Here,
now:
Rivers
of families flow, carried from ancestral homes,
by
man-made banks buttressed
by
poverty and greed, hardened by drought.
Now
we move. Big, spectacular movements. Deep, invisible movements.
As
we move, we encounter:
the
fear of our dark masses—dirty dangerous migrants—
is
the fear of the earth-shaking that our landing always brings,
fear
of our catalyzing inner migrations,
fear
of the power-filled landscape rearranged
when
our feet connect deeply with this earth (even when it is covered in
concrete)
when
our communities tap into the power of entwined roots growing deep and
strong,
finally
finding common ground.
After
displacement: dispersion. After dispersion: diaspora takes root.
And
the harvest...
We
refuse to accept the accumulation of microaggressions
everyday oppression
becomes violent suppression
unless
there is Truth, Justice, Reconciliation. In that order.
Truth,
Justice, Reconciliation.
No
truth, no justice. No justice, no peace.
Let
us begin with truth.
Let
us begin with ourselves.
Who
are we?
How
can we fully accept and belong to where we came from
(all
the places, all the people, all the trauma, all the beauty of where
we came from)
and
fully accept and belong to here?
Where
we came from, all of us:
people
of the land
guided
by spirits
whom
we care for
guided
by parents and neighbors
who
teach us
how
to cultivate and cook,
how
they brought us here because they had to,
how
the ancestors still hold us
accountable,
how
our places still hold memory
and
the power to shake us from our stupor.
Our
fear of our own past
is
born of trauma of the massive upheavals that brought us here,
of
the violence that all our ancestors suffered and perpetrated,
of
the uprooting that we do not know how to stop in our own lives.
So
we bury our broken roots and our skeletons deep, and then pave over
it all,
and
forget that our foundations are built on graves.
Where
we are, all of us:
people
growing in the cracks of the concrete,
in
the articulations of the slabs of the global systems,
in
crisis, in screens, in projections,
in
unexpected mutations, duplications, dplicities and mutilations,
our
bodies broken by projectiles,
our
souls fragmented by fear of feeling the full power of truth.
And
yet we do feel:
our
dead become manifest in us as we embody their dreams for the future,
our
art, our work struggles to do justice to our crises, to become
justice
as
we are seized and carried by flows of information,
the
currents of social movements and social media,
fighting
paralysis, many just getting by, just holding on,
all
struggling to maintain integrity and connection
in
the convulsing current of humanity and the more-than-human world.
What
are the borders between our people, or places?
Mi
pueblo: my people, my place: the living, the present, the
cholaje-mestizaje, the mix that is metamorphing.
Tu
pueblo: your people, your place: o ancestors, o my past, o spirits,
descendents, future.
We
are divided by dots and dashes—borders on maps, digital 1s and 0s
abstracting and fragmenting our single, whole reality,
making
it easier to separate my hunger with your hunger—
boundaries—classes,
nations, cities, identities, edifices, films—that hold us, entangle
us, weave us together and pull us apart.
We
are united by one ajayu, the spirit of our time, the soul of our
movements, the creativity of our humanity, the reaching, spiraling
towards truth that will set us free.
Ans
so we weave our true tales together,
wearing
our stories on our backs,
we
build boats out of them,
and
hold onto one another
as
the Flow carries us into the future.
