English pleese

Digress trangress
The English to the shaky scared Brownie:
Tell me the difference -
Have you eaten? or Did you eat?

ooaahdkhfhfk hguytbvrgycsjxtvhabez...
gobble gobled, gobbly

Modal verbs: polite requests
May I rape the English language
until it bleeds and gives birth
to gibberage?

Native or non-native
Stay on the political correctness side
of the fence
no trespassing.
Sir: infinitives or gerunds?

Phrasal verbs are flowery
they smell of lavender
and - a conjunction-
smell like - preposition - mud:

STICK TO THE PRESENT SIMPLE.
puerile jouvenance
cleanse me of this parasite
let me give birth
my mother has disowned-
oops, disowns me
Can you pleese explain me?

Flirting with Death

He looked menacingly sexy, appealing. His stare was taunting, defying me to approach it. I took the challenge, he was magnetic.

We introduced ourselves, he was evasive, mysterious, distracted.

I was perturbed, disturbed and intrigued by this strange character who called himself Death.

You mean, death?, I asked.

He ignored me.

What are you, I stummered.

He shrugged.

I was impatient

Are you going to tell me, or not?

No response

His demeanour was handsome, I was in his coil

Helplessly, hopelessly

But did he know?

I prodded some more,

So…what do you do when you’re outside the bar?, I ventured

I take lives, I told you already, inside and outside.

Are you ready?, he wanted to know.

I wasn’t moved.

I began to flirt voluptuously with this character.

Wow, you really are quite an attractive guy, you must have a lot of pretendientes

He smiled, bewitchingly, distant.

I was becoming more impatient but also resigned

Well it seems you’re not the talkative type

Look, I got the wrong impression, I thought you were flirting with me

I could see he was responding to my tactic

He was astutely cunning

I knew it.

Well, good luck then, good bye

It´s me who should be wishing you this

You should be saying your goodbyes

I was angry.

Look, I said, I think you are creepy and silly, I’ve had enough tonight.

Good bye.

He swept me off my feet.

Flirting with Death, Part II

If i were to tell you te quiero

It´s possible I might scare you

If I were to tell you te amo

Je t´aime, I love you

It´s possible you feel the same

Te siento

I feel you

I want you a mi lado

At the same time, your distance

Makes you more present a mi lado

Your words,

each character,

Each letter

brings an explosive emotion

each time, every time.

Without fail.

What is this love that’s making me so uneasy?

Making me so restless for your body

Is it madness?

Some say its hypersensitivity

I wake up on mornings with a smile on my lips

Thinking you are by my side

I pass my legs, oh so cold

up your body, oh so slowly.

You shiver with this madness

Of pleasure

you roll over

What´s this folie,

That´s invading me

Your humour pervading me

You feel me when i´m sad

I feel you when your´e mad.

We long to be together

We be long together

Being apart.

de-sensitised

In Baghdad, there is no more room to bury the dead. parks, playgrounds and football fields are converted into cemeteries that are fast being filled up. Most of the people in one park-turned cemetery in Adhamiya of over 5,000 graves are said to be between 20 to 30 years, their lives now beginning to blossom, violently ended.
life has become cheap, more and more these numbers don´t move us, they are just numbers of far away people who mean nothing to us.. and so, in one form or another, in one war or another, the numbers continue to rise.. while we continue our daily comfortable lives.

Gaza is bleeding

Four days of destruction, mourning, terror. the lastest Israeli incursion has killed over 100 civilians in Gaza. They say it´s to stop the home-made rockets that according to a report from Al Jazeera hace killed all but 12 Israelis (fired from Gaza) since 2001. Since 2001!!!! On the other hand, since the Israeli withdrawal in 2005, the same report informs that more than 800 have been killed in Gaza! Another scandalous comparison that doesn´t seem to perturb anyone anymore.

The puny homemade rockets and stones against the tanks and other precision weaponry doesn´t seem to be enough to draw us out of our somnolence. Gaza bleeds and the blood mixes with the tears and the rubble that sprout again to retaliate with faith and sounds of victory against the Israelis.

Why is it that under International Law, Israel remains responsible for Gaza? Gaza has six crossing points and all but Rafah are controlled by Israel.
Why hasn´t Israel dismantled a single military checkpoint in the West Bank out of the 627 that exists? What about their "legal" settlements- about 137 - in the West Bank?
The killings over the last few days which started on wednesday have been described as massacre, genocide, holocaust. One unbiased Israeli reporter who has access to images not shown or divulged within Israel, warns that using these terms is doing a grave injustice to the truth. He adds that if 10, 000 Palestinians are killed, what term will then be used?

All of these citations come from the Al Jazeera report Inside Story- Attack on Gaza (2 march, 2008).

Rehearsing

One day during a rehearsal
for a play I was participating in
the guard erupted in the middle of a scene
which had set off the smoke signals
He said nobody should move
he thought there was some kind of amenaza.
When it was my turn to appear
the director said,
Y ahora la terrorista musulmana
I wanted to scream Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar,
but instead I said, "Let´s start with our class on Europe".

My friend wanted to know if I was the only hijabee
in the gym
in the gym, the instructor wanted to know
why I didn´t show my hair
I told her it had to do with how we understood sexuality
She made me do twenty more sit-ups
I was not convinced.

Damages

My friend told me he was victimised in a
"friendly way" during his trip to India.
the families he met all wanted to take pictures
with him when he said he was European.
he was perplexed.
they didn´t even know me, he added.
He termed it "friendly attacks"
I preferred collateral damage.

Prohibiciones y Transgresiones

Alcohol was prohibited for them
no sabes lo que pierdes
no sabes lo que pierdes
no sabes lo que pierdes
el se reventó de jamón
ella se hartó de alcohol
they wanted to know
what they were missing.

la mujer franquista

He told me his landlady was a franquista
who opposed the removal
of Franco´s signos
that still haunted Spain
she said that if they removed his busts
they should also get rid of Seguridad Social
which Franco also introduced.

Encrucijada

Feliz Navidad, said the jolly Christians
Feliz Hanuka, responded the jewish couple
A fight broke off
Feliz Hanuka, said the Christian, was when the jews killed Christ
the muslim intervened
he didn´t said Mabrouk Eid,
he tried to break up the fight
the Jew was grateful, yet perplexed
Un joven musulmán que se mete y ayuda a un judío en Hanuka.
esto es un milagro,
the papers reported him saying.
The muslim insisted it was nothing,
he was doing his duty as a human being,
that was how his parents had raised him,
but he was being dubbed a hero
for it seemed this act really was a miracle
in HanukaEidNavidad.

prolonged stay

Whenever she met a Spaniard
after asking how long she was in spain
he/she would usually ask if she intended to stay.
once a viejo verde in the metro told her
he happily welcomed all the
foreign women to Spain
but the men, he thought,
should stay out.
he didn´t want them there.

Atentado in Algiers

She was in the never-ending cola
waiting in the cold
to get her autorización de regreso
she fast became the beacon and help desk
for those women who thought
she was one of them-
hijabbed, therefore muslim and mora
each time she politely responded
in her español con acento
that she didn´t speak nor understand
al arabiya
the girl next to her smiled
she was simpática.
she told the girl she was going to visit Algeria
the girl suddenly pointed to the floor
the headlines of one of those newspapers
they hand out in the metro- ADN-
highlighted the terrorist attack in Algiers.
there were two atentados
the oficina de la ONU was destroyed.
alot of muertos,
hundreds injured
the petite indígena,
vendedora
unknowingly trampled on the page
she was selling chiclé, chocolate, cigarrillos
The girl in the line had a bizarre expression on her face
she turned to me and said,
September 11, March 11,
now December 11.
Why? She wanted to know.
She seeemed to be waiting for an answer

Making sense of nonesense

Flat-hunting-
coloured and Muslim:
sticky combination
with a foreign accent
she presented herself for an interview
the landlady retorted-
"Pensé que eras normal"
she replied- me too!

......

she was asked how come she was so "morena"
she replied, how come you´re so "blanca"?

..............

the child looked at her fascinated
he turned to his mother and said-
mamá, that woman "está pintada de barro"
i want a mask like that for Halloween
the mother half-smiled.

.....

Ramadan nights
she was having "iftar" in
a
Moroccan circle.
they wanted to know if she had
her "papeles".

.....

She found a job
was happy to share her elation
she said proudly- "tengo trabajo"
her friend replied, "¿como doméstica?"

......

Her "jefa" told her she was
suspicious of "moros";
they raped and pillaged Spain
under Franco
"Tengo verguenza de los marroquíes", she said.
that´s why she was patiently waiting for her
"nacionalidad española"

........

She didn´t understand why i didn´t
eat
"pincho moruno"
i didn´t eat "cerdo", that´s all.
she couldn´t understand
the customs of "esa gente", she told her neigbour.
"they want to be españoles,
but they didn´t like jamón ibérico".

.......

She politely said she didn´t drink alcohol
"not even a bit of wine?", she was asked
No, she repeated, she didn´t drink alcohol
the turrón contained alcohol
so they decided not to tell her.

Tea in Lavapies

She was dining at an Indian restaurant serviced by Bangladeshis. She insisted on having Pakistani tea.. the waiter didn´t understand. Was she Paquistaní? No, she was of Indian origin, raised in the Caribbean Isles, whose ancestors were Indians. She smiled. The waiter still didn´t understand but quickly brought her the chai spice milk tea she requested.

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....

conquering the lie

it just came back to me. it´s so strange, i´ve been trying to dig up this memory for a while now but couldn´t put my finger on it.. under what circumstances exactly did i experience that dizziness, that sinking feeling that made me want to bury myself in the earth, become invisible? Then it happened. it was that day, just like this one, when truth was confronted with lie, me the barrier, the receptor between the two. I had taken the money for vegetables sold, spent it in T-shirts that i later re-sold at a reduced price because i needed to maintain that popularity, this new attention that came with me and factory T-shirts. In other words, the money i was supposed to give to my parents went into this new doomed enterprise. i thought i had covered all my steps, i had even erased the name under "debts" to as not to arouse suspicion. but the cleverness of a mother was not to be tested especially when it came to making ends meet and feeding six mouths with one unstable income.
so my mother confronted the debtor who very surprised, noted that the payment was already made to....me! my astonished mother called me in the presence of the supposed debtor to prove what lying, thieving neighbours we had, she said. that´s why vegetables should not be sold to them because they were too cheap and "scrunting" she would add. Of course i denied everythng, much to the bewilderment of the debtor and that was when this gloom came over me, when things started to become blurry, when i started to wallow and sway, when i could no longer hear my voice or what i was saying... when i thought the world was plotting against me...
Yes, that was the first time i had experienced such intense emotions triggered by a lie... the second time, though, would be worse, since i really fainted. Again, the lie was uncovered, again, i began to defend myself helplessly, knowing my arguments were disappearing in the air before it reached its receptor.. the words started to taunt me, my thoughts began to play games in my head... all the while, i´m trying to follow logically a conversation about the room for rent.... the next thing i know.. i was on the floor, semi conscious, unable to immediately put all the pieces together.. that was the second time that the lie was defeated.

just my imagination

It was all so very simple. She didn´t need poetry, she only needed his love and his caress. Once upon a time, she met a boy with black-rimmed glasses and black curly hair. He looked like a jew. A month later, by coincidence, they began to talk and she liked what she heard. From whom she heard it. And from then on began her imaginary romance. Her imagination blossomed by leaps and bounds. there were moments of ambiguity, moments of intense passion, moments of despair and depression. And they all seemed to replenish with his mere presence. they started spending more time together, she started revealing frivolously more and more of herself. She knew he wanted her. She also wanted to melt her body in his, combine their mouths. She wanted to be the words of his poetry, the image in his gaze, the haunting presence in her absence.
So she told him how much she had grown to love and desire him in eight long, short months. Long enough to measure her love, short to satiate her thoughts. She wasn´t sure when her love would wear out, but it didn´t matter. He wasn´t sure from where his next penny would emerge but the anxiety and anguish melted in her eyes. Those eyes, two black beads that perforated his heart and made him shiver helplessly. That was her effect on him. Cold shivers just like the morning breeze that was her name. She was charm, quiet tranquility in his life of unstable turbulence. But she would appear and disappear, love and be indifferent, he would respond and be silent.
She decided she wanted to hold him in bed like a child, hold him to her breasts and feel his shivers that would cause her to erupt in shrill laughs. she wanted to feel his slim body over her, his hands moving over in eloquent strokes, knowing and anticipating mastery for their love, momentary, was also eternal.