old jottings

Some pieces i discovered in an old scrapbook by an immigrant woman who lived in spain around the year 2008. These pieces seem very outdated. To think how far we have come, but to think so many things still remain the same...

She entered the Corte Inglés
she felt misplaced
what could she buy?
With her mere
20 euros?
she looked the attendant
in the eye
shy, ashamed,
uncomfortable
she wanted a cream to remove
the blemishes
left on her face
one that wasn´t too expensive,
she quickly added.
she knew it…
it was better to live with the blemishes
these scars
that reminded her
of her
situación como extranjera,
that she was an immigrant.

What does it mean to be discoloured?
I mean- NOT WHITE
It´s having looks of empathy thrown your way
It is those looks of suspicion
that follow your footsteps like
a
haunting
shadow
it
is
that
silence
of the imcomprehensible.
A strangeness
You feel like a
pieza mal situada
stuck
with
room
to manoeuvre
You breathe
but the air seems to be the accomplice
of this white world
you contemplate
suicide
but you feel it´s a white solution
you listen to music
they say it seems to help the brain
you feel brainwashed
you try to wash the brain
now you are empty,
clean
drained
and
all
alone
just where you had started.

She was polka dot
Yes
Her face was spotted black and white
Like all her life.
But only polka dot
Was no longer fashionable.

They were curious about her
A hijabbed woman
Attending
Documentaries detailing the abuses against homosexuals
And denouncing their discrimination.
They wanted to know who she was
Wasn´t it contradictory to be
Visibly Muslim and liberal?
It was like the Opus Dei
claiming they are homosexuals, they told her.
It just did not fit.
Would she force her children to
Wear the hijab?,
they wanted to know.
How come she was so similar to them?

_____________________
She was already travelling
So she replied calmly,
You know..
Islam has a lot of matices
…too many nuances..

She walked into the expositionEntitledOcultos
Hidden
She was exposed,
In fact, she was covered
There were photographs of
Culos
from different cultures,
angles and
perspectives
it was an exposition of bottoms
the comisaria came up to her
bemusedandasked
Dime, ¿ te gusta la exposición?
Pues, muy interesante, she replied.
Then she was startled-
¿Te gusta nuestra cultura?
Do you like our culture?
So she said, after some thought,
Me gusta la cultura universal,
Universal culture appeals to me..

She was brown-skinned
Pimply faced
She wore a hijab
She was misunderstood
She wore it half-way
Revealing yet concealing
She was ridiculed
She felt invisible
Unattractive
Like a wall painting one looked at with indifference
Sometimes with scorn or discomfort
for there were spots of dirt, filth
it was discoloured.
She would look at all the white faces looking at her
Each one different
Each one beautiful
So beautiful, she thought
She could admire
Its immaculate impeccable perfection
Without blinking…
The black-brown-yellow skins
were undesirable.
they were tarnished
with poverty and suffering
Eyes not blue nor green
But black, that had seen too much
Couldn’t
StopBlinkingBlinkingBlinking

If only she could mask her identity
Uncover her true personality
But what would that be?
Just an imitation
Of
Westernity?

She was Bin Laden

She was a whore

She was rebel

She was oppressed

She was liberated.

She was supposed to be better that the rest.

She was a terrorist

A mora

Marroquí

She was a nadie

She was an actress.

She was desirable

And invisible

She was confused…

But who was she?

She was swimming in white
but she realised she couldn´t swim
so she started to sink
when her body
floated to the surface
it was black.

She was Black
Woman
Muslim
the crying Palestian mother
clutching the cold body
of her dead.
she was covered in the burqa
thanking the Americans for freedom
she was Moroccan immigrant
couldn´t read
didn´t know Spanish.
She was the Indian
from Mere Hindustan
she was the Somalian
who had suffered
mutilation
she was the terrorist
who despised the West
she was the victim and verdugo
of September 2001
march 2004
april 2002
víctima y verdugo
Víctima y verdugo
Víctima y verdugo
She was Black
Muslim
Woman.

Encounters/ Anécdotas

These pieces were inspired by my friend and author Margie Kanter, whose style I thought very fitting to express these thoughts that passed through my mind as i read her works...
So here goes...

She was comfortable with her abrigo puesto
in the heated car,
with her coat on inside the car
¿No estás incómoda así?, she was asked.
"No, I´m fine. I´m used to always keeping my coat on, she lied.
In Madrid, you see alot of people with their
coats on in the stuffy metro, bus and so on.
I don´t think it´s that bizarre"... she replied.
qué barbaridad, she read on her companion´s face
who continued driving with an embarrassed look.

....


DESENCUENTROS

She stopped to get directions
Perdona, she said in her slow foreign spanish accent.
¿Sabes dónde está el Ateneo?
She was still confused so she asked another.
No response
then another...
She stopped a balding spanish-looking guy
and decided to try her luck once more
Perdona... she began
No, no, he replied, no tengo nada para ti.
I have nothing for you
He thought she was a mendiga,
a beggar....


BEEP BEEP BEEP

She walked through the entrance
looked the guard in the eye
she already began to feel guilty.
she was torpe, awkward,
walking around, drawing suspicion.
¿Te puedo ayudar? she was asked
she politely responded she was just browsing
She wanted to try on
those plaided pants
but instead,
she turned around and left.


NATURAL SELECTION
She held on to her fries and tightly sealed coke
in one hand
and her bus ticket in the other
It was a cold Madrid evening.
the conductor´s mood matched the ambiente
No puedes entrar con esto, joder!
She wasn´t allowed to enter, she was told.
Luego tiráis todo aquí mismo.
She felt like a child
who was being scolded.
she wanted to reply
but nothing came out of her mouth
...
so she waited for the other bus
Through the window, she saw a Spanish lady sipping coke.

Errancias madrugales

this blog was intended to be a verbal purging of sorts. So here´s to this "finalidad".

I:

I´m listening to Idir, the Algerian berber, "cantante de rai". I was first introduced to his music from the film "Dimanche Incha Allah" and i immediately fell in love with both the film and the sound track. It was one of those movies where the strenght and perseverance of the Arab woman in addition to the beastly mother in law and the violent, insensitive husband, submissive to only his mother were once again the pieces to this scenario set in France during the law of family regroupment passed by Chirac. anyway, back to Idir. the cd is entitled "Idir, deux rives un reve" and almost all the songs are in bereber. When i recently acquired them, my favourite was in fact "Identités", a compilation of a variety of his songs remixed. They are just lovely. there are two which i really like, one is with Manu Chao and is titled "A Tulawin" and another is a spanish flamenco mix with the french gypsy Titi Robyn and the spanish Paco el Lobo entitled "Fable". Well, what is it that attracts me so much to this music? Well, it was the sound of this flute initially which seemed to draw you hypnotically to the sounds. But then i also began to be drawn by Idir´s cool, sensual, tranquil voice which really swept me away...

II


-Chile, you must learn to talk proper english, with the accent like dem real british people..
-But mammy, dat does sound so ugly, i like meh accent, people say ah does talk nice
-gyul, yuh crazy ah wat?? only poor coolie people does talk like you. why yuh think ah send yuh to school and sacrifice so much for? Ah want yuh to make meh proud.
-ok, mummy, ah go try but it does be real hard, yuh know. Besides, when ah talk with accent, everybody does laugh at meh...
-doh study dem, one day, it go be you who go laugh, you just wait an see. You is the one dat go mek meh proud. doh forget...

Some people tell me ah lucky to talk english. thank God, the british colonise we. Because now, everybody want to learn english and we already know it. It doh matter if ah does talk broken or if meh grammar real bad, but i cud manage and i cud read dem texts of British culture dey want to push dong we throat in school. It real funny the history dey does teach we in school. it kinda amnesiac so when yuh reach the age of twenty, yuh doh even know nothing about the Black Revolution in 1970 but yuh know about the First and Second World Wars. We doh know nothing about we neighbours, or about we own geography, but we know all dem lyrics they does pong we in de radio and all dem brands and styles that come out in the States. We does feel proud to wear dem T Shirts with the American flag or the Statue of Liberty. We does hide we face to make de line infront of Marley Street to get we visa. We ent mind spending the night in the street to make sure we get in. but when we come off the plane, just back from the Big Apple, we feel like a shilling to sport we imitation brands and we new accent.. I just came back from America.. you cud hear dem say...


III

That´s when i knew that fucking english was a curse. Ha!!! I thought by speaking the language of the civilised, I too was part of them, even though my accent was different. It didn´t matter if i had citizenship. My colour was my measuring stick. the browner I was, the further I was differentiated from them. I could not be like them, no. Even if i spoke better than half of them. I wasn´t to watch them in their eyes, i was to follow all their orders. I had become their slave after my ancestors were emancipated.

A fortuitous encounter

When she first met her in that hostel room with the two other unfriendly Argentine jews, she immediately knew they were going to be friends. She liked her french accent, her openness, her joviality, her deep sad eyes. In a matter of a few hours, she already felt she could write part of her biography.. they had done nothing but share stories although she did more listening than talking. She was always protective and shy and insecure about her personal life. Her secrets and fears were kept very hidden, tightly tucked away from preying eyes. So she preferred to listen.
I came to Europe for love. Or maybe i wanted to escape from my life, from all the nightmares, from a reality i could no longer bear.. when i met this African guy online and we immediately clicked, i knew he would be my ticket, literally, to start a new life. Yet, being the sceptical, responsable person that I am, i wanted to ensure i was not making a mistake- So i held out, i waited, i got to know him better.. his promises reassured me, his kindness were my pillow at nights and this life which awaited me in Brujas was my comfort in days of despair when i fought with all my savings to recover the child i had given birth to...
Sex for me was initially sacred, only to be done, not enjoyed, within the confines of marriage. i remember after my first encounter, i forced myself to deny and obliterate it, convincing myself that i was still a virgin, virgin, virgin... I was. After many encounters, my former beliefs were shed slowly but yet, that tinge of guilt was always with me.. as the years went by, sex almost became my weapon.. my way out from one situation after another.. i no longer enjoyed it, it was another routine to be finsihed to get to my ends.. sometimes it was painful, other times, it was boring, yet other times, it was embarrassing. There were moments when i felt abused, raped, trashed.. but i put it all behind me. I fought to keep my sanity afloat. No doubt my spirituality and God nourished and protected me.
Well, as you imagine, i came to Europe and the idea of the freedom, the chances to practice my music filled me with an unknown sensuality. This was all ephemeral however, as you would shortly discover.. the lies, the deceit, the facades all surfaced and the impact was too much for me to bear. I slept with cockroaches, the false, faint smile was like an implant gone bad on my face i no longer recognised. Each day, he would display me to friends who came in abundance. i felt complimented but also disgusted. i was in pain literally. i wanted out. That´s why i ran away once more, leaving everything i came with all behind.
I knew it was going to be difficult. I had 80€ with me and i needed a job desperately. the only clothes i now owned were the ones on my back. I slept with willing men for information and promises of help, jobs, anything to advance.. i was hopeful. Europe was the land of opportunities. The day i met you was like a Godsent. i was so thrilled. Your kindness, your willingness to listen without judging really touched me.I opened up to you without knowing you. it was theraphy- but i knew you would leave me behind, just like my parents, just like m y daughter, just like my lovers. When you left, the emptiness threatened to strangle me.. i was choking for those comforting eyes, that secure presence... my luck seemed to decline rapidly and i was forced to spend one night after another in the cold benches of Amsterdam. I kept thinking of you and those big, beautiful, comforting eyes, but those too soon disappeared. That´s when i called Brujas and decided to live with the cockroaches a while more....