Read Online The Pulse between Dimensions and the Desert by Rios de la Luz - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Rios de la Luz
Tags: Magical Realism
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know what I really mean.”
I don’t feel like explaining myself to white boys anymore. I have mace attached to my keychain. I unlock the container. I snatch the glasses from his face and press down on the pepper spray button. I soak his face and he’s screaming. I stomp his glasses under my sneakers and bolt away until I can’t hear him scream anymore. That conversation gets older and older every time a white boy spits it out. Sometimes, I think about crushing their windpipes and slicing through their ankles with blades. I would never go that far, but thinking about it makes me feel better.
Blatant sexualization of my brownness makes me gag. I gag out of anger. I used to gag out of fear. At fifteen, three white boys surrounded me and complimented my skin color. They asked if my brown skin indicated dark nipples. They asked me if I shaved. They wanted to see.
“You know what we mean.”
I thought they were joking so, filled with nerves, I laughed. One of them picked me up and I couldn’t force myself off of him. He took me into an empty house. The other two followed and watched as the leader threw me on the ground. All you have to do is show us. We want to see what you look like naked. I didn’t understand why. They told me I was exotic. It was supposed to be a compliment.
At fifteen, I used to look at myself in the mirror in strangely padded bras and loose underwear. I pretended that my skin was lighter. My hair was lighter. My eyes were lighter. I was someone else and I smiled. I never slouched. I stood tall as I waved at the brown girl on the other side of the mirror. The three white boys undressed me and saw what they wanted. They saw weakness. That’s what I used to think.
They saw an object.
I know this now.
That’s not how I want this to end. I have been told that forgiveness will make me feel better over and over again. I do not forgive. I have not forgiven them and this brings me peace of mind. There’s power in my grudge. I do not hold myself responsible for the despicable shit white supremacy has served to me as a legitimate form of expression for white boys. I do not wish them peace. I do not wish them happiness. The most I could give them is a middle finger and spit on the ground at the sound of their names.
LAS MUJERES
Neri Guevara and Mya Soldado work together cleaning houses six times a week. Nine hours a day, they scrub the dead skin cells and grime of the fiscally privileged. Then, they go home, drink some tea and tell each other short stories about their past lives.
Mya was born in Guatemala City in 1967. She traveled to the states in 1990. She works to sustain herself and to send money to her son Rodolfo. She sends him money every month. He’s in Guatemala with a baby girl (Natalia) and a pajarito (Lalo) to look after. He mails Mya a card with a different theme every month as a thank you.
For March: Sloths.
In April: Roses.
En el May: Pajaritos.
In June: Sand castles.
This month, Mya received a card with the Catedral Metropolitana in the center of the city and a photograph of Lalo on top of Natalia’s head. In a yellow dress like limón, baby Natalia is showing gums and two top teeth. Her arms reach toward the sky in glee of Lalo’s resting spot. Mya focuses on the fact that there are several framed photos of her in the background.
Mya sips on her tea then tells Neri: before this life, I was a messenger dove. Una mujer, perhaps a bruja, wearing a sheer black veil with velvet roses on it whispered mensajes to me and every morning, a scroll manifested in my nest for me to deliver. I delivered them to gente in front of la Iglesia de San Andrés Xecul. I transported the scrolls to locals, tourists, Abuelas, and children. The veiled woman whispered to me about lineage and solitude. Every morning, I heard the same message and every morning, I gave a scroll to someone new.
Neri stirs tea with her finger and tells Mya: before this life, I was a calavera possessed by the desert.
I don’t feel like explaining myself to white boys anymore. I have mace attached to my keychain. I unlock the container. I snatch the glasses from his face and press down on the pepper spray button. I soak his face and he’s screaming. I stomp his glasses under my sneakers and bolt away until I can’t hear him scream anymore. That conversation gets older and older every time a white boy spits it out. Sometimes, I think about crushing their windpipes and slicing through their ankles with blades. I would never go that far, but thinking about it makes me feel better.
Blatant sexualization of my brownness makes me gag. I gag out of anger. I used to gag out of fear. At fifteen, three white boys surrounded me and complimented my skin color. They asked if my brown skin indicated dark nipples. They asked me if I shaved. They wanted to see.
“You know what we mean.”
I thought they were joking so, filled with nerves, I laughed. One of them picked me up and I couldn’t force myself off of him. He took me into an empty house. The other two followed and watched as the leader threw me on the ground. All you have to do is show us. We want to see what you look like naked. I didn’t understand why. They told me I was exotic. It was supposed to be a compliment.
At fifteen, I used to look at myself in the mirror in strangely padded bras and loose underwear. I pretended that my skin was lighter. My hair was lighter. My eyes were lighter. I was someone else and I smiled. I never slouched. I stood tall as I waved at the brown girl on the other side of the mirror. The three white boys undressed me and saw what they wanted. They saw weakness. That’s what I used to think.
They saw an object.
I know this now.
That’s not how I want this to end. I have been told that forgiveness will make me feel better over and over again. I do not forgive. I have not forgiven them and this brings me peace of mind. There’s power in my grudge. I do not hold myself responsible for the despicable shit white supremacy has served to me as a legitimate form of expression for white boys. I do not wish them peace. I do not wish them happiness. The most I could give them is a middle finger and spit on the ground at the sound of their names.
LAS MUJERES
Neri Guevara and Mya Soldado work together cleaning houses six times a week. Nine hours a day, they scrub the dead skin cells and grime of the fiscally privileged. Then, they go home, drink some tea and tell each other short stories about their past lives.
Mya was born in Guatemala City in 1967. She traveled to the states in 1990. She works to sustain herself and to send money to her son Rodolfo. She sends him money every month. He’s in Guatemala with a baby girl (Natalia) and a pajarito (Lalo) to look after. He mails Mya a card with a different theme every month as a thank you.
For March: Sloths.
In April: Roses.
En el May: Pajaritos.
In June: Sand castles.
This month, Mya received a card with the Catedral Metropolitana in the center of the city and a photograph of Lalo on top of Natalia’s head. In a yellow dress like limón, baby Natalia is showing gums and two top teeth. Her arms reach toward the sky in glee of Lalo’s resting spot. Mya focuses on the fact that there are several framed photos of her in the background.
Mya sips on her tea then tells Neri: before this life, I was a messenger dove. Una mujer, perhaps a bruja, wearing a sheer black veil with velvet roses on it whispered mensajes to me and every morning, a scroll manifested in my nest for me to deliver. I delivered them to gente in front of la Iglesia de San Andrés Xecul. I transported the scrolls to locals, tourists, Abuelas, and children. The veiled woman whispered to me about lineage and solitude. Every morning, I heard the same message and every morning, I gave a scroll to someone new.
Neri stirs tea with her finger and tells Mya: before this life, I was a calavera possessed by the desert.
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