Wednesday, April 20, 2011

My Side of the Story

Today I just want to write,
I want to tell you my side of the story.
How when I was little I traveleved through box wagons on bumpy rail tracks in cold silent nights to get to Chicago.
How I left moments with abuelo swinging me from a hammock that seem to connect from one mountain to another.
I was in heaven.
Flowers always adorn my black braids matching the diferent color dresses that seemed to fit only a doll.
Running in the courtyard barefooted, not caring for the so very tight shoes my dad seemed to insist I wear.
I prefered the earth touching my sole.
The heart wrenched detachment from my land, mis abuelos.
My greatgrandma trying to keep up. "Iris" I was called.
Iris seemed to be a caring name of love, sounded so sweet and tender.
Never sounded harsh even when I was caught eating too many sweets, or falling asleep in the mango fields.
My grandfather carried me as an adorment on his horse like a fixture of a car. Love filled the house.
Grandma was the love of the home, soft spoken in nature, that coordinated the soft breeze we felt up in the mountains, the warm sun that was felt at midday for your afternoon nap.
Her sweet voice that seemed to add the right amount of sugar on the Papaya and Mango trees that grew in our courtyard.
My abuelas gentle and sometimes rugged touch always soothe you with the plantitas that can cure any ache and pain thought off possible. Medicine that healed seperation, detachment, loss from love where never needed in my house...

Chicago, long summers and beautiful falls, gloomy winters and rainy springs will become the pattern of my stay. Logan Square, Uptown where qucik stops, but eventually it was The Villita that we called home.

How often I warmed my hands on the comal making sure I kept up with the tortillas for my dad and moms dinner.
How I loved to play in the street with my sisters and new friends on the Boulevard.22+ years of the boulevard strip. Kents, Deuces, SD's, Two-Two Boys, and Kings now adorn my lawn.
Blasting car steroes, crusing and banging became part of my life.
Learning english, reading and math seemed not to matter.
Schools in and out, no one seemed to be bothered.
Know one seemed to remember my name "Iris" .

Grew up quick, grew up too fast, married too young, I want to go back. Why am I here, don't seemed to belong. My politics too radical, my style too old school, my medicine not legal, my choices not respected,friendships questioned, my privacy invaded.
My story not heard, my song not sung loud enough.
I am Iris, the little girl that remembers vaguely being held in her fathers arms, the little girl who was mother to her sisters and brother.
Iris, the little girl who was always tested by fast hands from her cousins, or older neighbors that tried.
This is a memory, a thought that was never printed or made it on paper.
Today and tomorrow is a diferrent story. I just needed to get this out right now.