Puertorriqueña en la luna

I can tell you who my true love is. My true love does not regard a person, it regards a lot of people: The people of my past, my present, and my future. The people who forge the story of my land, mi isla preciosa…

              Mis ancestros indígenas, que al llegar el “Akani Yu” se les fueron arrebatados todos sus placeres y todos los sueños que pudieron haber tenido. Un cambio de vida, dirigiéndose a esclavitud y rotura de familia. ¿Qué mal habrían hecho, para que Yukiyú y Juracán los castigara así?¿Quiénes eran estos impostores blancos que se hacían pasar por Dioses?

Amo mi sangre indígena, amo mi sangre negra y amo mi sangre blanca. Amo el hecho de que de cuatro hermanos franceses exiliados de Francia, se hayan refugiado en mi isla. Amo el hecho de que yo sea fruto de la descendencia del el hermano menor, el que no estudió; ese pelirrojo del que no se nada, pero sé que uno de sus hermanos estuvo en la masacre de Ponce, sobreviviendo la misma.

Amo el hecho de que, da la casualidad, que hay otro apellido francés en mi familia. No sé la historia, pero sé que tengo un abuelo y una primita con ojos de color mezclado entre gris verdoso y azul. Me intriga el pelo extremadamente rizo de mi madre, y me siento de la misma manera con el pelo extremadamente lacio de mi padre. 

Amo al abuelo negro que nunca conocí, padre de mi bis abuela materna y las cualidades que estoy segura de que me son transmitidas; me llena de orgullo saber que las tengo. Me intriga haber ido al Centro Ceremonial Indígena de Tibes, y enterarme de que el taíno estereotípico es de color de piel cobrizo, frente achatada, estatura mediana, cabello lacio, cara ancha, mandíbula prominente, ojos oscuros y achinados, pómulos marcados; entonces cuando alzo la vista, veo una pintura de una india con la apariencia casi exacta de mi abuela paterna. El parecido era extraordinario, y mi abuela es la persona a la que más parecido tengo yo.

             
                Llevaba toda mi vida preguntándome cual será mi descendencia más fenotípica, sin acabar de entender que soy todo; negra, blanca, taína, producto de las islas canarias, americana, francesa, italiana, española…

Soy producto de todo tipo de situación que pudiese haber ocurrido en el pasado.

Soy exiliada.

Soy esclava.

Soy india.

Soy realeza.

Soy Boricua’… ( valiente de la casa sagrada)

My true love is Puerto Rico, and as much as I love it, I’d be Puertorrican even if I lived on the moon.

Bible Burns

I’ve recently been thinking that in the Bible there are actually many times where people get burned, figuratively speaking. Many of these occasions involve the Jewish people—those who’re angry at Jesus--confronting him but ending up with Jesus shutting their mouths with some answer.  I think it’s all pretty interesting because you get to see God’s knowledge and wisdom in action, resulting in adequate ‘burns’ for each particular occasion. Here are some examples:

                        There’s this moment when the Jewish authorities, who don’t want to believe in Jesus, ask him from whom did he get authority for his actions, and Jesus proposes them something (Mt 21, 23-27):

                        *Note: God had sent John the Baptist to “prepare the path of Christ” in advance, but not everyone believed in him.

                        In another example, Jesus tells an allegory that clearly referred to how the Jewish authorities were corrupt and refused to recognize the Son of God (Mt 21, 33-41). The message was so plain they realized who he was talking about. To top it off, Jesus mentions a foretelling passage from the Scriptures that directly refers to these guys’ conduct, one that they themselves knew well and couldn’t deny its meaning. That was a pretty big burn (Mt 21, 42-43).

                        Now for me, this example is the most epic, though it doesn’t involve a direct conversation with Jesus. He cures a blind man who is known to everybody in the place. When the Pharisees heard of it, they once again refused to believe such a miracle and began to inquire the former blind man and everyone around him again and again about the incident (Jn 9, 26-33).

                        Despite all of these burns and more, though, the Pharisees kept refusing to accept Jesus. I guess that if there’s anyone who can relate the most to the phrase “haters gonna hate”, it’s God.

Star Child

                On a quiet night, a baby girl lay on the grass in a forest clearing, under the stars. A woman who was passing by saw her and took the strangeness of it all as a sign that this was a star child. She decided keep and raise her. The girl grew into a special child, almost pale as ivory, her hair silver and her eyes clear grey. She took delight in playing in the forest, especially at night, and sang ancient songs that no one had taught her. She was a friend of nature, and no animal feared her. When she sang, the forest’s aura became more serene and beautiful. 

Whenever she combed her hair, stardust would fall and shimmer about the ground. Out of these fireflies were born, floating quietly among the shadows. As she neared the age of eighteen, she began to feel disquiet and yearning in her heart. When she told her mother of this, the woman finally explained the truth about her birth. During the following days, the girl felt that some answer to her yearning was approaching…Finally, one night she was escorted to the sky. Two glowing white beings descended to her, saying they had come to take her to her true home. When she stepped forward, a light glowed about her and arrayed her into her full glory, and so she followed the two beings until the three became bright white stars burning far up the sky. However, she had loved her forest so much that she decided to visit every summer, and it is said that she can be seen or heard singing among the glades, stardust falling about her.

To live again

                Alex sped down the highway. He had just got out of work and had only 3 hours to get home and finish the paper that was due tonight. Listening to his favorite song as he drove on the way only reminded him how much he could’ve written in advance had he disconnected from Facebook, tumblr and You Tube at midday. But that was part of life. There’ll always be moments when you fall for it and distract yourself too much, delaying responsibilities. Besides, how could he fall behind his favorite pages and not reblog posts on time? A new article interviewing his favorite band had come out today, how could he miss THAT? Anyways, it wasn’t like he was going to do much progress during that break. He randomly remembered his brothers and frowned as he realized he hadn’t called them in a long time, or even thought about them much. Maybe he wasted too much time…especially on himself. His priorities were college and work, he really didn’t worry about much else, and his free time he’d spend distracting himself with his interests. He had to admit that he was pretty selfish overall, and that maybe he sucked as a sibling or friend.

            His mind away, he changed lanes abruptly. Next thing his car screeched off the road and ended up with its front half dangerously hanging down the steep, rocky slope that was beside the highway. Alex was so shocked and terrified. In seconds, his life had suddenly plunged into grave danger. He didn’t know what to think, sitting motionless with his seatbelt on, panting fearfully: the wrong moves might cause the car to budge free from its place and plummet to the bottom. That was when he heard someone calling out. He turned around carefully to see two men who had pulled up nearby and where telling him to hang on. He didn’t know if he could believe in those words, as death was clearly a small step away. He found himself thinking that he’d give anything at the moment for being with his brothers or his friends, enjoying a nice beer and a warm conversation.

*                       *                       *

It was a miracle. He couldn’t believe he’d made it, standing on the road surrounded by local policemen, the guys who’d helped him, his best friend and seeing the faces of his brothers and parents in front of him as a tow truck pulled his car back from the brink. “We were so worried…” hugs and honest words. Brimming with palpable attention and care. As arrangements were made to patch up the situation, his brothers talked about different plans to cheer him up. “It’s been a long time since we don’t exchange CDs and stuff, I miss doing that”, “let’s hang around more”, “we should go to the beach”, “why don’t we spend a day biking together and later eat ice cream and goof around?” He slowly felt that the days before him seemed fresh and bright. He wasn’t conscious that in the past hour he hadn’t thought even once about his usual preoccupations or interests. He was so focused on the moment, on this good taste of what life really is like.

Times Like These - Foo Fighters

MUSIC LYRICS- O by Coldplay

So fly on, ride through

Maybe one day I’ll fly with you

You know what my favorite part is?  The sound.  The sound you hear when you fly.  The deafening silence of the wind, and leaving the ground behind.  The steady beat of the giant wings, the occasional roar.   The silence.  You go above it all, leave it all behind, and everything becomes so small, so insignificant, so precious.  I’ll never forget that sound.

That is the sound of riding a dragon.  Riding high above the skies, beyond the clouds and seas.  I flew once, on my brother’s dragon.  He’s old enough to have his own, you know?  And I will soon.  Can you imagine?  Flying your own dragon, swooping through the world, seeing it all.  Clad in armor, spear held high, like I’m some kind of hero?!

They say that you have to train hard to tame a dragon.  You have to be strong enough to hold on and keep up, to intimidate them.  But I’m not sure it’s that easy.  I mean, there’s that one time…  My brother and I were much younger, and we found the brightest dragon you could ever imagine, greener than any emerald.  

Next thing you knew, we were up thousands of feet in the sky, holding on to our dear lives, trying not to fall from the dragon. But you should have seen my brother, he looked so calm, like he could know where we would turn and bank next. It’s the most scared I’ve ever been though, I can tell you that much.

I loved that day so much.  I want to fly with him again.

I wonder when he’ll come back?

She.

She danced, she jumped; she fell.

She flew high, made pirouettes and gracefully let herself fall.

She let the wind take her and place her where it wanted.

She wouldn't argue, she promised.

Long ago, she made a promise to flourish from the crowd and she did.

She fell to the river, where she traveled for a while.

She waited patiently, no resistance.

She arrived to the shore, having enjoyed the course.

She dried up, and continued the journey.

She was the most beautiful one yet, making her mother so proud. She lived her life, gracing everything around her. While the world kept turning selfish, cruel and ugly she was there to make everyone see the beauty in it.

She kept floating.

She kept loathing.

She kept routing.

She was approaching.

She arrived to the age which people do not identify as beautiful anymore, but she was the most beautiful of them all; and no young one can ever replace the beauty that in her time she gave to the world.

The story of an ugly strawberry

Once upon a time there was a strawberry that wasn’t as beautiful as the others. She wasn’t bright, or red or juicy. On a strawberry’s age, everyday is equal to three years; so this strawberry was an unattractive teenager at the age of five days. The master and caretaker of these strawberries was an old farmer whose wife had thing for making crêpes, pies and all sorts of desserts for their fat daughters. The ugly strawberry had heard horrible stories about nobody wanting damaged and unattractive strawberries: The thing she feared the most was being unable to fulfill her master’s need, to be useless in the world, and to not fill it with beauty. She was now a sad, ugly strawberry.

            At the age of six days of the strawberries being born, the farmer came to collect them. He put them in a bowl and delivered them to the house. The ugly strawberry saw how her mates were being treated by the farmer’s wife. They were all beautiful and useful, so they were all getting comments like “I’ll serve you as a topping for a cheesecake!” or “So pretty! Linda, try this one!” and she gave it to her daughter. The ugly strawberry was so ashamed. When the moment came, she expected to be thrown to the trash can; instead, the farmer’s wife looked at the ugly strawberry, pressing her eyebrows with an analyzing stare. She put it aside and continued with the other strawberries. When there were only a few left, she took all the imperfect strawberries, cut the damaged parts and put them all in a fruit smashing machine. The ugly strawberry was smashed, yes, but the result was a delicious cocktail of beautiful strawberries altogether. The ugly strawberry was no longer ugly and alone, but she was considered beautiful and she was accompanied by other strawberries that held a purpose in the whole. She now formed part of a beautiful cake that the farmer’s wife secretly made for her husband on their 33th year anniversary. She was now an eaten beautiful strawberry.