La Pura Neta

I am a first born      first generation American        Mexican My name derives from my father’s mother María Magdalena      and my mother’s mother Carmen My mother wanted                   Mayan moon goddess Itzel                   or Hebrew princess Sarah names with roots other than our own No one in my family calls me by my first name María                a Latin                             Hebrew name for sea of bitterness, rebellion My family only calls me by my middle name Carmen                a Spanish                                  Latin name for ...

How funny are my kids today like when they were toddlers on my cellphone videos their laughter high pitched here I sit remembering happiness I’m tired of only focusing on their tantrums they love me even when I’m mad all I want is to have conversations with them where they divulge their thoughts and feelings and I nod understanding them annoying, overwhelming, tantrums are a sign of needing to release thoughts that trigger feelings—two things that always go together— and when the thoughts that trigger the feelings are known we can discuss a way to work through them and then for the rest of the day (what a virtual day) I can remember that tantrum and think the kids aren’t so bratty after all where is Angelina Jolie shopping at Target with her kids and Jon Voight at home waiting for a call from CBS outside my window people walk around without facemasks wondering if they will be gawked by face-maskers Palmer Park is filled with runners, walkers, and people swinging on over-complicated sin...

I was on a bus on my way to a new school, a high school on the south side of Chicago. I transferred to that school because I had moved into the area. The bus went south over a dark brick road bridge--it was dark because it was a gloomy day out--like the sky was heavy with rain. This new school was completely new--metal framework with floor-to-ceiling windows, open floors. The class body was mixed, with a majority being black and white students. I went to the second floor to wait in line at a check-in window. A very chatty boy behind me bumped into me and as I turned to look at him, we both felt an immediate attraction--we are both brown, we are both alternative. I'm reminded of my husband, I remembered I have a husband--maybe in that life or another--so I keep the boy in mind to feel less alone but ignore him as I wait in line. I'm outside in the vast woods that is the campus of the high school. There is a pond and there are green rolling hills of different sizes, all moving l...

We’re like kids              running under shooting               red fire hydrants, us,      standing in transparent tanks & heavy shorts under our home’s gutter drain.  “My turn,”                I remember you say but I don’t move. Instead,                I close my eyes &                remember mom,      twirling in her long denim-blue dress              on our porch                             under the rain. Mom would take us                outside in the rain                to bathe together,    ...

We fancied ourselves builders and decided to build a house in a one day. We collected planks of woods tossed in our alley, dug out left over arrow nails from the ground, and carried them together to the space beneath our Fletcher street porch. When we finished our south-facing wall one of us said Let’s make an experiment , and we both turned towards the blue plastic rain barrel that has always been underneath our porch. the blue plastic rain barrel filled with dads motor oil      :the environment our broken toys and those we found forgotten                   :the variables question:    if pushed down into the barrel which toys will drown                                     and which will be polished and playable again? We never finished building our porch house, We never finished the test, We left th...

I didn't know of any Latina writers growing up. Of the Latino writers I knew of, I knew their long pieces of work, their novels. Novels is what real writers did. Short pieces come from poets. If you want to write short pieces, you should be a poet. This is what I had learned when I was a child. When I learned about The House on Mango, I wasn't taught about the book nor about the writer, but I saved her name: Sandra Cisneros, a published writer, a published Latina writer. When I finally has the chance to get the book, I flipped through it and was immediately heartbroken--It wasn't a novel. I was still under the impression that great writers are novelists and instead of seeing the praise given to the book as a sign of great writing, I took it as a mockery. I took it as if the literary world was mocking the ability of Latina writers, as if short stories were the only thing we could do. It's complicated now for me to talk about what I felt because in truth it had nothing ...

Dolores was her name. Spanish for pain (in the ass). She wasn't supposed to stay with us for long but since she was my roommate's coworker and my roommate being the kindest of us two, she ate Dolores' pain and offered her to crash at our studio apartment floor. And I literally mean the floor. We had no beds and thanks to Boner's genius idea of testing the durableness of our inflatable sofa with his ass-pocket full of explorer keys, we also had no sofa. We only had sleeping bags and layers of sabanas and blankets. The day--about the 85th day to be exact--of Dolores' stay--rent free-- I and my roommate agreed that Dolores either had to pay or had to go. When Dolores came that night, she heard our woes and agreed to pay. The next morning Dolores was gone. Along with all of our Tupperware. Every single expensive neon green, pink, and yellow Tupperware, proudly bought by my and my roommate's matriarchs; the Tupperware we took as mementos from ho...

When you get to the longest tunnel on the express, hold your breath 'til the end then make your wish, she said. We always passed through that tunnel on I90/94. We lived by Belmont and California Avenue. My mom or dad would get on the express way via the Kedzie Avenue entrance. Evertime we'd get to the downtown tunnel I'd hold my breath with the strong faith of a religious woman and repeated,  I want love, I want love, I want someone to love me. A white long sleeve shirt from Discovery that had the word "LOVE"--a heart in place of the "O"-- in black bold Calibri font was my favorite shirt in sixth grade. I was eleven years old. It was a fitted shirt my dad's young girlfriend bought me with my dad's money. Or maybe it was just a gift from her. Or maybe she took me to Discovery and let me pick out what I wanted--a pair of shorts with glitter buttons on the hips, a crop top that had a white transparent shirt underneath. A boy from my class wa...

When my parents divorced, my dad met a Filipina woman named Mar. To affirm their courtship, she invited my brothers and me for dinner at her duplex first-floor apartment in Lincoln Park. "Have some, Carmen," she said when she noticed me looking at the lumps sizzling in a black pan on the stainless steel stove. "It's ground beef," she said, giving me a curved white plate, the kind you find in Ikea. "Your dad told me you don't like liver." I continued to stare at the pan, watching Mar scoop up some ground beef with her wooden spoon. "Thank you," I said before I walked to the table directly across from the stove. It was a small apartment but it was cozy and clean. I felt my spirit safe in this place. Mar placed a tray of tortillas on the table and my dad and brothers hands were like tentacles immediately attacking the tray. I, at last, grabbed two tortillas (I like my tacos doubled up) and made my taco. The sweet meaty juice drippe...

It's not la hueva that kicks in that makes me feel heavy--                                  from my forehead                                  to my belly button blood is thicker than water and though my heart yearns for you my stomach churns ¿porque no vienes a visitar me? I'm never able to tell you: because I don't want to stay there long because when I go I feel like I have to stay there forever and all I've ever wanted to do is leave I tell you to come with me why don't you leave your home behind come and use that money, and buy a place close to me, come to me but you won't come you say your house is worth more then what the brokers want to pay you say you don't want a condominium you will feel boxed in you love your garden and your flowers and the roses a...

I almost hit a school girl while turning east her jean-clad legs and hi-top  tenis  continued forward in their determined, relaxed, pace We saw each other through my car door window--                                                                  the air blew her dark brown hair into a swirl                                                                  her chest, she held high                                                                  her hands rested in her n...

It wasn't until last summer that i felt the need to write down my mother's and father's personal stories It wasn't until last week that i felt the value in each individual piece I don't feel value in my other pieces or my work at my office job which helps so many people but what is the value of a life lived in Chicago, as a woman, as a brown woman as a woman who labels herself Mexican and chubby is it only up to me to build this value, to build it inside of me so that others can feel then see that i do belong here that my words belong on this page for you to read

There was a house party at Shorty's on Artesian and 49th. We  wore our  butterfly skorts and kswiss shoes, our hair gelled and split, with two thick strands of hair  tied tightly behind our heads.  Slick. We pre partied by spending hours looking in the mirror. we looked so damn good at  14. We walked from 52nd and Talman to the party. At 50th and maplewood, we see Moreno making his way, too. We all thought he looked kinda good, but w hatever. Once we got to Shorty's she came to greet us at her house door, her lip liner flawless and her curly hair crisp with herbal mousse. Her beeper went off and we walked in,  shyly. Prototype played loudly through the mix board speakers, the single floor house was filled with boys. We walked to the couch and sat down, our  knees inward. Shorty's back at the door, Mikey!, she says, I turned my head and took a look. He was tall, with a white shirt showing beneath his unbuttoned shirt. He had boot cut je...

I didn't think he was this bad I knew he wasn't good but I didn't think he was this bad why wasn't I told? maybe because I wasn't good, too. I wouldn't have been able to help me, though, I like to believe that I would've if I had the mind to read in between his statements:  I miss our times as kids. Remember that time we trick-o-treat on Fletcher street? Time flies by so quickly. the bottle is the only thing that helps him right now it's the only way he can stop thinking seeking shelter in those hard loving memories. He tries to make everything better by high-fiving all of us now, by pretending he is happy now, passed out drunk. (July 27, 2015, 4:53 pm)

Lets be together all the time so when the day comes where we will be apart, we both will be fine because  I will remember how big your eyes get when you get excited, and I will remember your big cheeks when you smile and I will remember the beautiful line of your nose and I will remember how beautiful your brows frame your face and how your lips melt into mine and how your hands mold into mine, because we are one. (July 17, 2015 , 7:34 am)

We're porch chillin' people

My mother was never really a part of her mother, except in flesh and bone. My mother’s mind has always told her she belonged among the greenest of mounds, amongst women with head coverings. My mother is not pious or soft spoken. She is loud and filled with imagination. She was born on the sixth day of the twelfth month and the woman who helped birth her stole something from her. “Empuja”, she says to my sixteen yr old grandmother. “Empuja”. Out came my wailing mother with the umbilical cord hung across her chest like a sash. This is a sign of power. A gift handed down to my mother by our ancestors. A gift to heal and to see before things are done. It is known that birth helpers, the greediest of their kind, steal newborns power as a payment for their help and so, my mother’s power was stolen from her. Many things were stolen from my mother at such a young age. At the age of 5, she was left in the care of her uncle, a man whose belly was large like a sea animal care. My grandm...

This is the second time I see you and you are no longer a little boy.  You're much taller, your hair, you've let grow.  You are a young man with a crown of cornrows.  We meet in the city, with your dad, at a sidewalk cafe. You walk away from my view. Maybe to pick up our drinks.  Your dad speaks to me this time. He's no longer the brooding man on the couch. Y our dads  much older since I last saw you. His eyes are droopy but they rise when he speaks of you and when he smiles. His freckles show more; on his nose bridge, on the high part of his cheeks. His dreds  are thicker but the color is lighter, like brown, smoky, dusk. His glasses are the same thin metal frames from always. He t ells me how well you're doing. How well your both doing. How everything is well. I mention your grandmother- I heard about your mom.  I reach out and place my hand over his-  I'm really sorry.  Your dad's bottom lip quivers and he gives me a nod.  You come...

Yo soy Mexican. I no longer live on the bridge between my past and present, I am the bridge and my lengua is Chicano.