Category Archives: Heritage

February 19, 2016 · 5:57 am

La comunidad comes together in Wisconsin

In the past few months, the GOP delegation in the Wisconsin state Assembly, in the hopes to support Governor Walker’s agenda of destroying the state, have been trying to pass anti-family and immoral legislation. They have already succeeded in making easier for big developers to contaminate our waters. We all know that they were pretty successful in stripping workers from their rights, preventing heads of households from securing a future for their children and other IMG_4862dependents. More recently, they have been trying to put students’ lives in danger by proposing to allow criminals to openly carry handguns and other firearms around university campuses and even into classrooms. Now, they are also coming after whole families: immigrants, people of color, and other groups that do not conform to the wealthy, white, WASP majority. Two proposed bills are now before the Assembly, to criminalize brown people just for being brown. The legislators swear is to “protect” the communities, but this is just code talking to say that brown peoples are not to be trusted and we must be controlled just as the police has been encouraged to control black people by threatening their lives.

Yesterday, February 18th, the Latinx comunidad from around the state came together in an unprecedented way to say ¡BASTA! People from all over the state came to Madison as the Assembly debated two pieces of anti-family legislation, to let the government and the larger Wisconsin community that our lives matter, that we will not stand idle as they try to destroy our families, and that we not a comunidad and a voz to be dismissed.

Politicians, especially Republican politicians, think that they can play with our lives as they wish. They have stood up against every single moral issue that prevents our lives from being taken from us. In fact, it has been their lack of moral character what has killed so many of us – on the fields, at the hands of police, on the farms and factories, in jail and in immigration detention centers… Their hands are tainted with the blood of thousand Latinxs, yet they keep thirsting for more. It is not enough for them to see our children suffer, our parents mourn, our youth are anxious… They are not satisfied with seeing our IMG_4859suffering, they also want us to completely disappear, just as we bring them water, and tea, and their meals; just as we clean their homes and cultivate their fields or milk their cows; just as we tend to their wounds, and teach their children, and run their businesses… It is not enough. Never enough! Brown bodies are to be disposed of as if we are trash. To this, our comunidad says ¡BASTA!

As I stood at the Capitol square with thousands and thousands of my hermanas y hermanos Latinxs and allies, I could not do anything else but be hopeful. I know that the fight is going to be long and arduous, but we are not going to keep silent. La raza es fuerte. Moreover, we are not as divided as they want others to believe. Yesterday, there were flags from all over Latin America because we know that this “divide and conquer” strategy is not going to work. We are ONE, and as such we will fight. As Calle 13 sings: “cuando más te confías las hormigas / te engañan atacan en equipo como las pirañas / aunque sean pequeñas gracias a la unión / todas juntas se convierten en camión.” We will rise and call out our ancestors, our guiding spirits and the power of the women and men who taught us how to fight and win.

To be there, in the presence of such a beautiful cloud of witnesses was a real blessing for me. It filled me with hope, knowing that I am not just one Puerto Rican fighting alone; I am a part of the great América, and we will stand together to reclaim what is rightly ours. La comunidad came together yesterday in Wisconsin, and we will stand and fight because it is the right thing to do.

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February 11, 2016 · 8:40 am

Rising From the Ashes

In Greek mythology there was a bird, the Phoenix, which was always reborn out of its own ashes. This image of rebirth, especially out of difficult circumstances, is not new in religion. Almost every major faith tradition shares this imagery of death and rebirth. However, the story of the Phoenix is particularly appropriate for the story of Ash Wednesday that I would ash-wednesday-usalike to share with you today.

Like the Phoenix, there are times when we need to be reborn out of our own ashes. There are situations and events in our lives that could feel like fire burning, destroying, razing with every part of who we are. Nothing can be done… unless you have the drive to be reborn.

The young man entered the sanctuary a few minutes before our Ash Wednesday service began. He came by himself. I was certain I had seen him before. As he found his way into the circle, something told me that this was a special visit for us.

I love planning the Ash Wednesday service, for it gives me the chance to use liturgies that I enjoy and share that with those who come to visit with us. It is also the one worship experience when we get the most visitors. This is always a challenge, as you want to let people know what the ministry is all about but also be true to my liturgical preferences. It is also an important time to acknowledge the truth that both light AND darkness are holy and good.

The young man’s reaction to my mentioning the goodness of darkness was my first clue. He nodded, smiled, and his whole self said that he was feeling comfortable in this space. As the service ended, many of us moved to the foyer to chat, drink some hot beverages, and share stories.

I noticed that the young man stayed looking at our ministry display intently. So I approached him to introduce myself. He immediately opened up. I mentioned that I recognized him, perhaps from last year. He said he had not been here last year, but had been to “other random event here.” Perhaps that’s where I had seen him before.

As he continued to talk, he mentioned that he knew some of the students featured in our display. We chatted about this and how all these other young people of color were involved in one way or another with our ministry. He smiled. He was feeling more and more at home. Then, we talked about the ministry and our lives. He had grown up in church, he said, but things turned bad. He had served in young people’s ministries, had served on the Board of Deacons, had taught Sunday school to children, and had been preaching since he was fifteen. But his was a conservative Baptist church. It is also an African American church, and there were cultural aspects of his culture that were more conservative than what he would like. At some point, he decided to be himself, not to hide anymore. This did not sit well with his congregation. Now, he was church-less. But he had heard about this place, this ministry and safe space for LGBT students. He gave us a chance.

It felt like a rebirth; to find a faith community that is rooted in his faith tradition, one that welcomes him, that offers others like him opportunities for growth and leadership. Like the Phoenix, the ashes brought him back to life.

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January 10, 2016 · 3:10 am

Recuerdos del Día de Reyes Magos

Me parece que en la adultez, todas las historias que contamos comienzan con las mismas palabras: “recuerdo cuando era pequeño…” Quizás es porque las memorias son lo único 2f115ab7a7a379b4164f57fdef3aabc0--reyes-pr

que nos quedan de días pasados; días que, si no mejores – porque ningún tiempo pasado fue mejor, sino que es mejor solo el recuerdo – por lo menos fueron suficientemente gratos para guardar en algún rincón de nuestras mentes.

 

Esta historia también comienza como las demás. Recuerdo cuando era pequeño la gran emoción que el Día de los Reyes Magos traía consigo.

Recuerdo la noche anterior, cuando en aquella casita con los bloques de cemento expuestos, la que nunca se terminó de construir y quedaba en medio de los cafetales del barrio Guayabo Dulce de Adjuntas, mi hermana y yo salíamos a recoger la yerba pa’ los camellos. Recuerdo cuando pasábamos bastante tiempo buscando esa yerba, porque tenía que ser la mejor. Después de todo, los Reyes y sus camellos venían del Lejano Oriente. Me enteré, en alguna conversación con mi mamá, que “Lejano Oriente” era Arabia. Recuerdo también que no tenía idea de qué significaban esas cosas, pero el mismo nombre del lugar del cual venían los Reyes decía que era lejano, así que entendía que tanto camellos como reyes habrían de estar hambrientos cuando llegaran a tan remoto lugar de la Isla. Lo que no recuerdo es el por qué solo poníamos yerba pa’ los camellos pero nunca le dejamos nada a los reyes. “Son magos” imagino que diría mi mamá. Con magia no se necesita comer, me imagino.

Recuerdo que llegando noviembre ya buscábamos la mejor caja de zapatos para poner la yerba de los camellos. Recuerdo que siempre tenía que ser una caja de zapatos aunque no recuerdo el por qué. Como sabemos, los recuerdos son selectivos. Recordamos aquello que nos interesa recordar. Aun así, recordamos aquello que nos interesa de la manera que nos interesa.

Recuerdo que la noche anterior al Día de Reyes, dejábamos las cajitas de zapatos debajo de la cama que alguna vez fue cuna, pero ya no tenía las barras de los lados que me mantuvieron seguro cuando todavía la cama funcionaba como cuna. Teníamos la ilusión de que los Reyes trajeran algo; que dejaran sus preciados regalos debajo de la cama y que nos sorprendieran con aquello que habíamos pedido. Recuerdo que mis listas siempre incluían lo siguiente: libros, pintura, una enciclopedia, un microscopio, una colección de rocas, algún cuadro de un pintor puertorriqueño famoso (en aquellos tiempos todavía no era feminista y solo pedía cosas hechas por hombres. Fue hasta mucho después que descubrí que las mujeres también pintaban, también escribían, también volaban a la luna…)

Recuerdo también que el Día de Reyes me despertaba emocionado y al mirar debajo de la cama, siempre había algo. Recuerdo que nunca lo que hubo debajo de la cama era lo que pedía; nunca encontré un libro, un cuadro o un microscopio. Recuerdo que la ilusión no se detenía y a pesar de que lo que llegaba no era lo que pedía, me sentía especial porque los Reyes Magos no se olvidaron de mí y de mi hermana. ¡Siempre llegaba algo! Recuerdo que la mayoría de las veces, lo que nos llegaban eran simples regalos que habíamos visto en alguna vitrina de las tiendas de Yauco cuando visitábamos a madrina Carmita y a titi Betsy. ¿Cómo sabían los reyes comparar en esas tiendas? ¿Cómo nadie nunca los veía recorrer el Paseo del Café en el centro del pueblo? Nunca se me ocurrió preguntar; o quizás pregunté pero no recuerdo.

Recuerdo también que el Día de Reyes, luego de abrir nuestros regalos y de compartir la emoción, nos montábamos en cualquiera que fuera el carro que mi papá tenía esa semana y nos dirigíamos al barrio Guayo, a casa de mi abuelo Quino y mi abuela Margot. Allí, junto a mis primas y primos, esperábamos por la cabalgata de Reyes Magos que siempre pasaba por la casa. Era parte de su ruta hacia el parque en Castañer, donde el Hospital General recibiría a todo el niñerío de Castañer para repartir regalos y dulces y para que disfrutáramos de este día mágico. Recuerdo que cuando los Reyes cabalgaban frente a casa de abuela y abuelo, nos tiraban dulces desde sus caballos. ¡Qué emoción sentíamos! ¡Qué maravilla el ver los Reyes, los Tres Santos Reyes Melchor, Gaspar y Baltazar, pasar justo frente a casa de abuelo y abuela! La cabalgata seguía por la carretera paralela al río Guayo, la misma carretera que pasaba por el Hospital Viejo y que llegaba al puente Cifontes y cruzaba de Adjuntas a tierras de Lares. Recuerdo cómo en ocasiones seguíamos la cabalgata hasta el parque de béisbol en Castañer. En ese tiempo no había plaza pública en el poblado, solo unos inmensos árboles de maga entre la escuela elemental y las tiendas del otro lado.

Recuerdo cómo nos arremolinábamos para recoger nuestros regalos de Reyes Magos del camión que el Hospital rentaba para traerlos. No había una niña o un niño en Castañer que se quedara sin regalo. En un poblado tan pequeño, todo el mundo se conoce y Mingo Monroig, el administrador del hospital, conocía cada familia, cada niña, cada niño y adolescente de Castañer. Recuerdo que después que los regalos se repartían, empezaba la música y el jolgorio, porque las Navidades no han terminado todavía el 6 de enero. ¡Qué va! Las Navidades están en todo su esplendor todavía y después del Día de Reyes vienen las Octavitas y continúan las parrandas. Recuerdo cómo seguíamos jugando con nuestros juguetes por varios días. Recuerdo que la escuela no comenzaba sino hasta mediados de enero porque había que darle espacio al estudiantado a jugar con sus regalos de Reyes Magos.

Ahora, también recuerdo cuando todo comenzó a cambiar… Pero esos son recuerdos que prefiero no tener hoy. Hoy, seguiré recordando el Día de Reyes Magos con la ilusión del niño que fui y que todavía se emociona cada vez que viene el 6 de enero. Seguiré recordando los regalos y la yerba y los primos y la familia y la cabalgata y el parque lleno de bache donde celebrábamos. Seguiré recordando a Guayabo Dulce y a Guayo y a Castañer. Seguiré recordando los cafetales y el rio Guayo y el puente Cifontes y la casita sin terminar y la cuna convertida en cama. Seguiré recordando que el Día de Reyes es mi día favorito del año y el que más me gusta de las Navidades. Seguiré recordando que, aunque esté lejos y ya no tengo ni tiempo de celebrar este día, el Día de Reyes Magos me hace el boricua que soy.

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September 12, 2014 · 10:18 am

I Have An Accent… Get Over It!

It was the first board meeGlobe_of_languageting of the year for a large, international organization. As there were going to be new members for the board, it was needed to go around and introduce ourselves. There were people from the four nations where the organization has a presence plus individuals from other nations who reside in one of the four nations represented. Everyone was sharing their names, location, and their job. It was right there when it happened…

With no hint of irony in her voice, the white, middle age, college-educated woman states that she lives in one of the places that was taken first from the native inhabitants and then from the nation to the south. Proudly she tells her audience – an international audience – that she “teaches foreign students how to lose their accents so they can get jobs” in the United States. Yup. Right as you read it. Immigrants who had spent years of education, who probably speak more than one or even two languages, needed this woman’s help to lose their accents so they could get in with the system.

I looked around for the reaction of my fellow immigrants and non-white colleagues, and, unsurprisingly, we all cringed a little. What this woman was saying, unconsciously, is that our accents make us look dumb, uneducated and unprepared for the professional challenges that jobs in this country offer.

Not long ago, something similar happened to me as I was about to take a new position and someone suggested that the organization paid for a coach who would help me lose my accent. (Full disclosure: I was not informed of this until after I had accepted the position, which caused much pain as I worked there.)

The USA culture states that, no matter how ethnically diverse the country is, those of us who have kept our accents from our mother tongues do not quite belong. For some immigrant communities this has meant that their ancestors’ languages have been lost because the parents are worried their children might not be able to find work or succeed in life. Interestingly, the culture has also incorporated words from other languages into the US English. Think, for instance, about words such as Kindergarten (German), pierogi (Polish), mesa (Spanish), bouquet (French), Brooklyn (Dutch), finale (Italian), tycoon (Japanese) and shtick (Yiddish), just to name a few. Other languages are part of the US culture, but nobody wants to acknowledge it. Moreover, if those of us who emigrated here from other countries with a different language use our own languages to communicate or express ourselves in English with an accent, then we are scolded for it.

Yet, nobody pays attention or asks Australians, South Africans, Jamaicans, New Zealanders, Trinidadians or British to lose their accents. Why?

It is true that communication is extremely important in academic and professional settings. (The personal settings are a bit different due to the familiarity of the people involved.) However, our accents and language backgrounds should not dictate our – the immigrant’s – capabilities to do the work. Being able to speak a language different than English does not mean that we have less education, less knowledge or less professional abilities. It only means that our education was in a language that was comprehensible to us as we grew up and became professionals. In fact, nobody questions the intelligence of English-speakers when you come to our countries and often times refuse to learn at least basic phrases to communicate with the people who live there.

Here are three other things that US Americans need to understand about people who speak other languages. First, most of us do speak English. Our accents only mean that English is a second, third and sometimes even fourth language (I had a seminary professor for whom this was the case, where English was the fourth language he learned.) The use of English along our own mother tongues only points to the fact that we are bi- or multi-lingual. How many languages you, English-speaker, are able to read, understand and speak?

Second, the truth is that every chance we have, we use to learn how to pronounce words, how to expand our vocabulary, and how to find the correct way to use your language in all contexts. Have you thought how difficult it is for a foreigner who was only exposed to “proper” English to figure out some of the common idioms and day-to-day phrases of your language? Take, for instance, “cut the mustard”. I know what the verb “cut” is, and I know that “mustard” is a condiment. How in the world am I supposed to know that “cut the mustard” means “to succeed”?! My mental references for mustard do not even allow for cutting! Mustard, as a seed, is too small to be able to be cut, and as paste, there is no need to be cut as it spreads. Do you follow my thoughts? (There’s another one!) I can tell you, from my personal experience, that I even take time to listen and practice pronouncing a word over and over and over again trying to find the correct way to pronounce it.

Third, there is the issue of pronunciation and hearing. You, who grew up listening to words in your language all the time, might be able to catch the subtle difference between “leave”, “live” and “leaf” but, trust me; it all sounds exactly the same to me! I need to pay attention to the context in which you used these words to find which one you used. How hard it is for you to do the same exercise? All of this is tiring, but it is exactly what non-English speakers have to do every day of our lives in this country (and what English-speakers have to do every day if they live in countries outside of the English-speaking world.)

There are two final thoughts I want to share with all of you. First, is the issue of regional accents within the United States. Most people fret about and want to change the accent of foreigners, but you seldom hear about changing the accents of people from different regions within the country. There are not-too-small differences between the accents of an Alaskan, a West Virginian from the mountains, a person from Brooklyn and one from Massachusetts. Yet, nobody will dare recommending that we all come to an agreement about speaking with the same “standard” English accent. Why? Because there is no such thing as a standard accent in any language! All languages have regional differences! Hence the ridiculous idea of asking British, Jamaicans, Australians, South Africans and Trinidadians to change their accents… they all speak English with regionalisms and it is a matter of adapting our ears to those regionalisms in order to understand each other.

Finally, my accent is, to me, a point of pride. It tells me that I speak more than one language, that I am able to communicate with more people than mono-lingual persons, and that I bring with me to this country a history. It defines who I am at this moment of my life and it makes me feel part of the global community, not just of a small community of either people of the United States or people of Puerto Rico. I can drive through the northern border of the USA and make myself understand just as I can cross the southern border and still engage in conversations. (Unfortunately, I do not speak French; therefore any visit to Quebec would be an adventure… And one that I would gladly welcome!)

My best advice to those who complain about my accent, or about any accent for that matter? Get over it.

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July 12, 2014 · 3:18 am

Seeing God in Abuela

When my father and my mother forsake me, then the Lord will take me up.
Psalm 27.10, KJV

My abuela Palmira left this world on March 30th, 2014. She was the last one of my grandparents to leave us. I had been blessed with three sets of grandparents as my father had two sets of parents, his birth parents, abuelo Quino and abuela Margot, and the couple of welcomed him into their family when he was quite young and working away from his hometown, abuelo Jobito and abuela Ester. My maternal grandfather, abuelo Juanito, left us when I was 8 years old but I still remember him very well. Every Sunday afternoon, when the family gathered at their home, he would sit on his rocking chair and tell us funny stories that would make us laugh for hours. Abuela Palmira would stand next to him and laugh with all of us.

Abuela Palmira   There was something peculiar about my maternal grandparents. They practiced Spiritism, a religion in which every human being is of sacred worth and where spirits guide us to be in communion with the Great Spirit that is sometimes called God. At their home, everyone was welcomed and celebrated. They never rejected anyone. My grandparents believed in serving everyone and in welcoming everyone without distinction. Although I was too young when my grandfather died and thus not even aware of my own sexual orientation, I know that my grandfather would have accepted me and celebrated me. My grandmother, however, had the chance to know who I am as a whole person and she always, without doubt and without excuses, celebrated me for who I am.

When I think about abuela Palmira, the verse that always comes to mind is that of Psalm 27.10: “When my father and my mother forsake me, then the Lord will take me up.” When my parents rejected me for being queer, it was abuela who welcomed me. She always supported me and celebrated my life. When I introduced her to my now husband, I was told that she spent months telling everyone who would listen about the wonderful man I had met. Recently, while talking with an aunt, she told me how they found among abuela’s personal items the wedding invitation I had sent her for my marriage. I knew she would not be able to attend my wedding due to health problems, but she had kept that invitation as an important memento. Through these actions, I can say that abuela embodied the Holy One in my life. Thus, when my parents disowned me, God took me up through the love, support and affirmation of my abuela Palmira.

The Sunday before abuela departed this world, my husband and I spent time with her. We had been in Puerto Rico for vacation, and of course I had to go visit abuela. She made us laugh with her witty remarks. This was abuela. She was always making jokes and laughing about things, even when her health wasn’t the best, she always found joy in living. I am not naïve to say that she was perfect, because none of us are. She had her flaws and made mistakes like the rest of us. But her love and support meant the world to me, and it is those values that will stay with me throughout my life. Her love, her support, her laughter that last time I saw her will always be the manifestation of God in my life. I will keep her memory alive as long as I live and I will always share with the world the values that she shared with me.

Abuela Palmira, you are now gone from us, as you would have said, you are now “unfleshed”, but your spirit will continue to guide me just as the spirit of abuelo Juanito has never left me. Gracias por todo, abuelita.

 

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September 16, 2013 · 12:23 pm

Hispanic Heritage Month 2013 Reading List

September 15th through October 15th is “Hispanic Heritage Month.” Here is a list I put together of books that talk about the Hispanic/Latin@ experience in the United States from different perspectives. I have only included books I have read and deemed interesting. I have also tried to capture different aspects of the Hispanic/Latin@ vida: from religion to sociology to economy to immigration… (I still have a very long list of other books to read… once I do read them, they will show up on this list!)

It is my hope that you can grab at least one of these books during this month and learn more about the Latin@/Hispanic experience in the United States. All of the books are in English, as my intention is to reach out to the English-speaking friends of all ethnicities and races. Hope you enjoy!

9.15.12.HispanicHeritageMonth

 

Religion:

1. Mañana: Christian Theology from a Hispanic Perspective by Justo L. González

2. En la lucha / In the Struggle: Elaborating a mujerista theology. A Hispanic Women’s Liberation Theology by Ada María Isasi-Díaz

3. La Cosecha: Harvesting Cotemporary United States Hispanic Theology by Eduardo C. Fernández

4. Latina Evangélicas: A Theological Survey from the Margins by Loida I. Martell-Otero, Zaida Maldonado Perez and Elizabeth Conde-Frazier

5. Galilean Journey: The Mexican-American Promise by Virgilio Elizondo

Literature:

1. When I Was Puerto Rican: A Memoir by Esmeralda Santiago

2. Almost a Woman by Esmeralda Santiago

3. The Turkish Lover by Esmeralda Santiago

4. The House on Mango Street by Sandra Cisneros

5. The Circuit : Stories From the Life of a Migrant Child by Francisco Jiménez

6. Breaking Through by Francisco Jiménez

7. Reaching Out by Francisco Jiménez

8. How the Garcia Girls Lost Their Accents by Julia Álvarez

9. Christ-Like by Emanuel Xavier

10. Americano: Growing up Gay and Latino in the USA by Emanuel Xavier

11. Santo de la Pata Alzada: Poems from the Queer/Xicano/Positive Pen by Lorenzo Herrera y Lozano

12. My Beloved World by Sonia Sotomayor

History

1. Bacardi and the Long Fight for Cuba by Tom Gjelten

2. Latino Americans: The 500-Year Legacy That Shaped a Nation by Ray Suárez

3. Latinos: A Biography of the People by Earl Shorris

4. Harvest of Empire: A History of Latinos in America by Juan González

5. Latinos: Remaking America edited by Marcelo M. Suárez-Orozco and Mariela Páez

6. Historical Perspective on Puerto Rican Survival in the United States edited by Clara E. Rodríguez and Virginia Sánchez Korrol

Cultural Studies

1. From Bomba to Hip-Hop: Puerto Rican Culture and Latino Identity by Juan Flores

2. It’s All in the Frijoles: 100 Famous Latinos Share Stories, Time-Tested Dichos, Favorite Folktales, and Inspiring Words of Wisdom by Yolanda Nava

3. Latinos in America: Philosophy and Social Identity by Jorge J. E. García

Social & Contemporary Issues

1. Empire’s Workshop: Latin America, the United States, and the Rise of the New Imperialism by Greg Grandin

2. HIS-Panic: Why Americans Fear Hispanics in the U.S. by Geraldo Rivera

3. Illegal People: How Globalization Creates Migration and Criminalizes Immigrants by David Bacon

4. The Presumed Alliance: The Unspoken Conflict Between Latinos and Blacks and What It Means for America by Nicolás C. Vaca

5. “They Take Our Jobs!” And 20 Other Myths About Immigration by Aviva Chomsky

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