RESIST. TRY. CHANGE. BELIEVE. WRITE. RELEASE. SPEAK. ASK. FEEL. VOICE. HEAL. EMPOWER. EXPLORE. SPIRIT. CHALLENGE. QUESTION. INQUIRE. REALITY. CORAZON. SHARE. REPRESENT. INTIMACY. DEFY. DEVIANT. RISK. EXPOSE. REVEAL. NEGATE. DRAW. REFUTE. MAKE. CREATE. FAMILIA. STRENGTH. SING. SPACE. FORTITUDE. SOUL. SACRIFICE. LOVE. EXPERIENCE. REACT. WONDER. COMFORT. RELATE. FORGIVE. DISCOVER. WRITE. START. THRUST. CLOSURE. CLAIM. INHIBIT. MIGRATE. WITH. WITHOUT. FINISH. RESIST. TRY. DISCOVER. LIBERATE. CHANGE. BELIEVE. WRITE. RELEASE. SPEAK. ASK. FEEL. VOICE. HEAL. EMPOWER. EXPLORE. SPIRIT. CHALLENGE. QUESTION. LOSS. INQUIRE. REALITY. CORAZON. SHARE. REPRESENT. INTIMACY. DEFY. DEVIANT. RISK. EXPOSE. REVEAL. NEGATE. DRAW. REFUTE. MAKE. CREATE. FAMILIA. STRENGTH. SING. SPACE. FORTITUDE. SOUL. SACRIFICE. LOVE. EXPERIENCE. REACT. DISCOVER. WONDER. COMFORT. RELATE. FORGIVE. WRITE. START. THRUST. CLOSURE. CLAIM. INHIBIT. MIGRATE. WITH. WITHOUT. FINISH. RESIST. TRY. CHANGE. BELIEVE. WRITE. RELEASE. SPEAK. ASK. FEEL. VOICE. HEAL. EMPOWER. EXPLORE. SPIRIT. CHALLENGE. QUESTION. INQUIRE. REALITY. CORAZON. SHARE. REPRESENT. INTIMACY. DEFY. DEVIANT. RISK. EXPOSE. REVEAL. NEGATE. DRAW. LOSS. REFUTE. MAKE. CREATE. FAMILIA. STRENGTH. SING. SPACE. FORTITUDE. SOUL. SACRIFICE. LOVE. EXPERIENCE. REACT. WONDER. COMFORT. RELATE. FORGIVE. WRITE. START. THRUST. CLOSURE. CLAIM. INHIBIT. MIGRATE. WITH. WITHOUT. FINISH. RESIST. TRY. CHANGE. BELIEVE. WRITE. DISCOVER. RELEASE. SPEAK. ASK. FEEL. VOICE. HEAL. EMPOWER. EXPLORE. SPIRIT. CHALLENGE. QUESTION. INQUIRE. REALITY. CORAZON. SHARE. REPRESENT. INTIMACY. DEFY. DEVIANT. RISK. EXPOSE. REVEAL. NEGATE. DRAW. REFUTE. MAKE. CREATE. FAMILIA. STRENGTH. SING. SPACE. FORTITUDE. SOUL. SACRIFICE. LOVE. EXPERIENCE. REACT. WONDER. COMFORT. RELATE. FORGIVE. WRITE. START. THRUST. CLOSURE. CLAIM. INHIBIT. MIGRATE. WITH. WITHOUT. FINISH. RESIST. TRY. CHANGE. BELIEVE. WRITE. RELEASE. SPEAK. ASK. FEEL. VOICE. HEAL. EMPOWER. EXPLORE. SPIRIT. CHALLENGE. QUESTION. INQUIRE. REALITY. CORAZON. SHARE. REPRESENT. INTIMACY. DEFY. DEVIANT. RISK. EXPOSE. REVEAL. NEGATE. DRAW. REFUTE. MAKE. CREATE. FAMILIA. STRENGTH. SING. SPACE. FORTITUDE. SOUL. SACRIFICE. LOVE. EXPERIENCE. REACT. WONDER. COMFORT. RELATE. FORGIVE. WRITE. START. THRUST. CLOSURE. CLAIM. INHIBIT. MIGRATE. WITH. WITHOUT. FINISH. RESIST. CLAIM. CHALLENGE. CREATE. IDENTITY. EXPLORE. RESIST. TRY. CHANGE. BELIEVE. WRITE. RELEASE. SPEAK. ASK. FEEL. VOICE. HEAL. EMPOWER. EXPLORE. SPIRIT. CHALLENGE. QUESTION. INQUIRE. REALITY. CORAZON. SHARE. REPRESENT. INTIMACY. DEFY. DEVIANT. RISK. EXPOSE. REVEAL. NEGATE. DRAW. REFUTE. MAKE. CREATE. FAMILIA. STRENGTH. SING. SPACE. FORTITUDE. SOUL. SACRIFICE. LOVE. EXPERIENCE. DISCOVER. LIBERATE. REACT. WONDER. COMFORT. RELATE. FORGIVE. WRITE. START. THRUST. CLOSURE. CLAIM. INHIBIT. MIGRATE. WITH. WITHOUT. FINISH. RESIST. CLAIM. CHALLENGE. CREATE. IDENTITY. EXPLORE. RESIST. TRY. CHANGE. BELIEVE. WRITE. RELEASE. SPEAK. ASK. FEEL. VOICE. HEAL. EMPOWER. EXPLORE. SPIRIT. CHALLENGE. QUESTION. INQUIRE. REALITY. CORAZON. SHARE. REPRESENT. INTIMACY. DEFY. DEVIANT. RISK. EXPOSE. REVEAL. NEGATE. DRAW. REFUTE. MAKE. CREATE. FAMILIA. STRENGTH SING. SPACE. FORTITUDE. SOUL. SACRIFICE. LOVE. EXPERIENCE. REACT. WONDER. COMFORT. RELATE. FORGIVE. DISCOVER. LIBERATE. CORAZON. SHARE. REPRESENT. INTIMACY. DEFY. DEVIANT. RISK. EXPOSE. REVEAL. NEGATE. DRAW. REFUTE. MAKE. CREATE. FAMILIA. STRENGTH. SING. SPACE. FORTITUDE. SOUL. SACRIFICE. LOVE. EXPERIENCE. DISCOVER. LIBERATE. REACT. WONDER. COMFORT. RELATE. FORGIVE. WRITE. START. THRUST. CLOSURE. CLAIM. INHIBIT. MIGRATE. WITH. WITHOUT. FINISH. RESIST. CLAIM. CHALLENGE. CREATE. IDENTITY. EXPLORE. RESIST. TRY. CHANGE. BELIEVE. WRITE. RELEASE. SPEAK. ASK. FEEL. VOICE. HEAL. EMPOWER. EXPLORE. SPIRIT. CHALLENGE. QUESTION. INQUIRE. REALITY. CORAZON. SHARE. REPRESENT. INTIMACY. DEFY. DEVIANT. RISK. EXPOSE. REVEAL. NEGATE. DRAW. REFUTE. MAKE. CREATE. FAMILIA. STRENGTH. SING. SPACE. FORTITUDE. SOUL. SACRIFICE. LOVE. EXPERIENCE. REACT. WONDER. COMFORT. RELATE. FORGIVE. DISCOVER. LIBERATE. CORAZON. SHARE. REPRESENT. INTIMACY. DEFY. DEVIANT. RISK. EXPOSE. REVEAL. NEGATE. DRAW. REFUTE. MAKE. CREATE. FAMILIA. STRENGTH. SING. SPACE. FORTITUDE. SOUL.

Where is

your (C

/S)?

CO

N

SAFOS

WRITE.

In This Issue c s

Covert ArtPatsy Diaz

Editor’s NoteBrenda L. Rodriguez

3

Aunque No Te Conocí...Amanda Ontiveros

4

Familia: Words To My Fellow MEChistAs

Veronica Mora4

When I Roll Through My Hood

5Cultura I & Cultura II

Patsy Diaz5, 7

Broken Family & Con-sequences Erica Manzo

7

The LetterRaymond Morales

8-10

Do We Look Illegal? Thoughts on SB 1070

Mark Garcia11

MijaErica Manzo

11

Tomorrow & The Flawless Monster

A.Albor12

My Identity?Flor Arroyo

12

MinorityA.Albor

13

Estaré Entre Mariposas?Flor Arroyo

14

As The Ink Burns BlueBrenda L. Rodriguez

15

To WomynVeronica Mora

16

Mother-Like SymptomsErica Manzo

16

Scene No. 1Anonymous

17

Journey RootsJoel Torres

18-19

2

A Special thank You to all of our contributors. Thank you for

sharing your words, your experiences,

your c/s. Con Safos could not have been possible

without your submissions!

Welcome to the Spring 2011 issue of Con Safos (C/S)!

It is my privilege to introduce you to M.E.Ch.A. de UIUC’s Con Safos (C/S), a student-run publication focused on the experiences of Chican@s/Latin@s in the Midwest. The literal meaning of “con safos” as explained in Jose Antonio Burciaga’s Drink Cultura means “with safety.” But I prefer Burciaga’s later interpretation: It was meant as a safety precaution, a barrio copyright, patent pending. No one else could use or dishonor the graffiti. It was an honorable code of conduct, a literary imprimatur. Like saying “amen,” it ended discussion. Above all, it meant, “anything you say against me will bounce back to you. This is where Con Safos originates, but we decide where Con Safos continues. We decide where we stand and how we create our own Con Safos.

Con Safos attempts to create a space where we, as a community, can write and share our stories, our thoughts, and theories. The lack of representation is very real. The lack of solidarity, action, healing, and understanding from others and to one another is very real too. But this is where it begins. We are agents of ourstories and we decide how and when to represent them. Each semester we take submissions and while we are focused on Chican@s/Latin@s in the Midwest, our creation of space and solidarity exists without borders and the fixity of labels. Feel free to submit your sign-offs. There is no structure, nor rules or guidelines. You’re are free to write and share, to rant, to compel, to release, to inquire, to ask, to wonder, to reinvent, to redefine, to create, to be. From a fictional short story, to a poem, a comment, a written conversation, a painting, a sketch, a book review, a reaction to an event, an experience, a testimony, a comic panel, a critical essay, a song lyric, a photograph, to… however you seek to represent your voice, your reality.

I look forward to your sign-offs. c/s

Brenda L. Rodriguez

“It is not a newsletter, factual and cold.

It is not a top-down publication with an

agenda or censorship. This is our creation of

space.”

c s

Editor’s Note

When I first prompted my fellow MEChistAs to explore their c/s, I requested they looked introspectively. From our Latina/Latino Studies classes, we learn dominant society and the political system (mis)read our bodies through racial projects and our stories are tracked and annotated by others. But how do we choose to identify all the components of our persona and our experience when we reject society’s colonial misreading? With Con Safos, we can explore that area, we can explore ourstory with caution, respectfully, critically, with happiness, with sadness, in fragments, with love, with frustration, from all and any of the spaces that we are currently in. Identity, whether political or personal—ranging from race, sex, gender, sexual orientation, physical, mental to spiritual—is fluid, we are constantly carving and re-shaping our identities. Con Safos is our space to share a little part of us to others and to each other. It is not a newsletter, factual and cold. It is not a top-down publication with an agenda or censorship. This is our creation of space.

3

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FAM

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: Wor

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hist

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Ver

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a M

ora

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te a

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self

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oupe

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mos

Mex

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fam

ilies

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hará

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have

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ily ti

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at o

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hood

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my

last

tim

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wha

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st

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show

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thro

ugh

the

ever

last

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pain

……

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exte

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land

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true

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new

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ight

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neve

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turn

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our a

ngui

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as b

een

hear

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as I

roll

thro

ugh

my

hood

...…

I rea

lize

the

day

it w

ill n

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nger

“be

hood

”…

Cultu

ra II

Pats

y D

iaz

(201

0)

“Kee

ping

our

bro

ther

s is

har

d to

do

here

”

“Let

us f

orev

er

rem

embe

r the

fire

of

our

stro

ng em

ber”

c s

Submit. Be Heard. Empower.

WHERE IS YOUR C/S?Currently Taking Submissions

consafos@mechadeuiuc.org

Graphic Design by Patsy Diaz

Brok

en F

amily Th

ere

is a

fam

ily,

Con

sistin

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a m

othe

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life

.

“Bro

ken

Fam

ily” &

“Con

sequ

ence

s”By

Eric

a M

anzo

Cultu

raPa

tsy

Dia

z(2

010)

The LetterRaymond Morales

Dear Ma,

You won’t believe it, but I received an e-mail last week that changed my life. I know, I know. It was just a few digital bytes transmitted over an impersonal listserv, but the ramifications for me as a scholar are long lasting. After years of speeches at the Board of Trustees, Illinois Student Senate and various other meetings asking for his removal (amongst other demands), I learned that the Regional Dean of the College of Medicine (COM) Prof. Bradford S. Schwartz is leaving the University of Illinois to go to the University of Wisconsin. Crazy, right? I know you told me to be patient and to give it time. And you were right. You know, I wish him no ill will, but he is the face of a struggle with which I have been confronted since my woes began in the Fall of 2006.

I never told you the full story of what they did, did I? Well, it was under his supervision and in his presence that another Dean (who has since left to Vanderbilt) uttered the words, “Ray, we want to work with you. We don’t want to have to send the police to your house.” Less than two months later, he sent the U of I Police to my laboratory and home to investigate chalking on the campus. I know you don’t know this, but chalking is a well-established University tradition and everybody does it. My chalking was literally juxtaposed to the chalkings of others. The school changed the rules within a few weeks on account of me. Talk about over reacting, right? And I know you knew that I wasn’t being paranoid when he was mysteriously selected to be on my original committee for my preliminary exam that was “randomly selected” amidst all that turmoil. And I never told you how he tried and failed to give me Professionalism violation. Instead, he resorted to “putting a letter” in my file with statements that I can prove to be false. Petty, right? He did this to ensure that Residency programs perceived these transgressions from his vantage when I apply in 2013.

I‘m sorry that you feel I changed. But I had to do it to survive here. This place is horrible. It took a lot out of me to have my life and career dangled in front of me again in such a meaningless fashion in spite of doing nothing to break a law or student code or professionalism violation. What’s worse is that people look at me like I was born with a silver spoon and that I am just complaining instead of fighting for what I believe. They don’t know how we struggled and the many nights we went without in spite of all your sacrifices. So, I know that it had to take people aback when I immediately retorted to Dean Schwartz and to many many others within this University that I perceived their actions to be discriminatory and selective. They couldn’t understand why I would sacrifice a free medical education, a hefty stipend that I receive each month, and my career to stand my ground.

I never did tell you what the catalyst for all this was, did I? I’ve been fighting for so long that I can’t even remember at this point. Well, the defining moment for me was when the only bastion of goodness at the COM (outside of a few folks in the MSP office) resigned.

What’s worse is that people look at me like I was born with a

silver spoon...

c s

8

Her name is Clarissa Williams and she was an Academic Skills Specialist who was also a 40-year-old African American scholar. She was the only person that I trusted with the responsibility of shepherding Scholars from Marginalized Populations and whom I believed could actually affect change. She had been trying for years to get transferred to Chicago and, on the day of her final interview to do so, she decided to not interview and to go live with her mom in Springfield with no immediate prospects for work. When I saw that she succumbed to the U of I in that way, my ire was raised. I thought to myself, this could be you or ‘buela or any one in our family. You could be amazing (like you always are) and be tortured by this University day in and day out simply for advocating for what was right. Maybe it was arrogant of me to think that I could butt heads with a College with hundreds of millions as a budget and whose overarching bodies ultimately award my degree. But I didn’t care. Honestly, I just wanted to make sure that no one ever experienced anything similar to what I went through. It was hard, Ma. I’m not even done, but I’m still making trying my best to think positively.

I apologize for never revealing just how deep the scars ran, but the ramifications were just too extensive for me to convey without tears. After a short series of e-mails and conversations, I went from being the COM poster child to the outcast overnight. I was eventually kicked out of my lab by Prof. Scott K. Silverman because he had “no scientific trust” in me even though he never gave one concrete example as to why. And it just so happened that this transpired less than one month after the Police visited my lab. I forgive him though. He just couldn’t support someone in my position. I just wish that he would have been a better person about how he did it instead of telling me on a random day that I had to pack up and turn in my keys.

This made it nearly impossible to get new funding because I clearly could not get a letter of reference from him. I could not touch the research that I had been conducting for over a year and it tainted me in the eyes of at least 14 other professors who would not take me in spite of having 1 year of guaranteed funding at the time and a 4.0 GPA. By the time I graduate, I will probably have been a Teaching Assistant for over eight 8 semesters which is almost unheard of in the sciences. Two to four semesters is most common around here. But it’s ok, Ma. If they really knew what it meant to be without and to sacrifice then they would know that there was no fire here hot enough to scorch my soul or temper my will. And I have you to thank for that.

But it’s ok, Ma. If they really knew what it meant to be without and to

sacrifice, then they would know that there was no fire here hot enough to scorch my soul or

temper my will. And I have you to

thank for that. So as I bid adieu to Dean Schwartz, I am optimistic about tomorrow, but not about the future of the College of Medicine. Trust me when I say that the problems go much deeper than just removing a figurehead. Did I ever tell you about Dr. Francis?? He is this really nice African American doctor in the area who is a premier medical educator. His story exemplifies the ineptitude of the leadership at the COM. Dr. Francis Ihejirika also used to work with the College of Medicine as a tutor and mentor back in the 90s, I think it was. He is also an Alum that was there as part of the 2nd class of minorities to be in Urbana back around the early 80’s. A direct result of this circumstance is that he has first hand knowledge of how the COM manipulated the money allocated for people like us. He vehemently opposed that and, just like Ms. Williams, severed ties with the COM to avoid dealing with their ignorance. He left to start a company called the PASS program focused on preparing students from across the globe for the medical licensing examinations. His program is one of the top 3 in the nation, if not the top program, and it is right here in Champaign. Isn’t that amazing?

c s

9

Check this out though. Once Clarissa Williams left the UHP Office, I was explicitly told that they would never consider Dr. Ihejirika for any position at the COM. In spite of the fact that he is the only physician with no ties to the COM who provides free tutoring (sometimes to over 50 people at a time) and funding to support students to attend conferences, they would not even recognize his contribution at the Celebration of Blacks & Latin@s in Medicine. Even though the students got together to buy a gift and card for him, we were told that there simply was “not enough time” in the agenda to recognize this African American physician who is a COM alum at the Celebration of Blacks & Latin@s in Medicine. Isn’t that messed up?

How do people live with themselves permitting these things to happen?

And then people wonder why I say that Champaign-Urbana is the worst place that I have ever been. In spite of the many beautiful people here who work hard to create a welcoming environment and who support those of us who are truly interested in pursuing knowledge, the depth of ignorance and hate to which many clutch with a vice grip at all levels is staggering. They don’t realize that I graduated from MIT or that I spent a summer at Yale or that I worked at Columbia for 2 years or took classes at a public university, CUNY before coming here. At none of those places did I ever encounter this level of deep seeded racism and privilege. And I wish this place was just an anomaly. But it’s not, ma. The graduate and professional programs across the country are peppered with offices and departments like this. There’s so many other places like that and I don’t know what to do.

If I stay quiet, I die on the inside. If I speak up, I’m reprimanded and opportunities are taken from me. A lot of times, a year will pass before it is revealed what

opportunities were taken. I don’t want to talk about that though, Ma. It will just depress me and it’s not worth it.

No one can really understand why I choose to just work and not socialize. They don’t know all the things that people in the community much less than University have said and done to me. Sometimes I get yelled at and I don’t even get an explanation for why. Sometimes they make me do things that no one else gets asked to do or is required to do. But such is life, Ma. I’m not mad. I know better. They just want to bring me down. I just smile and laugh on the inside. I can’t wait for the day when they ask me for donations and advice and support. And it will come, Ma. I just pray that I could be a good person and give a kind reply when it does.

I can see the end of the tunnel and I can’t wait to come back. I just want to walk through the door and smell that fresh pot of arroz con gandules and give you a big hug. Write back when you get a chance or I can give you a call this weekend. Either way, I will hear from you soon.

Bendiciones!

P.S. I have to apologize to the family for allowing this stress to get to me and for allowing my GPA to fall from a 4.0 to a 3.72. Without you all and my friends, I would have crumbled. And for that, I love you even more than you will ever know.

continued...c s

10

SB 1070 is affecting the lives of many in Arizona. My sister has to travel through Arizona to get back to Chicago from college. When I heard about the bill, I couldn’t believe that people were being ques-tioned about their citizenship in Arizona. My sister called me right after a State Sheriff had stopped her bus to check for “illegal immigrants.” She told me “We barely passed the “Welcome to Arizona” sign! This is ridiculous!”

I was shocked to realize this was affecting someone so close to me. I was also surprise how my sister’s confrontation with the State Sheriff challenged his stereotypical profile of “illegality.”

My sister informed me the sheriff questioned her citizenship status in a very rude manner. He had asked her if she was an “illegal immigrant” and if she wasn’t to hand over her “proof.” She was upset and said, “Do I look illegal? Do I sound illegal?” The Sheriff, then asked her to get off the bus, in which then she receded to present her Illinois State id and ask him why he had the audacity to question her in that manner. The sheriff apologized and let the bus pass without questioning others. But more importantly, why were certain bodies being targeted? There was an elderly woman sitting behind my sister. She had thanked my sister for being brave and acting the way she did. My sister felt great, and she felt like a super hero when she learned that the elderly woman was an undocu-mented immigrant going to see her family because she had just learned that her daughter had breast cancer.

Do We Look Illegal? Thoughts on SB 1070Mark Garcia

MijaErica Manzo

I wonder what it feels like,To be left without the one person that was there since the beginning,

The one person that looked after you,The one person that tucked you in at night,

The one person that loves you more than you can imagine.

c s

11

c sTomorrowA.Albor

I am Latino, born in this nationChicago-raised, second generation. My father’s parent’s, born MichoacánMy mother’s mother: a girl from San Juan.

As advantaged my life has always beenLife wasn’t easy as a child back thenI spent my childhood secretly afraidOf the life of drugs my father had made.

But I rose above the rift that he leftI’m moving on but I’ll never forgetI’m sorry papa, I’ll never hate youI am of your blood, it’s how God made you.

And there are others who share my storyBut one day soon, we’ll share the glorySo give us wisdom, and dreams to followTo become the people we’ll be tomorrow.

As I frowned in defeat, you crookedly smiled back. And only then did I see you for the sadistic Monster that you truly were. But then I realized, the Monster...

was me.

My identity?Flor Arroyo

Who do I identify myself with?Am I even first generation?

What am I considered?I was born in the U.S.

Pero he vivido un tercio o la mitad de mi vida en México tambiénI can speak English pretty well

But I can speak Spanish pretty well tooSometimes my friends poke fun at how well I can speak Spanish

I’ve heard “I am a Chicana. Born and raised in the U.S.”But I’ve never lived in Chicago or in “the city”

I’ve only lived in the suburbs when I’ve lived in the U.S.So who do I identify with?

Al parecer me identifico conmigo misma.

The Flawless MonsterA.Albor

12

Minority A.Albor

As a child, I was ignorant to the struggles of my people.I was an assimilated individual; the truth of my race, culture, my identity; unbeknownst to me.

The only thing I knew, was that me and my people were considered a Minority,but I had little concept of the word.

The word “Minority” was always present as I grew up in the Chicago Public Schools system.As a result of the frequent usage of this word, I associated it with my people.

I learned in elementary school that my people, who were more commonly referred to as Minorities, were more likely to score lower on state tests and exams.

Through textbooks, we learned of the heroic Americans that fought in World Wars, but never of the courageous Latinos that protested for the improvement of neglected education systems.

In high school for my history classes, one of the only times I would hear my teachers use the word “Latinos” was when the word “Immigrants” was also involved.

By then, I had formed negative opinions against my own race.But was I wrong?

It wasn’t my fault that the historical knowledge of my people was absent throughout my childhood.With no one to teach me the history of my own race, what it meant to be a Latino, or what a Chicano was,

I based my perspectives of these notions off the stereotypes and misconceptions held by society.My childhood only strengthened my ignorance.

It was an advantaged childhood, for I was an only child.My mother was college educated and brought in the wealth.

She stressed and instilled in me the importance of reading and education.She molded me into a curious individual;

to always question why and to always structure my thoughts using logic.She tough me to speak my words wisely;

whether they were either soft enough to heal or bold enough to hit their mark.Consequently, I developed a mentality of confidence; in which I was equal,

if not superior to others, based off my intelligence.I saw no differences between myself and a white person,

despite the color of our hair, skin, or eyes.I used to think that if I was capable of putting forth a competition to anyone intellectually or academically,

I was an equal.But after years of being in an education system that didn’t function off this belief,

but did neglect people of “Minorities”, it caught up to me.Ultimately, I view everyone as an equal. But I know that not everyone is treated equally.

So the naïve ignorant mentality I once fostered exists no more.I am older now, and I am continuously learning the disgusting feats of bigotry and attempts of oppression

that have been made on the people of “Minority” for decades.No longer am I completely blind to the ugliness and presence of racism,

for I see now almost every shadow it casts upon my gente; the so called “Minority”.

c/s

c s

13

Esta

ré E

ntre

Mar

ipos

as?

Flor

Arr

oyo Er

es ta

n he

rmos

o y

es t

u fo

rma

de se

r lo

que

me

enca

nta.

A c

ada

rato

me

recu

erda

n de

tu b

elle

za,

Y au

nque

yo

lo se

pa e

s tu

inte

rior l

o qu

e m

e tie

ne p

asm

ada.

Son

tus o

jos p

aral

izan

tes l

os q

ue m

e qu

itan

el a

lient

o,

Porq

ue v

eo e

n el

los l

a pu

reza

de

tu a

lma.

Qui

siera

pas

ar m

is m

anos

ent

re tu

cab

ello

, una

sedo

sa o

scur

idad

,Y

mie

ntra

s con

tus m

anos

fuer

tes t

ú so

stie

nes m

i cin

tura

Yo

te b

eso

a la

vez

por

una

ete

rnid

ad.

Pero

teng

o m

iedo

de

que

sea

sola

men

te m

i im

agin

ació

n,

sola

men

te u

na id

ea,

sola

men

te u

na fa

ntas

ía

Con

la q

ue su

eño

cada

día

.

Qui

siera

pod

er co

noce

rte

mej

or, p

oder

ace

rcar

me

más

a ti

Pe

ro e

s que

con

solo

con

solo

una

mira

da, u

na so

nrisa

, tu

pre

senc

ia m

e ha

ce se

ntir.

.. M

arip

osas

en

el e

stom

ago.

.. y

no sé

qué

hac

er

Y en

tonc

es te

eva

do tr

atan

do d

e hu

irte,

Pero

mis

ojos

trai

dore

s reg

resa

n a

ti pa

ra a

dmira

rte

Y en

cua

nto

volte

as h

acia

mí

Las m

arip

osas

regr

esan

, y d

e nu

evo

te te

ngo

que

evad

ir.Y

teng

o m

iedo

de

que

sea

sola

men

te m

i im

agin

ació

n,

sola

men

te u

na id

ea, s

olam

ente

una

fant

asía

Con

la q

ue su

eño

cada

día

.

Con

esp

eran

zas d

e en

cont

rart

e, te

bus

co p

or d

onde

cam

ino

y vi

sito

los l

ugar

es d

e tu

frec

uenc

ia

Pero

cua

ndo

encu

entr

o tu

figu

ra o

la m

ás m

ínim

a se

ñal d

e tu

pre

senc

ia,

Sigo

mi c

amin

o.

¿Me

preg

unto

qué

har

ás? ¿

Me

preg

unto

si p

ensa

ras e

n m

í?

¿Me

preg

unto

que

será

en

verd

ad lo

que

sien

to?

He

espe

rado

tant

o tie

mpo

por

est

e m

omen

to,

Rezá

ndol

e a

Dio

s sin

par

ar q

ue ap

arec

iera

s tu,

A

hora

que

me

ha co

nced

ido

a ti

no se

qué

hac

er, n

o sé

cóm

o re

acci

onar

,N

o m

ás m

e qu

eda

segu

ir re

zánd

ole

al S

anto

Esp

íritu

.Y

es q

ue te

ngo

mie

do d

e qu

e se

a so

lam

ente

mi i

mag

inac

ión,

so

lam

ente

una

idea

, sol

amen

te u

na fa

ntas

ía

Con

la q

ue su

eño

cada

día

.En

tre M

arip

osas

Flor

Arr

oyo

(201

0)

14

cris

scro

ssed

thre

ads o

f b

lack

and

whi

te,

that

ling

er b

etw

een

yes a

nd n

o.

cris

scro

ssed

thre

ads o

f b

lack

and

whi

te,

that

ling

er b

etw

een

yes a

nd n

o.

A

s The I

nk B

urns

Blu

e

Bren

da L

. Rod

rigu

ez

I wou

ld b

urn

this

plac

e do

wn,

st

artin

g w

ith o

ur w

alls,

th

en th

is ne

ck o

f min

e, en

ding

with

you

r fing

ertip

s.

But I

’ve m

ispla

ced

the

box

of m

atch

es, b

ox o

f scr

abbl

e le

tters

.

I wal

k w

ith a

thou

sand

diff

eren

t fac

es,

a va

rianc

e of

pos

e an

d ex

pres

sion

but y

ou,

you

wea

r my

wor

ds li

ke a

with

erin

g ch

ecke

red

scar

f,cr

isscr

osse

d th

read

s of b

lack

and

whi

te,

that

ling

er b

etw

een

yes a

nd n

o.

I wou

ld b

urn

this

plac

e do

wn,

fu

eled

by

phot

ogra

phic

mem

orie

s, di

ffere

nt st

ory

lines

, no

nexi

sten

t dia

logu

es,

and

disp

osab

le th

ough

ts.

But I

’ve fo

rgot

ten

the

scrip

t som

ewhe

rebe

twee

n th

e m

atch

, the

box

, and

littl

e pi

eces

of p

aper

.Yo

ur w

ords

hav

e fil

led

thes

e w

alls

to c

apac

ityye

t my

thou

ghts

kee

p sc

ream

ing

obsc

eniti

es.

I wal

k w

ith a

thou

sand

diff

eren

t sca

rs th

at sl

ip a

nd g

ive

me

away

, I d

on’t

deny

it.

I wal

k w

ith th

ousa

nd d

egre

es o

f sep

arat

ion,

I no

long

er w

ish to

hid

e it.

I sen

se y

ouC

onju

re y

ouCu

rse

you

Impl

ore

you

Dem

ean

you

Rede

em y

ou

All

to re

mem

ber y

ou a

s tha

t mom

ent,

capt

ione

d w

ith fa

int i

nvoc

atio

nsa

blur

ry st

ill m

emor

y ne

ver f

ails

to c

aptu

re,

fram

ed w

ithin

a u

nico

rn n

arra

tive,

inst

antly

impr

inte

d up

on m

y co

nsci

ousn

ess.

The

room

dar

kens

in co

nver

satio

n cr

isscr

osse

d w

ith th

e th

ings

I m

eant

to sa

yA

nd a

ll th

e sm

oke

linge

ring

upon

my

face

I wou

ld b

urn

this

plac

e do

wn,

star

ting

with

my

pen,

En

ding

with

you

r with

erin

g ch

ecke

red

scar

fC

rissc

ross

ed so

mew

here

bet

wee

n yo

ur li

ps a

nd m

ine.

I wou

ld b

urn

this

plac

e do

wn

Con

golp

es d

e pec

hoI c

onju

re y

oupa

lom

a ne

gra,

pal

oma

negr

aCu

rse

you

cuer

vo p

or fo

rtun

aI i

mpl

ore

you

devo

ram

e los

ojo

s I d

emea

n yo

uYa

no

si m

alde

cirte

Re

deem

you

o po

r ti r

ezar

For a

ll th

at is

wor

th, a

nd a

ll th

e th

ings

I ra

ther

not

kee

p.Fo

r all

that

it d

idn’

t mat

ter,

and

for a

ll th

at it

did

.

I str

ike

the

mat

ch fo

r the

faile

d w

ords

cr

isscr

osse

dso

mew

here

bet

wee

n m

e an

d yo

u.

As t

he sm

oke

elev

ates

us

With

a th

ousa

nd d

egre

es o

f sep

arat

ion.

Som

ewhe

re b

etw

een

me

and

you,

I sile

ntly

pra

y as

the

ink

burn

s blu

e.

c/s

Mot

her-

Like

Sym

ptom

sEr

ica

Man

zo

I’m h

er si

ster

, yet

I fe

el I’

m h

er m

othe

r,Fr

om a

you

ng a

ge,

I was

alw

ays t

here

,Lo

okin

g aft

er h

er,

Hel

ping

her

with

hom

ewor

k,Pl

ayin

g ar

ound

,W

atch

ing

mov

ies,

Just

spen

ding

qua

lity

time.

Now

that

I’m

mile

s apa

rt,

I fee

l as i

f I sh

ould

n’t b

e he

re.

So m

any

thin

gs ta

ke o

ver,

That

I fo

rget

.Fo

rget

that

I am

a si

ster

not

a m

othe

r,A

sist

er th

at n

eeds

to li

ve h

er li

fe,

Live

a li

fe fi

lled

with

exp

erie

nces

.Bu

t how

can

I w

hen

I fee

l gui

lty?

Gui

lty fo

r bei

ng so

far a

part

from

her

.Pe

ople

do

not r

ealiz

e ho

w m

uch

she

mea

ns to

me,

She’s

a y

oung

girl

,Th

at lo

oks u

p to

me,

Yet I

’m m

iles a

way

And

una

ble

to h

elp,

I wou

ld d

ie fo

r her

,I l

ove

her.

To W

omyn

Vero

nica

Mor

a

how

can

i no

t lov

e w

omyn

so st

rong

and

fier

ce.

how

can

i no

t ado

rein

depe

nden

t. po

wer

ful.

beau

tiful

.w

omyn

.sp

arkl

ing

eyes

, sm

iles t

hat s

hine

brig

htha

nds t

hat k

now

how

and

whe

reto

car

ess w

hen

you’

re sa

dor

wan

t to

mak

e lo

ve.

how

can

i no

t lov

e w

omyn

like

the

one

that

bro

ught

me

to th

is w

orld

carr

ied

me

with

in h

ernu

rtur

ed m

esh

aped

who

i am

.ho

w c

an i

not l

ove

wom

ynth

at la

y on

my

bed

as i

elic

it so

ft m

oans

and

sighs

of c

onte

ntw

ith th

ese

wom

yn h

ands

of m

ine.

how

can

i no

t lov

e w

omyn

with

thei

r soft

ness

and

cur

ves

as i

expl

ore,

bite

, kiss

, and

car

ess

with

thes

e w

omyn

lips

of m

ine.

how

can

i no

t lov

e w

omyn

as w

e m

ove

toge

ther

in p

erfe

ct e

qual

ityne

ither

stro

nger

or b

ette

r tha

n th

e ot

her

how

can

iho

w c

an i

not

how

can

i no

t lov

e w

omyn

16

Scene No. 1Anonymous

In it he found one picture of himself. Yellow Lane Tech embroidery and numbers sewed all over his green uniform. He was down on his right knee while his right arm cradled the trophy. His left hand pierced the sky above him as held one finger up, he was number one. But it wasn’t his finger that let you know he was the number one wide receiver. At the time he weigh 177 pounds, all muscle. There were no memorable missed catches, he was stronger than any linebacker on his team and he was faster than any cornerback or safety he had ever encountered. To his mother this all meant he was well on his way to receiving a scholarship for his talents. He was only a sophomore but anyone that saw the photograph always thought it was him as a senior. He however could never really look at the face. His beady eye balls zeroed in on the camera lens and made him feel like his past self was scolding him for letting things become the way they were today. He put the photograph back inside the white cardboard box that was to the right of his bed, on top of the mahogany table; the only thing in the room that wasn’t steel or colored a sterile white. In the box he found photographs of his boys, now men, 27 and 24. Underneath he found three photographs of his old motorcycle, the one his ex-wife made him sell when she was pregnant with their first boy. All the way at the bottom was one photograph of his younger sister, now back in Puerto Rico trying to save the world. He wondered if the box was his ex-wife’s way of visiting him. It had to be, who else could have dropped it off ? Certainly not his two men, one was in New York and the other in Utah. It had all started the previous morning when he felt pain in his upper back but just figured he had slept the wrong way. He was meaning to get a smaller bed but after all these years he still couldn’t find one that was as comfortable as the one he and his ex-wife had shared. By the time he got to work his chest had began to hurt as his hands began to numb up, but this was a common occurrence and felt it was his diabetes’ way of punishing him for drinking too much Coca-Cola the night before. When he was finally on his pallet jack trying to move the 250 bags of ruined starch his boss had been hassling him about he was losing his breath. This time he knew he was in trouble. He tried to run to the office but before his swollen feet could touch the ground his chubby right face cheek was positioning itself to soften the blow his head was about to take. He cupped and pulled in the left side of his chest as held his heart in his hands. Being the stubborn, old, man he was he still hoped it was just heart burn. He wasn’t about to let his doctor win, his mom made it to 92 with high cholesterol and diabetes, he could too. Lights out. A heart attack, the doctor explained, that if untreated could lead to death. Maybe him passing out was the best thing, the first main concern however was what the guys at work were going to say. What weren’t they going to say? Maybe his sons would finally fly out to visit. He asked the doctor if they had been contacted, to which the doctor replied he had no idea but told him a beautiful woman had came to visit him in the morning but left crying when she found him asleep.

17

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Journey RootsJoel Torres

“Aguántate joven, la calle es muy fea.” Jorge didn’t need to be told to hang on. He had been bracing himself in the middle of the backseat of the taxicab since it screeched out of the airport. The car was practically weaving nonstop the entire time they were on the mountainside roads. Every other curve seemed to bring on another obstacle. If it wasn’t a mule, it was a horse. If it wasn’t a horse, it was a goat. If it wasn’t a goat, it was a boulder that had fallen from the mountaintops. If none of these appeared in the middle of the road, the driver would zoom into the opposite lane in order to pass the cars in front of him moving slightly slower than he was. His annoyingly calm demeanor indicated to Jorge that none of these things were out of the ordinary. The fact that there were absolutely no guardrails to prevent the car from tumbling down the mountain did not make him feel any calmer.“Yeah… okay.” Was the only thing Jorge managed to squeeze out of his larynx.“¿Cómo? ¿No hablas español?” “Umm…” Jorge had to think really hard to retrieve his Spanish vocabulary. “Muy poco Señor.”“Bueno, pues entiendo inglés más o menos bien. Si prefieres háblame en inglés.”“Oh… you understand English?” Jorge was still having a hard time keeping himself composed since he felt like he was riding a chariot being pulled by a bull. The numerous makeshift shrines on the side of the road for victims of car crashes only added to Jorge’s anxiety.“Sí, ¿cómo te llamas joven?”“My name?” Jorge was about to tell him what he would tell everybody back home: that his name was “George” as in “George of the Jungle”, when he realized that he was in Mexico; he could go by his real name now, which is pronounced, “hor-heh”. “Me llamo Jorge,” he managed to say.

“Mucho gusto Jorge, me llamo Alejandro,” replied the driver, “no te preocupes, conozco este camino muy bien.” Alejandro telling Jorge not to worry was about as helpful as kicking a computer screen after it crashes. However, Jorge finally felt some relief when he noticed that they were out of the mountain roads and entering the city of Guanajuato.“Estaremos en tu destino en unos quince minutos,” announced the driver.“Fifteen more minutes?

Okay señor,” Jorge answered.Destino, Jorge thought to himself, he always found it interesting that in Spanish the same word could be used for “destination” and “destiny”. He wonders if making this trip was his destiny. He had only been to

Mexico once before when he was five years old.That was nearly seventeen years ago so heobviously doesn’t remember much. The only family he has here that matters to him is his grandmother, Julieta, waiting for Jorge on her deathbed. Her last wish is to see her belovedgrandson one last time before she passes on. Julieta’s son, Jorge’s dad, stayed behind in Arizona. His dad and his grandmother have been in a feud for a long time, and so they rarely speak to one another. Whenever Jorge brought up his grandmother, his dad would give him the same speech:“George, your grandmother is a hopelessly backwards woman. She would have us give up everything we’ve worked so hard for to go live in a place that many people die trying to escape from. From the moment I first set foot on US soil, I swore that I would never force any of my kids to grow up the way I did, and your mother and I have worked far too hard to give all of that up. As far as we’re concerned, we’re Americans now, and if your

It never escaped his attention that his dad called him

“George” instead of “Jorge”.

18

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To Be Continued on the Next

Issue of Con Safos!

grandmother can’t accept that than she’s dead to me.” It never escaped his attention that his dad called him “George” instead of “Jorge”.His mother would never think to betray her husband, and remained behind as well. When they came to Mexico the last time, Jorge’s father and grandmother had “the big fight”. In a fit of rage, his father swore he would never come back to this “hellhole of a country” ever again. When they returned to Phoenix, Arizona, hereaffirmed this declaration by burning his passport, assuring Jorge and his wife that he would never need it again. After “the big fight”, he did everything he could to erase his old heritage from his household. He legally changed his name from Felipe to Phillip, he never uttered a word of Spanish, and he proudly displayed the American flag everywhere in his house along with a number of portraits of famous Americans. One portrait stood out amongst the others, a giant painting of Theodore Roosevelt. Etched into a small golden rectangle at the bottom was a quote, “In this country, there is no room for hyphenated Ameri-cans”. It was to his father’s chagrin that Jorge chose to study Spanish throughout high school and college.“Ya llegamos joven, que te pasa buen día amigo.” The driver told Jorge as they pulled up to what could only be Jorge’s grandmother’s house. Jorge paid the driver his fare and made his way up to her front door while lugging his huge suitcase behind him. He vaguely remembered the house from when he was younger, so he knew he was at the right place. He knocked on the whitewashed metal door, echoing loudly into the house. A tiny slot on the door at eye level opened up, revealing the face of a woman dressed in a colorful and flowery frock. She greeted Jorge, and in the most broken Spanish possible Jorge told her he was looking for his grandmother, Julieta.

“¿Eres Jorge?” The woman asked.“Sí.” Jorge answered.Immediately the woman’s face lit up with happiness. She unlocked the door and let Jorge into the house. She gave him a tight hug. “(Spanish) Oh my goodness, look at how much you’ve grown! Oh, you probably don’t even remember me do you?”“Uhhh…” Jorge said, “(In broken Spanish) S-Sorry, I don’t remember you.”“I’m your aunt Marta, Felipe’s cousin.” She replied, “I was the one who used to watch you when your parents went out to the Jardín. They were too afraid to take you with them. We had lots of fun together.”Try as hard as he could, Jorge could not remember anything Marta was talking about. He was struggling to try to find the right words to say when Marta interjected.“You were only five years old at the time, it’s no surprise you don’t remember. I’ll take your luggage up to your room, your grandmother is straight down the hall from your room. You should go see her now.”“Bueno.” Was all Jorge could muster up at that moment. He followed Marta through the atrium of the house, which was technically outside since it had no roof, and up a flight of stairs to where there were three bedrooms and a bathroom. Marta pointed him in the direction of his grandmother’s room before turning towards the other direction to put his luggage in his room. He entered the room to see a tiny old woman resting on the bed, with pillows for her head and feet. Old age had really done a number on her, he barely recognized her behind all of her wrinkles and sags. She opened her eyes and turned her head towards Jorge. Her face lit up at having recognized her beloved grandson.“Jorge, qué milagro que te veo. I was afraid you wouldn’t come.”

In a fit of rage, his father swore he would never

come back to this “hellhole of a country” ever

again.