Sana, Sana, page 2
These pieces and all the others that populate this section demand we recognize both our innate capacity for healing and the intuitive knowing we possess that outlines the specific ingredients for our own restorative journeys. They hint at the fact that individual healing is only a prelude to collective reparation, and that healing is an absolute requirement for justice.
JUSTICE: DEFIANT WORLDMAKING
Building on the provocations of the first two sections, authors here wrestle with the relationship between healing and justice, and its many individual and collective manifestations. We posit that one of the central themes or messages that runs through most, if not all, of the pieces in this section is the notion that justice, at its core, is a form of defiant worldmaking. Justice are those macro-social shifts and micro-social tactics that confront, disassemble, and abandon beliefs and practices that replicate and maintain current destructive forces in favor of creatively new and lifegiving paradigms and ways of being. These efforts are carried out in the face of logics that continuously counsel that it cannot be done; that justice is a utopia that exists just beyond the horizons of our perceptions and understandings. Grounding our understanding of justice in this way raises many politically pragmatic questions: Why do healers get separated outside of strategy in liberation ideas? Why are healers not at certain movement tables? Why don’t we center healing as a political strategy in liberation struggles? Healing should be an extension of any political and social justice work. Our writers in this section provide us plans, visions, and dreams of the possibility of the worlds we can create.
This is the counsel that many healing justice advocates are offering. Our movement spaces are exhausted. Too many folks try to do all of their healing work while in a specific movement space, event or meeting—and oftentimes inadvertently perpetuate the same harms of the many oppressive systems our movements are fighting to eradicate. Healing is difficult to envision when our systems of care are rooted in the medical industrial complex; a western model of care, in which corporations exploit the health of patients and control the access to care by profiting from medical supplies and resources. Justice demands that we eradicate all systems of harm and create new ways of being. Justice means we have the limitless possibilities of imagining new ways of caring for each other, and our health. In order to do that, it is imperative we have space to navigate our own wounds and journey of restoration. We hope this anthology provides some of that space.
It is important to note and recognize that of the three major themes—pain, healing, and justice— it was justice that received the least amount of attention and engagement from prospective submissions. We believe this is indicative of the real challenge everyday folks have envisioning and birthing new modes of being that make a complete break with the legacies of harm and violence and that center a real and systemic love of humanity. It is this very real difficulty and challenge that this section attempts to speak to and become the impetus for all of us to become defiant worldmakers in the service of love and life.
You will find pieces in this section that stir the desire for creation and rebirth. Edyka Chilomé, in “A Recommendation,” reminds us that we must first look at ourselves:
… call in the magic buried in your blood
dare to break open in climax by your own hands
for our work now is to bloom beautiful in chaos
and return home come winter
Chilomé confronts that we must give into the daily practices of self-preservation; loving and caring for ourselves in moments of self-intimacy that are creatively new and life giving, reminding us of the power of pleasure. Invoking Lorde’s “power of the erotic” these practices of self-desire and love make possibilities seem real. In conversation with Edyka’s poem, the essay “‘Do you see me?’: Musings on the Pain of Anti-Black Denial/Rejection in Latinx Spaces” by Biany Pérez also invokes the teachings of Lorde. Pérez proclaims power in being both “insider” and “outsider.” At one point, Pérez sings to us a litany of what justice is:
… Justice work is knowing ourselves
Justice work is embracing our differences
Justice work is embodying difficult truths…
We reject the notion that justice is an impossible dream or an eternal longing never to be fulfilled. The authors create a collective invitation for you, to connect with your own inner chingonx and bring that defiant energy to not only refuse the disciplining and colonizing forces of white supremacy, misogyny, hetero- and cis-normativity, and capitalism, but to marshal the courage to commit to new and untested ways of being and relating that nurture and support life instead of destroying it.
* * *
Ultimately, we have gathered together this multi-genre tome, in the understanding that truth and wisdom concerning pain, healing, and justice exist in multiple registers and forms. It is our sincere hope that one or some, if not all, of the pieces so generously and courageously shared by their authors meets you where you are at and nourishes and sustains your own resolve to heal, be a healer, and a justice worker. For if it is not already clear, let us leave no doubts, queridx reader: you, your family, your community, and the entire world we inhabit unquestionably deserve the peace and serenity that comes with healing and justice.
Sana sana colita de rana
Si no sanas hoy
Sanarás mañana
May we heal today, tomorrow, and for generations to come.
* * *
1We draw on the idea of papelitos guardados as presented by The Latina Feminist Group in Telling to Live: Latina Feminist Testimonios (Duke University Press, 2001). They write, “Papelitos guardados evokes a process by which we contemplate thoughts and feelings, often in isolation and through difficult times. We keep them in our memory, write them down, and store them in safe places waiting for the appropriate moment when we can return to them for review and analysis, or speak out and share them with others.”
2The folk saying as written here is how it was communicated within David’s Cubanx familia. We recognize that each region, country, island, and family might have slight variations, but all begin with the words “Sana, sana colito de rana … ” whose intent and purpose is similar, if not identical.
PAIN
SPEAKING THAT WHICH WANTS TO REMAIN UNSPOKEN
Self-Care
Cynthia Estremera Gauthier
Self-immersed, blended, mixed with others
who take and consume, require so much of you.
Friends need your shoulders drenching you
with their tears and concerns. Children exhaust
your arms, breasts, and rest on your aching hips.
Your feet are tired of running after everyone
your back is breaking from labor.
Your eyes can barely see what’s in front of you,
but you’re expected to see what’s all around you.
Your lover squeezes your heart and your
head is pounding from the way you hit
the pavement each rising morning of the sun.
Your goal; to be strong and unbreakable
Inside you’re withering away professing
the need to be everywhere do everything,
morphing into a seven-armed goddess whose tears
never flow long enough to water her dried up gardens.
You continue to do and do and do until you can’t do no more.
And they say “self-care.”
Survival of self is more like it.
Self-care is for the privileged; those with time,
those with means and those with liberty.
Those who have the ability to breathe clean,
crisp air deep into their souls. Those who
don’t have a care in the world …
not for those caring for their entire world.
Even when we are pushed to care for ourselves
it transforms into caring for others
evolving into self-sacrifice justified.
We never take the time to crack our hands,
backs, and hips. We justify our pain
as part of our life cycle.
Struggle is key to our self-survival,
but when will we thrive?
It’s time to separate ourselves
Push away every grabbing, screaming,
pulling hand and voice gripping
and choking us.
If we don’t put ourselves first,
how will we ever have the strength
to hold on, while everyone is dangling from our feet?
Counterstory as Catharsis: Alejandra’s Deepest Wound
Aja Y. Martínez
Alejandra was seated on the couch, next to her abuela who was trembling a bit from the anxiety, and probably from the anticipation of grief. They sat on the precipice of a moment.
She reached out to reassuringly brush her abuela’s silky soft hands—hands resting in her abuela’s lap, fingers lightly intertwined as if in prayer.
Her abuela didn’t look up, but slightly nodded, acknowledging Alejandra’s gesture, and then both of their heads snapped up, startled at the voice that now spoke.
“He’s asking to see you, Alé, he wants to speak with you.” It was her uncle, her dad’s eldest brother, Tio Tommy.
Alejandra looked across the room to where her mother was seated—and although Alejandra was 25 years old, already an adult and a mother herself to a young daughter, she sought the permission, or perhaps reassurance from her mother’s slight nod to rise from her abuela’s side and follow Tio Tommy to the bedroom and through the door that led to her Abuelo’s deathbed.
Twenty Years Earlier
Alejandra was sitting, cuddled into her mother’s abdomen—a perfectly carved out cubby for Alejandra’s small five-year-old frame. Her baby brother lay adjacent to the couch, laughing and babbling in his bassinet, entertained for the moment by the cheerful children’s tune playing on the TV as their mother’s fingers dangled over the bassinet’s edge, bobbing to the music’s beat. Alejandra was slightly distracted by her brother’s baby noises, as she focused intently on the lyrics of the song being sung by Winnie the Pooh and Piglet.
At the conclusion of the ditty Alejandra suddenly and matter-of-factly announced: “That happened to me!” Still smiling over at baby brother, slightly distracted, Alejandra’s mother said, “Hm? What happened to you?”
“What Pooh and Piglet just said, Mami—someone I know touched my privates.”
“What?” Mami responded, extracting her hand from my baby brother’s grasp, abruptly sitting upright, nearly knocking Alejandra to the floor before catching her with both hands and righting her in a standing position on the ground.
Mami was seated, her back now rod-straight, staring searchingly into Alejandra’s eyes, her own face etched with worry, searching Alejandra’s face for any semblance of a smile, a joke, mere kidding or sarcasm of which she knew in her heart her five-year-old was incapable.
“Who touched your privates? You mean down there?” Mami questioned, pointing to Alejandra’s pelvic area, a tone of panic seeping discernably into her voice. Alejandra, hesitating for a moment, noticed the tonal shift of her mother’s voice, unsure if she had said something that upset her, unsure if she should say it again.
Perceptive to her daughter’s uncertainty, Mami softened her tone and facial features—did her very best to come across as casual and conversational and asked again, “Who touched you, mija? Was it someone you know?” Alejandra solemnly nodded, then said, “It was Abuelo.”
Twenty Minutes Later
A harsh set of knocks issued from the wrought iron screen door and Mami sprung from her seat on the couch. Barefoot, Mami hurriedly dashed to the door, unlocking the deadbolt to admit two tall male figures who Alejandra immediately recognized as Papi and his brother, Tio Tommy.
A smile spread across Alejandra’s face, as she bounded from the couch to sprint towards her father, jumping into his arms.
Papi scooped her up, but held her at a slight distance, looking into her eyes. His eyes were somber and seemingly disconcerted. This look of anything but joy gave Alejandra pause now that she did the math adding her mother’s perceptible tonal and energetic shift from before to her father’s eyes and the looks of stern trepidation emanating from Tio Tommy.
Alejandra now inventoried the tense conversation she overheard only fifteen minutes before. Her mother, in frantic and hurried words, spoke to someone on the other end of the line, imparting a sense of urgency and eventual defensiveness, while Alejandra continued to view the Hundred Acre Wood Saturday Special that had now progressed to a song about “Stranger Danger.”
“Why would I make this up?!” Mami exclaimed, sounding astounded, exasperated, and furious at the accusation, all at once. “This is the last thing I would ever say or do to get your attention—‘to get you back’! How conceited are you? Our daughter has said a serious thing and we need to figure this out!”
That was the gist of what Alejandra was able to overhear of the conversation before her mother, seemingly successful in her persuasion, said “Okay, estamos aquí, see you soon,” and hung up the phone.
And now, fifteen minutes later, Papi and Tio Tommy were here and told Alejandra they wanted to speak with her, alone in the kitchen, a room separated by a wall and a door from Mami, baby brother, and the TV. Alejandra looked across the room to where her mother was standing, for permission or perhaps reassurance? Her mother’s slight nod made Alejandra nod her own head in acquiescence to her father and Tio Tommy’s wishes.
After the Interrogation
Held tightly in Mami’s arms, hoisted onto her hip, Alejandra waived goodbye to Papi and Tio Tommy as they drove away. Papi looked and sounded sad as he told Alejandra he’d be back in a couple of days to take her and baby brother to his place for dinner. Alejandra was happy to know she would see him again, having had a hard time adjusting to her parents’ most recent separation which brought Papi around to take her and baby brother to his place only every other weekend. But before he left today with Tio Tommy, Papi asked Mami if he could see them more often, maybe a couple times a week, and Mami agreed. But they both looked so sad, and Alejandra couldn’t figure out how the thought of seeing more of Papi could result in the melancholy she observed from her parents.
It didn’t take long before Papi moved back in with Mami, Alejandra, and baby brother, but there was a noticeable shift in the ways Alejandra was permitted to interact with Papi’s side of the family. For instance, whenever the cousins had birthday parties with sleepovers, Alejandra was never allowed to stay. She would beg, she would cry, she once even tried to thrash and rage, but all to no avail from Mami or Papi. There was some sort of armored and unbreakable pact now formed between the two of them—an understanding and renegotiation of the terms of their relationship, including what Alejandra understood as a prohibition against extended time and fun with los primos. And she didn’t understand why.
As Alejandra grew older, into a teen, she became keenly aware of the gatherings she wasn’t invited to, the bautismos in which she was never asked to be godmother, and the general bonds of familial relationships between and amongst the cousins and tios and tias on her dad’s side of the family—all of which she felt excluded, blocked from, locked out of. And these observations caused Alejandra great pain. Mami, aware of her daughter’s anguish, yet advisedly quiet about the root of this pain, decided it was time to reveal the true source of Alejandra’s separation from her family. Knowing her daughter too well, Mami comprehended that Alejandra was taking these fissures personally. She invited Alejandra out for a drive and steadied herself for a conversation too long deferred.
The Roadtrip
“I knew there was something, but I couldn’t ever put my finger on it,” Alejandra responded, not shocked at the revelation, just surprised she hadn’t pieced it together before now. Her body and her mind contained the memory of this abuse, this turmoil associated with the intrusion on her person, this assault of her very being. She remembered it happening. The room he took her to. The carefully selected cousins who were his victims alongside her. Her feelings of pleasure in the contact, feelings that now made her sick with revulsion and shame. She remembered.
“Why didn’t you press charges?” Alejandra demanded, hot angry tears now welling in her eyes and rolling down her cheeks—revealing too much about her shame and anger—more than she wished to confirm.
“I did what I thought was best at the time, mija,” answered Mami pleading discernably in her voice, which only made Alejandra angrier.
“He should be locked up!” Alejandra retorted, “How many has he done this to? How many has he hurt?!”
“I only found out about Tio Tommy’s stepsons after what he did to you was revealed, I don’t know how many else—”
“I do!” Alejandra interrupted. “I know cousin Jenny and Denise were there with me, I remember them on either side of me, I remember!”
Mami was crying now, which Alejandra had seen her do maybe twice in sixteen years. They drove on in silence for a moment, both crying silent tears, Alejandra’s still searing with anger.
“I did what I thought was best at the time, mija,” Mami repeated, more resolve in her voice now. “I thought that if we pressed charges, the legal system wouldn’t protect you and I wanted to protect you from that. From being questioned by lawyers, dragged through a lawsuit. You were only five! I thought I was protecting you from further harm, I thought keeping you away from the possibility of it ever happening again and making clear to him that I knew what he did, and that he would never have access to you again was the way to handle it. I did what I thought was best—”
