so now, that we live here, and here is there´s, occupied, de ellos, los del norte, los que crearon las rayas, borders, en Miami, we become both things. its beautiful and its ugly. we attempt to speak, walk and live like we have always done, but when we desperately imitate, judge and consume like they do, and forget who we are, we hurt our abuelas, los y las antepasados, our non human companions, the earth, both here and home, that we were meant to care for, as originals. if we don´t even try to grow and raise our food from the earth, how do we know to care for it? the earth hurts because we have been separated from our places and relations to her, how can we if we no longer hold minga or konbit to her. we are condors in the lands of eagles, living the prophecy of our ancestors and we don´t even understand much less recognize it. and in this disconnection from our own selves, our ancestors, our relations and who we are, where we came from and why we are where we are... we are dieing... even those of us who cant pass will actually claim to be white. the white supremacist of mestizo identity is its homogenization attempting to erase our pluri cultural region. we trace our spaniard sirnames and yet our ancestors spoke carib, kankobal, garifuna or yoruba. we wander aimlessly attempting, fighting to make ourselves a new white washed future, yet we do not acknowledge where we come from or where we are standing.

so in reflection of identity and place, regardless of the constantly attempted, imposed self unacknowledgement, i am a miami born and raised mixed blood andaki, my personal turf is this peninsula and my territory is that of mother and her peoples before her. regardless of the adopted colonial tongues, oppressive & corrupt religious denominations, and the mixing of lineages to the point of self denial, known as "mejorando la raza - bettering the race". i am not only of this earth for my blood relations to it, as mixed as they may be, but for my lived relations to her and walked path of having cared for her and leave future caretakers to her. from the urban brackish waters of the miami river and of the rapid fresh mountain waters of the rio suaza, es de donde vengo yo.

por que te llamas así?

te pregunto- hermano latino, hispano, latinoamericano- por que te llamas así?

por que crees en la unidad castellana y portuguesa?
o fue lo que te dijeron en la escuela?
por la iglesia católica romana?
la que se nos metió a la fuerza?

bueno...
es importante que se estresa... que la situación de nuestra gente empeora si se pierde la historia,
digo lo etnico es donde hay qu ejercer la memoria...

por que estamos aquí?
nuestras madres y padres por que les toco huir?
les desarraigaron su vida y se fueron pa' poder sobrevivir.

esto, viene antes nombrado neoliberal
desde la llegada y la despedida de las coronas colonial
los blancos criollos de norte al sur quedaron igual

por que hoy... las empresas transnacionales
al igual que los gobiernos son potencias mundiales

que nunca terminaron de saquear nuestras riquezas
desplazándonos de nuestras tierras
inculcandonos con tristezas....
y miedo

de una economía chimbo
de pocos y malos empleos dejándonos en limbo...
y que nos queda?

pues, si la lucha se responde con represión
y los que se atreven la migración

se quedan como presa en una casería fatal
del mismo estado blanco, criollo que es lo verdadero ilegal

esa USA
que nos usa
y nos abusa

es mas complicado que el pensado sueño norteamericano
la falta de trabajo, salud y familia no es nada bacano

sobrevivencia diaria
se vuelve la tarea básica
o si no, se vuelve otro cuento trágica

dos años se vuelven veinte, y uno nunca volvió
ni de aquí, ni de allá, hasta le teme al regreso

las crías nacen acá, sin tierra, poca oportunidad y cultura
aunque las cárceles si abunda

ya pierden la lengua
and dey can barely rememba

we 4get abuelos stories
always in a hurry
learned from parents who working in a flurry

and now da kidz say dey spanish
and im kind of embarrsed...

te pregunto hermana latina, hispana, latinoamericana...
por que te llamas así?

whether you came or te quedaste
the question is, si luchaste

we are in todas partes and need to be fighting backs
and know that we dont owe any thanks
to those with power from inherited colonial ranks

africans e indígenas, pure-bloods or mestizado
must come together to fight for our poblado
que nunca... sera borrado!

hermano, hermana, de la tierra, llamado latino o hispano...
do you get this??

Recorridos

como el viento

somos como el viento, que tratan de controlar para crear riqueza
pero seguimos luchando día tras día en contra la pobreza

que se encierra tras una frontera
que mamera
esa barrera
que no es esta esfera

como el libre comercio
solo para el precio
del capital que yo no aprecio
pero si, me atravieso
por encima de cual quiere raya aunque me dices necio

la tradición?
el del estado ha sido la traición
como han hecho por medio de la despareción
pero basta, seguimos acá en nuestra reivindicación
de la pluri nación-al, ancestral, siguiendo fuertes y fijos en nuestra ubicación

donde creamos el empleo
y el estado responde con el bombardeo
y la fumigación aéreo

en contra la mama coca
esta loca
el salvaje que la envenena blanca
y se lo mete por donde sea hasta la boca.
toca

cuestionar el desarrollo
y entender bien ese rollo
por que si no, esa mentira nos va dejar en tremendo bollo.
pero el pollo...

con hormonas no es la razón
por la cual su hijo salio gay, pero tu maricon.

es mas saludable comer un mamey, 100% organico, natural
como todo amor que se siente, incluso lo carnal,
que no es nada pendejo como lo paternal
esa guevonada hetero no incluye lo bocal,
como cuando me quedo colgado de ti con un mordisco labial.
pero para mi, lo mas bestial,
son las cosas que pa´ nosotros son penal,
pero para ti me enfrento ante lo mas genocidial
la homofobia de esta sociedad hipócrital
nos vería muertos antes que felices y esto ni trata de lo conyugal.

soplo como el viento
y este atrevimiento
de una rima no tiene mucho entendimiento,
pero lo importante es saber que el encasillamiento
por raza, genero, preferencia sexual o pensamiento,
es algo que se debería acabar en este mismo momento.

Hacen la guerra para hacer el amor - They make war to make love

Memoria del fuego: Nacimientos (I Libro)
Eduardo Galeano

1599
Santa Marta

Hacen la guerra para hacer el amor

La rebelión estalla en las costas del Caribe y los truenos sacuden la sierra Nevada. Los indios se alzan por la libertad del amor.


En la fiesta de la luna llena, bailan los dioses en el cuerpo del jefe Cuchacique y dan magia a sus brazos. Desde los pueblos de Jeriboca y Bonda, las voces de la guerra despiertan la tierra toda de los indios tairona y sacuden a Masinga y Masinguilla, Zaca y Mamazaca, Mendiguaca y Rotama, Buritaca y Tairama, Maroma, Taironaca, Guachaca, Chonea, Cinto y Nahuanje, Mamatoco, Ciénaga, Dursino y Gairaca, Origua y Durama, Dibocaca, Daona, Chengue y Masaca, Daodama, Sacasa, Cominca, Guarinea, Mauracataca, Choquenca y Masanga.


El jefe Cuchacique viste la piel del jaguar. Flechas que silban, flechas que queman, flechas que envenenan: los tairona incendian capillas, rompen cruces y matan frailes, peleando contra el dios enemigo que les prohíbe las costumbres.



Desde lo más lejano de los tiempos, en estas tierras se divorciaba quien quería y hacían el amor los hermanos, si tenían ganas, y la mujer con el hombre o el hombre con el hombre o la mujer con la mujer. Así fue en estas tierras hasta que llegaron los hombres de negro y los hombres de hierro, que arrojan a los perros a quienes aman como los antepasados amaban.


Los tairona celebran las primeras victorias. En sus templos, que el enemigo llama casas del Diablo, tocan la flauta en los huesos de los vencidos, beben vino de maíz y danzan al son de los tambores y trompetas de caracoles. Los guerreros han cerrado todos los pasos y caminos hacia Santa Marta y se preparan para el asalto final.



--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
They make war to make love

The rebellion breaks out on the Caribbean coasts and the thunder shakes the Sierra Nevada. The Indians rise up for freedom of love.

During the festivities of the full moon, the gods dance in the body of the headman Cuchacique and give him magic in his arms. From the villages of Jeriboca and Bonda, the voices of war arouse the earth of the Tayrona Indians and Masinga and Masinguilla, Zaca and Mamazaca, Mendiguaca and Rotama, Buritaca and Tairama, Maroma, Taironaca, Guachaca, Chonea, Cinto and Nahuanje, Mamatoco, Ciénaga, Dursino and Gairaca, Origua and Durama, Dibocaca, Daona, Chengue and Masaca, Daodama, Sacasa, Cominca, Guarinea, Mauracataca, Choquenca and Masanga quake...



The headman Cuchacique dresses in jaguar skin. Whistling arrows, burning arrows, poison arrows: the Tairona burn down churches, break crosses and kill monks, fighting against the enemy god that has forbidden them their customs.

From the farthest of the times, in this land who ever wanted to could get a divorce and love mas made by brothers whenever they wanted, as did woman with man, man with man and woman with woman. That is how it was in these lands until the men of black and the men of iron arrived, those who throw to the dogs those that love as their ancestors loved.



The Tairona celebrate the first victories. In their temples, called houses of the devil by the enemy, they play flutes made of the bones of those they have vanquished, they drink the wine of corn and dance to the son of drums and conch shell trumpets. The warriors have closed all the paths to Santa Marta and prepare for the final assault.

for danilo

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

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.