FOR THE LATINX RESEARCH CENTER, UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA, BERKELEY
Colonial Pasts and Decolonial Futures
In these poems writers reflect on their homelands, Indigenous ancestors, and envision what it would look like to heal from the legacies of colonization
Image by Sara Arango Gomez
Pain is Healing
by Clarisa Del Villar
Healing is yelling, cursing, crying
Healing is drawing, painting, singing
It’s rioting, breaking down city hall
Singing all for one and one for all
Healing pain with pain
We fight the system that caused our pain
That sterilized our mothers and beat our fathers
That sexualized our sisters and killed our brothers
That stomp on us who feed them, take care of them, carry them
Healing pain with pain
The blood of our past paints our flowers
The ones that glisten red as the rain passes by
The ones that stand strong in a field of weeds
The blood of our mothers paints our cheeks
Las mejillas que sonrien cuando son felices
The cheeks that catch our tears when we cry
The blood of our fathers stains our art
The art that depicts our struggles and pain
The art that yearns to be looked at when no one’s there
The tears of our cries water our seedlings
To grow with strength and pride
To rise to the sun and touch their dreams
The symphony of our screams brings rhythm to our music
The music we dance folclórico to
The music that gathers la familia on December 12th
Healing is using pain for the pain
Healing is letting our blood paint our art,
our tears water our crops,
our music fuel our dances
Healing is recognizing that our cries now fix our cries then
That our screams now let ones before rest
That our blood now stops the flow from before
Healing is painful
Pain is healing
Untitled
By Sara Arango Gomez
Hyphy to me is waking up to the smell of freshly made arepas my grandma made every morning with el chocolatito for us. It’s my siblings and I giggling on our way to school as my abuelo walked us with our backpacks hanging on each of his shoulders. And having to leave it all behind unaware of the disconnect that was to come to my loved ones and my roots. It is my abuelo’s wall of machismo breaking down, with every tear that dripped down his cheek as he hugged me goodbye. Knowing that leaving our small pueblo behind would only open up doors for us and help us heal.
Hyphy is not holding resentment for the country that failed me but blaming the corruption and injustice that broke my family and leaves my people struggling. It is forgiving and letting go of
the anger of knowing that my father fell victim to the violence there and nothing was done.
Hyphy is hearing the weeping of my widow mother in every corner of the house. It is my mother being enslaved by those who saw her desperation to provide for us. And appreciating her strength and determination to give us a better future.
Hyphy is being an outsider. It is the strange words slipping off my tongue. Yet letting go of the shame of my accent and not hiding where I came from. It is keeping my traditions alive in spite of
the new ones I take on. Hyphy is educating myself and being the voice for those who are like me. It is not letting prejudice or a status prevent us from achieving our dreams. But taking a different
road to our destination.
Hyphy is loving where I came from and the unconditional love de mi familia although they haven’t seen me for years. It is being grateful and finding positivity in every moment. Hyphy is letting go
of what hurts us. It is building strength and resilience after the experiences that scarred us.
The History Within Me
By Gabriel Loyola
Hyphy to me is understanding one’s sacrifice.
Understanding that my dreams come with a price.
Understanding the harsh conformity that my family had to face when venturing to this Land.
Understanding that they can never physically be part of their family, their traditions, their world.
Understanding that my Dreams are also theirs.
HYPHY to me is understanding that my position and identity is both powerful and threatening.
Understanding that my Aztec blood was never wiped out by the white man.
Understanding that the mixed blood that runs through my veins is the fabric of the colonial
system that has been imposed on my people today.
Though my culture was colonized long ago, the Aztec blood that still runs through me is a
reminder to the white man that he can never erase what I was once and what I still am.
HYPHY to me is understanding that my language connects me to the world of my people.
Understanding that my tongue is not confined by the strict r’s and pronouns that they forced me
to know.
Instead it flows like a river, connecting me to what was once lost.
But understanding that the white man still has a grasp on me.
Understanding my language is not as pure as it once was.
But me and my people interconnected these two languages to forge a new world.
HYPHY to me is reminding me that my culture is what makes me unique.
It gives me the ability to understand and speak out against what I feel is damaging my people
today.
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