The Visitation Room (by Marlene Guerrero) As I walk through the metal detector a ring of sirens goes off throbbing my eardrums taking me back to 1991 where blue and red sirens surrounded the apartment complex stagnated by the occurrence, watching our mother being taken away Long dreadful months passed by with no word of our mother not even a letter to proclaim her existence. Until finally we were there walking inside the state prison. Clink, a ominous reverb brings me back to the present I am cleared and the steel grey doors opens approving my entrance I pass a row of greyed, braided lockers which will never be used a heartbreaking truth. She was a victim in a tale of beasts, her cries and please were never heard What did the system expect her to do? Live or be killed? She had no other choice. Live or be killed. She fought back for her life, for our life. Clink, the sound of the present once again approves my final entrance to the inmate visitation room, 8 boots, 3 enclosed rooms. A bitter lifeless scene vividly recreating that first visit. There we were los tres traviesos finally in that visitation room My grandmother extolling us to stand still. But how could we? Our excitement was too much. We held our hands tightly together lifting some of the anxiety off built over the long wait. As the jail door opened the sirens went off and in a single file the inmate women marched in. Like a brigade or soldiers raced in their orange jumpsuit with handcuffs. Raising their shoulders to display their barbaric characters yet with pale and dry lips as if they had been to hell and back. And there she was, our mother, looking at her in real time. There was a rigid transformation in her eyes. Yet as she approached the booth with a slight smirk we interpret the code She was still there in silence, our nurturing mother resilient to stay alive. Clink, again the sound awakes me. And here I was in this enclosed visitation room with with an air of melancholy hasty through my bones looking through the glass, a faded me, reflected on the other side, y divider between my client an I. And there he was in front of me, in real time, tired and fragile wearing a stripped black and white jumpsuit handcuffed and nowhere to go but here. With poisoned certainty I look into his hopeless eyes and with a deep breath begin to explain his legal case. Then a rush of sudden sadness began to cripple my body immobilizing my tongue. Mamá te extrallamos, with tears on our face. We can no longer contain our mixed emotions. We place our little hands against the glass the divider between our mother and us yearning for her touch and warmth Her tiny treasures who can no longer endure the separation. "Hijos los amo, pero tienen que ser fuertes, son mis guerreros, que cuando salga todo va cambiar" Her words of consolation and hope, a short visit indeed but one of strength and survival. "Senorita, me eschucha, que mis diciendo" echos from my client that defer my memories to the present. And here I was in this visitation room looking through the glass A faded me reflected on the other side A divider between my client and I I clear my throat, infuse saliva on my tongue to recover its movement and directly look into his eyes. Eyes that now that shed a sign of hope for himself recalling why I am here in this visitation room

The Life of Migrant Chicanos (by Daisy Lopez) It's 3 a.m. on a humid summer morning. We are approaching the Falfurrias check point. I can feel that sunken weight in the pit of my stomach, like the heavy weight of an anchor holding a ship down. As I embrace my mother's arms tightly with fear, I try to take all I can from her pondering if this will be the last time I will hold her. Will the men in green take her? I asked myself. "La Migra" my people call them. La migra looks sternly at our beat down truck. The dogs begin to smell our vehicle, and I want to scream for everyone to leave us alone. "God, please no!" I say quietly. The migra signals us to proceed. Our travels continue to another state. Risking freedom for a pathetic of $150 a week. Driving 1500 miles to pick up dusty potatoes from a scorching hot field. If those fields could talk, they would proudly claim the number of workers it has taken down after our "Patron" neglected to provide his workers drinkable water. A plane flies over our heads while we work, releasing that toxic pesticide rain which I merely thought it was sprayed water to keep us cool. My mother secretly tells me to work a little harder, so we can pick another row and fill more bags of potatoes to earn more money. As much as I want to complain, I knew I couldn’t because my mother needed me. We’re done by 6 p.m. as the sun is setting, and I lay sitting on a dirt row staring down at my blistered 6-year-old hands. The next few days of summer will not be any different from today. I return to school in late September, and I have already fallen behind in my studies. Mrs. Wright, my new teacher, asked us to write about our summer vacation. I stare at a blank page for the whole class period. See, she fails to realize that I didn’t have a summer vacation. She came by my desk and yelled at me for not writing anything. She scribbled in red ink "Disappointed!" Life is merely choices and having to work twice as hard to get to where you need to get. I am now 34-year-old Chicana with a bachelors and a masters. I am a writer, and I am painter. If one of us makes it to the top, then we have all made it. Everyone doesn’t start in the same starting point, but we all have the same finish line. What’s the secret? Failure can never be an option!

Rootlessness (by Maria L.M.Garcia) Moving to the U.S. We crossed an imaginary line with our invisible guides- God by our side The silent Virgen in our hearts Went past the San Isidro border by bus As soon as we crossed the border gate We were immunized Left home behind Said good bye to the mora tree planted in front of our tejabán… To Mamá Grande To Papá Grande To Tía Eva, Tía Estela To Pichi, Chuy, Santos, and cousin Estela… and The rest of our great family It was early October of 1966 When I met the beginning and the end And I couldn’t tell which was which I was, according to Piaget, in the cusp of the independence stage My mother tongue ruled my thoughts- ¿Donde estoy? ¿Qué pasó? Maslow, tell me, what stage of the pyramid did I end up in? Krashen, what is comprehensible input? Vygotsky, where do I stand in the zone of proximal development? Am I above or below the iceberg? Dewey said we learn by doing How am I doing? Am I closer to finding the beginning or the end? About Maria L.M.Garcia Maria García has moved from the Corpus Christi area to the Rio Grande Valley. She is now living near the Mexico/US border, a place as diverse, authentic, and mythical as “Corky’s” Aztlan. http://poemsandnumbers.com/borderwall/rootlessness/

The Place I Call Home (by Kathleen Graham) They say those people don’t belong in the United States, But I doubt they have ever felt so afraid in their own homes. They call them aliens as if they come from another planet, But I wonder where their ancestors came from. They insist that a bigger wall will keep out the criminals, But I heard those gangs were created within our own walls. They think, “If it’s so hard to come here, why don’t they just stay away?” But I’ve read about the violence there (from wars which we created). About gangs more powerful than police, Whose families are raped and murdered; About Norma and Maritza and Andrea, And countless other little girls, Kidnapped, defiled, assaulted, killed, And then dumped like they were trash. And when they flee for safety, If they don’t die in El Salvador, Honduras, Guatemala, If they don’t die on the trains, in the heat, by Coyotes, And they are lucky enough to make it here… We rip them apart from their children, We cage them like animals, And we have the audacity to call this place: “The land of the free and the home of the brave” But this place I call home is no longer helping to free. And we have forsaken the brave.

July 2018 (by Kathleen Graham) I am tired of flags at half-staff, Of turning on the news to hear about the slaughter: “More innocent children died today… in Benton, Kentucky… Parkland, Florida…Lexington Park, Maryland…Santa Fe, Texas.” And it’s only July. Students who had their whole lives ahead of them; Students who could have changed the world, Children who didn’t understand why it happened to them, Twenty nine children who died before their parents; And it’s only July. Twice the numbers of school children have died Than soldiers in the military this year, And it’s only July. While the children enjoy their summer off, The next school year approaches, Like a cloud hovering over their heads; They pray for peace on campus, And it’s only July. As the teachers prepare for the semester, They write their plans and buy supplies and sharpen their pencils; They load their guns with ammo. Soon they will be educators, mentors, second parents, caretakers, nurses, therapists, bodyguards, Soldiers. But for now it’s only July.

The Pharr Riot (by Thomas Ray Garcia) for Alfonso Flores the sight of haircut death wasn’t enough just a bench without your name beat in heat of blood outside the barber shop pictures of you looking out from nowhere “Pharr was a frightening place to live and everyone looked the other way like hands in your pockets. so free was the lack of gaze I almost miss when bad cops were visible. ya mero.” the shearing memory-man is gone and our street fiction is complicated when it’s brown names engraved on plaques “the job’s over, we’re all chicano,” each check a layaway nimbus get out of town while you still remember hands in your pockets. railroad tracks whispering, sin no more. mexicans to the north riding bicycles barefooted. anglos to the south sowing, sowing. hands in your pockets. hoover's borderland boys. ya mero. bridges, bridges built. historical markers never mind –––somewhere there are roses in the textbooks survivors at the DMV thrift shop pensions equality gardens and open mics with no protests eventually we will talk about it differently. everywhere is electric yet the bullet lives. “we lost lots of good gringos from town. they got scared.” I’m off to make sure school bells run on time so here’s to the curious haircut ricochet shot burning longer chains the steel texas rangers can cut I’m not saying cage boulevard was aptly named alley barflys choked on gas before but it’s too hot to march outside anymore the heat closing in everyone got brown but then a bench with no bus stop and a chipped epitaph – rest in peace? Pharr? power? ya ya ya no more pockets

Our Serpent Tongue (by Daniel García Ordaz) Your Pedro Infantecide stops here. There shall be no mending of the fence. You set this bridge called my back yard ablaze with partition, division labelization, fronterization y otras pendejadas de alienization Yo soy Tejan@ México-American@ Chican@ Chingad@ Pagan@-Christian@ Pelad@ Fregad@ I flick the slit at the tip of my tongue con orgullo que when a fork drops, es que ¡Ahi viene visita! a woman is coming a woman with cunning a woman sin hombre with a forked tongue is running her mouth - ¡hocicona! ¡fregona! - a serpent-tongued ¡chingona! with linguistic cunning a cunning linguist turning her broken token of your colonization into healing y pa' decir la verdad You are not my equal You cannot speak like me You will not speak for me My dreams are not your dreams My voice is not your voice You yell, "Oh, dead Lord!" in your dreams. I scream "A la Chingada!" in my nightmares Your Pedro Infantecide stops here. There shall be no mending of the fence.

River Escucha (by César L. de Léon) sagrado corazón boot kicks water jugs thin green line papel picado water sinking into lizard shadows into acento rattlesnake fangs into folded dollar bill prayers clouds crossing the sky the sky the sky the road somewhere la migra el muro papelito doblado numero de mamá donde llamo sueño llama milagro bones in bags ¡donde! somewhere dishwasher carpenter onion field tomato field repollo field callos mano bota sol la dama toilet scrubber el orange diablo alacrán ¡cuidado! don’t fall asleep on the railroad tracks clean chones water virgen del chorrito Nuevo León Tamaulipas somewhere Tejas Arizona eighteen wheeler Rio Bravo coyote blood moon Rio Grande heat stroke sand sand sand agua bendita Guadalupe Tonantzin Llorona checkpoint martyr saint desaparecido donde estás somewhere chile silver víbora cascabel tenemos sueño hambre calor frio rio piedra ruega there he is there she is there there there no entiendo papers storm get the girl no hay sangre tierra mira santa muerte slipping into mud blood mud blood mud blood grito piss coyote howling no te pierdas hay comida gunshot somewhere drone she didn’t stop stinker find the bag follow the trail perro holy father last night luna estrella cranium plastic bag panties into grass into water into camioneta door shutting caliche owl conejitos donde están

To the Man Sitting Across From Us at the Hospital in Harlingen, Texas (by César L. de Léon) I know that look I know that look on your face that glare from across the waiting room I know it isn’t my torn jeans or my mother’s old skirt you scowl at with impunity I know it’s our voices our words our lengua sparking your teeth-grinding your jaw-locking so I enunciate more carefully I set each syllable on fire corazón dolor cuerpo your eyes narrow your mouth fills up I see your body shifts in the chair I know what you want to say you want to tell us “in America you speak English, not Mexican” I’ve heard it before but today you simply spit in our direction I’ve seen it before Did you expect me to turn my eyes down? Were you surprised when I didn’t flinch?

A Girl from Michoacan (by Edward Vidaurre) Let our voices be heard, The golden hyms of our soul I. Her small town vanished Bending the corner, leaving a dusty trail Teocaltiche, en Los Altos de Jalisco II. Calor en Aguascalientes ¡Ardiente! She hung on bus overterned Fifty four bodies bashed against one another Nuestra hermana and twelve survived III. Her Mother, brown Her Sun, brown Her Womb, brown Zacatecas, was brown IV. Forty three men Six women Will never thing again Will never dream again Will never speak again Will never see the brown Sun Ever again *decapitated bodies found V. She was close, Her knees bleeding, head bent forward, 869 km después 5 more to go She closed her eyes and remembered Her small town A chapulín crosses her path As she becomes one With the sun

Chicano Blood Transfusion (by Edward Vidaurre) I got shot in the gut and now I need a Chicano blood transfusion. Make sure the vials come from the underground. Quick! alurista is coming down the corridor and wants my hat for his collection What for the rush and bloody pain What for the blooming and the rain Close the door! Put a sheet over my body and tag my toe. My brown skin is hindered by the loss of blood. Help! Minute men are looking for me, la migra is banging on my door! La chota has me surrounded In hand, pistolas with hairline triggers, I can hear them approaching with their steel- toed boots crushing the concrete up the piss stained staircase. breaking out the chalk, ready to outline me for being a Voice Where’s the sangre? I’m losing consciousness strap Juan Felipe Herrera down -take it from him cause’ I can only come up with 180 reasons why a Guanaco can't cross the border. Look for the descendants of “Corky” Gonzales who also is the blood, the image of myself. Ask a Chicana in the midst with beautiful brown eyes, to hold my hand during the mezcla of Pupil y Maya I can't write anymore, my pen is missing along with my grandma's recipe for champurrado y chiles rellenos. I need those to help me break through the concrete wall mierda stretching from Califas to Tejas. I worry about my citizenship/permiso para jalar/needing a haircut on Sundays I worry about people that drive small cars/con placas vencidas/con placas behind them STOP! Alright I think it’s done I feel the same Chingón! Guanaco! Chicano! Angeleno! Tejano! With the blood of Mi gente del barrio

La Vos (by Ronnie Garza) borinquen e que sabel amo borinquen que tu tienes color borinquen tu que tienes la vos borinquen tu que sabes dolor South McAllen has the icebox Brownsville has the prison for kids and Port Isabel, and near Pecan and McColl they're like everywhere y'all and now Trump's gonna put up tents it's like kids, kids, gotta collect 'em all gotta round 'em up and flood their brains with cortisol that'll cause some permanent and developmental damage that'll teach 'em to try and cross and pick our cabbage that'll teach 'em all savage, cause they're all savage The United States started a fire in Central America and has been fanning the flames of that drug war for decades. Those victims, which he calls animals, are supposed to burn alive, that's the plan. Kanye Wes, your orange duppy god made this. You think Donald Trump is cool cause he has a lot of money, it's corny. You left Candice behind but made sure to tell TMZ that you weren't talking about DJT. go tweet tweet motherfucker #maga #sayhername #sayanything #borinquen borinquen e que sabel amo borinquen que tu tienes color borinquen tu que tienes la vos borinquen tu que sabes dolor and Gloria said... "To the immigrant Mexicano and the recent arrivals we must teach our history. The Mexicanos and the Latinos from Central and South America must know of our struggles. Each one of us must know basic facts about Nicaragua, Chile, and the rest of Latin America." Goddess, Gloria Anzaldua is a Goddess. Goddess Coyolxauhqui, Moon Goddess. and Reagan said... "they're just two days driving time from Harlingen Texas" and Trump said... "some people call it an invasion, it's like an invasion" and Chomsky said... "In 2009, Honduras had a mildly reformist president, Mel Zelaya. The Honduran powerful, rich elite couldn’t tolerate that. A military coup took place, expelled him from the country. It was harshly condemned all through the hemisphere, with one notable exception: the United States. The Obama administration refused to call it a military coup, because if they had, they would have been compelled by law to withdraw military funding from the military regime, which was imposing a regime of brutal terror. Honduras became the murder capital of the world. Now people are fleeing from the misery and horrors for which we are responsible. The troops being sent to the border outnumber the children who are fleeing. I mean, this spectacle is almost indescribable. Even apart from noticing where they’re coming from, the countries that we have crucially been involved in destroying, it’s—the ability to carry this off repeatedly is quite an amazing commentary on much of the popular culture." and Alurista said... borinquen e que sabel amo borinquen que tu tienes color borinquen tu que tienes la vos borinquen tu que sabes dolor

Apuntes Viograficos (by Ronnie Garza) In 1821 Mexico began letting the gringos into Texas. By 1836 they'd taken over and began to drive Mexicans out of Victoria, San Patricio, Goliad, Refugio and Nacogdoches. By 1845 Texas was the United States but the Valley was ours. In 1846 Polk sent Taylor and Grant to point their cannons at Matamoros and begin a war to take the rest of our land. In 1853 & 54 they drove Mexicans out of Austin & Seguin. In 1856 & 57 they drove them out of Matagorda, Colorado and Uvalde counties. In 1859 & 61 Cortina resisted the vampires. By 1901 Gregorio Cortez had a pistol in his hand. From 1900 to 1910 187,000 acres of land changed hands. In 1911 20,000 soldiers were sent to the border. Sometime after this Aniceto Pizaña is quoted as saying: "Where are the Rinches? I'm here to pay them a visit!" The Matanza happens in 1915. Between 1914 and 1918, Mexico Texanos (who had rebranded themselves as Mexican Americans) fought, killed and died in Europe for the values and ideals that the United States of America stands for.

De colores, de colores se visten los campos en la primavera De colores, de colores son los pajaritos que vienen de afuera De colores, de colores es el arco iris que vemos lucir Y por eso los grandes amores de muchos colores me gustan a mí Y por eso los grandes amores de muchos colores me gustan a mí Canta el gallo, canta el gallo con el quiri quiri quiri quiri quiri La gallina, la gallina con el cara cara cara cara cara Los polluelos, los polluelos con el pío pío pío pío pío pí Y por eso los grandes amores de muchos colores me gustan a mí Y por eso los grandes amores de muchos colores me gustan a mí De colores, de colores brillantes y finos se viste la aurora De colores, de colores son los mil reflejos que el sol atesora De colores, de colores se viste el diamante que vemos lucir Y por eso los grandes amores de muchos colores me gustan a mí Y por eso los grandes amores de muchos colores me gustan a mí