Multilingual

Poetry:

Tu Movimiento
By Goldy Levy

No veo la vida en imágenes
ni palabras,
la veo en movimiento.

Veo como abres los ojos
como miras mi retrato quieto,
que te recuerda que vivo.

Siento como te acomodas en brazos ajenos.
para sentir el calor
que la distancia no cubre.

Me muero yo,
cuando alargo los momentos
en los que estas entre mis sábanas
y me besas con abandono
y sabiendo que esta unión
se acaba mañana.

Luego te veo caminar a un tren,
que en sus ruedas
gira la nostalgia de las horas juntos,

y como te despegas de mi
y yo me arrastro a mi cama
que sigue aún tibia de ti.

Vivo atrapada en el momento
del sexo
de masticar comida juntos
de mirar el mismo cielo
de como rozas mi espalda con tus dedos

Del movimiento que me atrapa
en las horas del tiempo,
y que me deja quieta,
sin vida,
esperando de nuevo.

Espero que las ruedas del tren
giren en direccion mía.
Que por un par de dias
vuelva a estar viva

En tu movimiento.






Short Stories

Child of Christ
By Cristina Stubbe
Genre: Vignette

It’s cold on Sunday mornings but it’s cold every day, it just seems even more so on
Sundays. Beba likes to wake up early and you can hear the pat-pat-pat of her slippers as she
clicks the buttons to raise the electric blinds that make a hum-whirring sound as they lift, a house
once plunged in darkness now lit up like a snow-capped mountain at dawn’s first light with the
blue, the blue of the sky spreading out forever.

Estas son las mañanitas que cantaba el rey David.
Hoy por ser día de tu santo, te las cantamos a ti.

Despierta mi bien, despierta, mira que ya amaneció
ya los pajarillos cantan la luna ya se metió.

Qué linda está la mañana en que vengo a saludarte
venimos todos con gusto y placer a felicitarte.

El día en que tu naciste nacieron todas las flores
y en la pila del bautismo cantaron los ruiseñores

Ya viene amaneciendo, ya la luz del día nos dio.
Levántate de mañana mira que ya amaneció.

There are her pat-pat-pats again, her soft voice, luxurious and slow, but loud enough for
Cristina to wake, though she’d been at least half-awake for a while now, the down of her hunter
green comforter having kept her from being too awake, though that’s best, really, because the
soft lilt of Beba’s voice is best heard in that in-between, neither here nor there, that world where
men with the legs of goats and girls with fish tails exist and frolic among the mortal, where they
chant Cristina, Cristina, Cristina, la nena, la seguidora de Cristo.
Child and follower of Christ, ironic, or fitting, on the day of worship, when Beba dresses
Cristina and her sister in matching vestidos of white and blue, little patent leather Mary Janes
that pinch Cristina’s toes--they, as her nietas must look good after all. The scent of incense burns
when the candles dance as Cristina steps into the wide-big building with the gleaming wooden
cross, reflecting against the blessed water and in her eyes along with the flickering flame, like a
chant, voices that crescendo up higher and higher as the organ booms and thunders,
reverberating straight through her toes, with the glint of the blues and greens and purples mottled
in glass of Jesús breaking apart the fish and bread to feed hundreds, sun streaming golden glitter-
dust inside.

Padre nuestro que estás en los cielos
Santificado sea tu Nombre
Venga tu reino
Hágase tu voluntad
En la tierra como en el cielo
Danos hoy el pan de este día





Essays:

Verdadera

by Maddie Rojas Lynch

Maddie Rojas Lynch was born in 1994 in Manhattan, New York. She was raised in Albany, New York by her single mother and spent the rest of her childhood in the Upstate New York area. Her father was a first generation Nicaraguan immigrant and despite her complicated relationship with him, his stories of Nicaragua and growing up as a Latino in 20th century America became the inspiration for many of her essays and her promotion of cultural awareness. She is currently a student at Emerson College and advocates for issues such as women’s rights, immigration rights, and cultural preservation.
“Verdadera” is an essay from her writing projects in her Intro to College Writing Bilingual class. In it, Rojas Lynch discusses her borderlands of growing up in an English speaking household with Hispanic roots and addresses issues of racial/ethnic stereotypes. When she writes, “I had never thought of my culture as being something that you could see, or hear, or point to” (par. 5), Rojas Lynch is arguing for the idea that people’s awareness of culture is too often based on visible racial/ethnic stereotypes and can make identifying with a culture a complicated and emotional process. In identifying as Latina, Rojas Lynch is asserting her identity and refusing to let social constructs break the ties of her Nicaraguan roots.

 

“You’re not really Hispanic,” Sarah Brown says, a look of determination painted on her face as she places her hands on her hips in defiance. Her blonde pigtails sway from side to side like a pendulum and I feel as though they are mocking me.

I run my fingers through my thick dark hair and try to work up the courage to respond.“What do you mean?” I ask tentatively, rocking back forth on the heels of my feet. I begin to nervously pick at the cuticles of my fingernails as I wait for a response.

“You know,” she responds, rolling her eyes at me. “I mean I know your dad’s from Nicaragua, but that doesn’t make you Hispanic,” she retorts, glaring at me as though she were annoyed with my presence. “You’re not like Ashley. Not really.” The words echo in my ear, bouncing inside of my brain over and over. “Not Really” As in, “insincere, invalid, false.” A lie. I had been called many things before. The playground was a harsh world full of teasing and taunts and my thick rimmed glasses and fifteen pounds of extra weight as a child had earned me many nicknames. Nerd. Chubby. Dork. Four Eyes. But never before a I been called a liar. Especially not in reference to my heritage. My culture. Something that I had held so dear to my heart from the first day I was able to fully pronounce my full name.

“A man's ethnic identity has more to do with

a personal awareness than with geography.”

-WILLIAM SAROYAN

Mi Nombre es Magdalena. Magdalena Matilda Sophia Rojas Lynch. This was a phrase my father taught me at age four, and I had carried it carefully with me ever since. Though time went on, and he came to visit my mother and I less and less, I carried it with me all the same. It was a reminder of my father. A reminder of the country that he came from. A reminder of the culture that I was so sure that I was a part of. With a name like Magdalena Matilda Sophia Rojas Lynch, how could I not be? At least, that’s what I had thought.

Sarah Brown was the first person to make me question this belief. I don’t remember how or why the topic of my heritage came up. Or why I let Sarah Brown, an eight year old girl with Swedish roots, have the authority to question it. But I do remember looking over at Ashley Rodriguez, the girl she had compared me to, and becoming overwhelmed with such a strong feeling of inadequacy that I wanted to cry. “You’re not like Ashley,” she had said. And she was right. I wasn’t like Ashley Rodriguez. Both of her parents were from Puerto Rico. My father was from Nicaragua. She had dark, caramel colored skin and rich dark brown eyes. I must have received my pale irish skin and light eyes from my mother’s side of the family. Ashley was bilingual and fluent in Spanish, the words rolling off her tongue effortlessly. I knew only words and phrases, sayings from the songs my father used to play during his visits. ¡Ay Dios Mio! Mi corazon. El amor es una magia. Sarah was right, I wasn’t like Ashley. But I had never considered that simply because I was different from other Hispanic girls in my class that it somehow made me any less Hispanic.

I had never thought of my culture as being something that you could see, or hear, or point to. To me, my culture was my name, the long drawn out syllables and rolling R’s that tickled my tongue. Magdalena. The way my father would say it to me as a child, drawing out the vowels and making me grin from ear to ear. My culture was Nicaragua, and the feeling of pride that ran through my veins when it was mentioned in a geography class. It was only a small tiny speck on world map or a classroom globe, but it was mine. I could find it on a map and press my tiny fingers to the small Central American country with delight. My culture was rice and beans and platanos, the food my father used to prepare for us during his visits. The way the smell wafted through the kitchen and made my mouth water. My culture was Maria, my favorite stuffed animal, who my father’s brother sent to me all the way from Managua for my third birthday. Her floppy bunny ears and pale pink nose became worn with time, but I loved her all the same.

But to Sarah Brown, my culture was something that she had a right to question. Something that she could point to and deem as right or wrong. In my 7th grade Spanish Class, we learned the word for “true and real.” Verdadera. I thought back to that day on the playground when I was ten and Sarah had commented on my culture. I wished that I could turn back time, walk up to her pudgy little face and say, “No, eres una mentirosa. Soy verdadera.” But I couldn’t. When I was ten, I didn’t know nearly enough Spanish to be able to say that. And was that part of the problem?

 



 
GRINGA

If you asked, word on the street was that Magdalena Rojas Lynch could eat a Mango like nobody else. Juan Rojas would tell you, without a second of hesitation, that no one ate a Mango quite like his three year old daughter. The way she gripped the fresh fruit in her pudgy little hands. The way her tiny baby teeth tore at the flesh. The way the rich red-orange juices dribbled down her chin and onto her fingers. The mischievous grin that painted her face while she nibbled away her afternoon snack. Raw, unreserved, passionate. That was the way a Latina ate a mango. That was how he knew he had taught her right. No Gringa could eat a mango the way that Magdalena did. Todas las gringas necesitan servilletas para comer mango. Abuelita Lynch no sabe comer mango. Tia Patricia no sabe comer mango. Mami no sabe comer mango. Nadie sabe comer mango como Magdalena. Magdalena sabe comer mango.

For a long time, I thought that eating a Mango with raw, unreserved passion was the ultimate way gain approval from my father. To show him I wasn’t a Gringa. Not like my mother’s side of the family. Gringa. The Spanish word for a white female who only spoke English. In some Latin American countries it has a negative connotation. However in our household, it was more of an affectionate pet name for my mother and her side of the family. We teased her of course, and made fun of her Gringa ways, but we meant no harm. But despite the affection in which we used the word, it was a word I would have never dreamed of being associated with. A word I would never want to be associated with. Not with a name like Magdalena Rojas Lynch. Not with the way I could eat a mango.

When my parents separated when I was two, my mother retained full custody. When we still lived in New York, the city they met in and the place I was born, my father would visit me every day. When my mother and I moved to Albany when I was three, he would visit every weekend. When I was five and started kindergarten, he would visit twice a month. And by the time I was ten, he was down to twice a year. My mother began to wonder if he could no longer afford the trips out from the city. A small part of me began to wonder if he no longer cared. He called from time to time to say hello, but it wasn’t the same. Even his visits lacked their usual color. He no longer played songs, or taught me words, or bought me Postres from Carlito’s, a small spanish bakery in Manhattan. Something was changing, I just couldn’t understand why.

The summer before I turned eleven, he came to visit my mother and I. We were discussing my upcoming birthday, and what I wanted to do for a party. And looking ahead, as she always does, she mentioned a word that little to her knowledge would greatly alter the conversation.
“You know Juan,” she said, eyeing my father. “It’ll only be a few more years before it’s time for her Quinceanera.” Her eyes lit up and she looked over at me expectantly. My mother, who had always supported my culture and it’s traditions, had first told me about the Hispanic tradition of the Quincenera. And from a young age, I had been counting down the days until my Quincenera, the day I would become a young woman in Latino culture. I looked over at my father, expecting his face to mirror my mother’s. Expecting to see the same pride and joy that used to fill his eyes when I would eat a Mango. But instead, I was met with a glare. A cold, hard, glare that I had never seen before.
“Ay dios mio!” he groaned, looking back at my mother. “She doesn’t need a Quincenera. She’s a Gringa.”

I froze. For seconds, maybe minutes, I couldn’t move or think or speak. I was numb. Out of the corner of my eye I could see my mother’s face change to complete shock, but she didn’t say anything. Maybe she was numb too. I could feel tears begin to pool in the corner’s of my eyes, but I was determined not to cry. Not in front of him. My mother quickly changed the subject, engaging my father in a conversation about school or soccer practice, but I wasn’t listening. My eyes stared at the neon red numbers on the alarm clock, counting down the minutes until his visit was over.

As soon as he pulled out of the driveway, I burst into tears. My mother tried to soothe me and gave me her typical excuse. “He just can’t afford a Quincenera right now sweetie, that’s the only reason why he said that. He’s just scared.” But her excuses could not assuage me. In the back of my mind, Sarah Brown’s words echoed in my head. Sarah had seen something that day that she didn’t like. My pale face, and light eyes and english speaking tongue had not been enough for her. And I wondered if I hadn’t been enough for my father too. Maybe it was easy enough to love a baby, while my cheeks were still still plump and Latina women would approach me on the street and tell him that I looked like a little doll. Ay, que bonita la niña. Ella tiene un cara como una muñeca. Maybe when I was baby, it was easy for him to ignore the fact that I couldn’t speak Spanish fluently, because what baby could? But now I was ten and despite years of playing outside in the rich summer sun, I still had pale skin and light eyes. It had been years since a Latina had called me una muneca and I still didn’t know much Spanish. And was that my fault? Was that why I was a Gringa in his eyes? Maybe all that had changed was time. And all he needed was time to realize that in his eyes, I was a Gringa, and nothing more.

I didn’t speak to him for two months. When he called the house to talk to me, I had my mother make an excuse. She told him that I was outside playing, or working on homework, or too sick to come to the phone. I was so angry at him. How could he do this to me? How could he show me this world, this culture full of canciones y Nicaragua y arroz con frijoles just to rip it out from under me? To tell me that I wasn’t really a part of it? That I wasn’t Verdadera. It was one thing coming from Sarah Brown. But coming from my father, the man whose approval I worked so hard to gain, whose culture I loved so much...it hurt so much more.

He called on my birthday and only with my mother’s insistence, I picked up. I couldn’t stand to hear his voice, but my mother forbade me from hanging up, so I engaged in polite small talk for no more than five minutes.

“Hola Magdalena,”
“Hola Papi,”
“Como estas?”
“Bien,”
“Bien. Feliz cumpleanos.”
“Gracias Papi,”
“Cuantos años tiene ahora?”
“Diez y uno,”
“No mi amor, Once,”
“Once,”
“Que bien mi amor,”
“Papi, tengo mucho tarea”
“Bien, bien, vamos a hablar más manana. Adios Magdalena”
“Adios,”

I hung up the phone, but his words echoed in my ear. Magdalena. The way he said it, dragging out the vowels, made me seeth in anger. I hated my name. Magdalena. Magdalena Matilda Sophia Rojas Lynch. What kind of name is that anyway? No one could ever pronounce it. In school, teachers would always call out the same variation of “Madda-layna” or “Magda-lane.” They pronounced the “a’s” like the “a” in “cat” instead of like the “o” in “dog.” They never rolled the R’s in “Rojas” and most of the time they would just call me “Lynch”, assuming that “Rojas” was my middle name. Sometimes they didn’t even try to pronounce my name at all. They’d just stare blankly at the attendance list and mutter, “I don’t even know how to say this one,” or “Where do I even start?” I had gotten used to listening to the alphabet, waiting for the “Peters” and “Robert’s” to be called and watching their eyebrows scrunch up in confusion as they viewed my name. I had gotten used to simply raising my hand as soon as the look of consternation appeared on their face. Magdalena. Magdalena Matilda Sophia Rojas Lynch. What a stupid name. I hated it. My friends could never figure it out. “What is that, Italian?” Girls would flood me with questions upon meeting me.

“No, it’s Spanish,” I would reply.
“Really?” they asked, their eyebrows raising in surprise as they eyed me carefully. “Are you Hispanic?”
“Yes,” I replied every time. But the truth was, I didn’t know the answer anymore.


 
UNA SENSACION

“Cultural identity can also be understood through difference,

where ancestral histories are changed by recent history and a

constant dynamic of 'becoming' (beyond just 'being'). Finding

who you are thus becomes more personal and flexible. Rather

than re-discovery, it becomes creation, potential and power.”

- STUART HALL

I struggled with my identity and my place in the Hispanic world for a long time. When I would meet other Hispanic girls, I immediately compared myself to them, trying to decide if they were more Hispanic than I was. How did they look? How did they talk? How did they act? Was there a secret formula that I could borrow that would make me just as Hispanic as they were? Every time someone had to guess what ethnicity I was, I felt a pang of guilt in my chest, as if it were my fault that the answer wasn’t obvious. I became frustrated at the fact that all of the Latina’s I had seen represented in books and movies were dark skinned, dark eyed, beautiful, sexy, femme fatale type characters confident in their culture and themselves. I had yet to find someone in books or movies that felt the way that I did, who was just as confused in regards to their identity as I was. I didn’t know where I belonged, or what to call myself, and it hurt.

The summer before my senior year of highschool, I began to fill out my college applications. I remember coming to the personal information portion of the application and being asked to choose a race/ethnicity. I circled “Latino/Latina” without a second thought. It wasn’t until I had finished the entire application and began to check it over that I had realized that I had done this. I hadn’t even realized that I had circled “Latina.” It was a completely instinctual decision, a thoughtless process, something that I had done without question. I didn’t know why I had circled “Latina”, but I knew that if I hadn’t, my application wouldn’t have felt complete. There was something there, an emotion, una sensacion, a feeling that I couldn’t let go of.

I’m starting to think that maybe Latina isn’t something you can see after all. Maybe it’s something you can feel. Something you can sense. The way my toes tap when I hear a marimba beat. The way I never feel a meal is complete without Tabasco sauce. The way I greet all of my friends with kisses on each cheek. Maybe it doesn’t matter if I don’t have dark skin, or dark eyes or can’t speak fluent Spanish. Being a Latina is something that’s a part of me and something that I can’t let go of, nor do I want to.

In Gloria Anzaldua’s essay How to Tame a Wild Tongue, she writes about how there is no one Latina experience. About how she never knew how to define herself. About how she felt as though she was stuck between two worlds. As I read her work, I began to feel a beating in my heart, something I couldn’t explain. A feeling. I never realized that there were other Latina’s who felt the way that I did. In Calle 13’s music video Latinoamerica, they portray many different kinds of Latin American experiences. Different faces, different stories, different backgrounds. It was a reminder that once again, there is no one Latino or Latina experience and that everyone’s story is important and worth listening to.

These days, I still continue to identify as Latina, and I do so without any guilt or embarrassment. I go by a nickname, Maddie, but I will still proudly announce my full name to anyone willing to listen. I listen to Spanish music and Platanos are still one of my favorite foods. When I meet other Latina’s, I don’t compare myself to them, but appreciate the things that we have in common. I know that my Latina experience is different from native speakers and exchange students. I know that I am a Gringa. My Irish skin and lights eyes and incorrect conjugation of passive verbs speak the truth. But I am also Latina, and nothing can change that either. I am a part of both worlds. I don’t approve of the way applications and tests and survey’s make us choose an ethnicity, to circle only one identity. I choose to circle “Hispanic” or “Latina” because at this point in my life, I feel a stronger connection to my Hispanic heritage. But despite this, I think it’s important to remember that identities can’t be circled or filled in or packaged in a perfect little visible box. I hope that one day this system will change.

I never talked to my father about how his comment made me feel. I saw him for the last time when I was fifteen years old and we haven’t talked since then. Our relationship is complicated and full of emotions. But I am thankful for the experiences that he had and how they shaped who I am and how I view my culture. After years of school and experience, my Spanish has improved greatly. I’m not yet fluent, but I hope that with more time, more practice, and more experience that I will be one day. Not because I feel that there is something that I need to prove, but because there is a feeling that makes me want to keep learning, to keep growing. Latina. Soy Latina. Soy verdadera.

Work Cited

Anzaldúa, Gloria. "How to Tame a Wild Tongue." Borderlands = La Frontera. San Francisco: Aunt Lute, 1999. N. pag. Print.

Hall, S. (1986). Introduction: Who needs identity? in Questions of cultural identity, eds. S. Hall and P. Du Gay, London: Sage

Saroyan, William, Don Freeman, and William Saroyan. The Saroyan Special: Selected Short Stories. New York: Harcourt, Brace and, 1948. Print.

Arcaute, Rafael. Perf. Calle 13. Latinoamerica. Calle 13. Rec. 27 Sept. 2011. Sony BMG, 2011. MP3.

Peer Reviewers : Ariana Colozzo and Tatiana Ochoa