Last night we went to the Central Library downtown to an event called
Poetics of Protest: Giving Voice to Mexico's Movement for Peace - Javier Sicilia in conversation with Ruben Martinez. Our friend Betto Arcos translated and invited us. After long hours of rehearsal for "Charity" this week and yesterday being our first day off in many days, I kind of dragged myself to the event. Javier Sicilia is a Mexican poet who lost his son in drug war related violence in Mexico. (Here is a NY Times Opinion piece about him
http://www.nytimes.com/2011/10/02/opinion/sunday/can-this-poet-save-mexico.html?pagewanted=all) After his son's death Javier abandoned poetry and became a voice of protest against the violence in Mexico that since 2006 has claimed over 50,000 lives and there are thousands of people who have "disappeared." He leads a movement that includes the tens of thousands who have lost their loved ones to the violence: sons, daughters, fathers, mothers...
The Mark Taper Auditorium at the Central Library was packed last night and the conversation with Javier Sicilia was moving and enlightening. At one point Ruben Martinez asked the audience how many of us had been affected by the drug related violence in Mexico and around 25 people raised their hands, including my husband, Jose Luis. I looked at Jose Luis and he was crying... He cried because we lost our nephew to the violence a year ago and I think that this was the first time that we had shared our sorrow with others who had suffered the same kind of loss.
In
Charity: Part III of A Mexican Trilogy, Gina is grieving her son's death when a distant relative arrives. He is a young man, Juan Francisco, who has left Mexico in search of the American dream. He admires the U.S. and says "It's the best country in the world." Rudy, Gina's husband, isn't feeling it. His son has just died in Iraq and he feels betrayed by the government, the CIA, the President. What did his son die for? But, Juan Francisco insists that it is better than Mexico where decapitated, dismembered dead bodies turn up in the street everyday. He insists that it is better than living in fear. He insists that it is better than working so hard and only making what equals to $5.00 a day. He says that there is nothing for him in Mexico except to become a
narcotraficante. He chose to come here, to his family in the U.S. where he expects to live because that's the way it's supposed to be...
Senseless death... Last night Javier Sicilia talked about the dark place that human beings go to to commit atrocities like those in Mexico and those that took place in Iraq and that are taking place in other parts of the world. When you see U.S. soldiers in Afghanistan holding up body parts and smiling for a photograph, one wonders where that kind of disregard for humanity comes from? When you see decapitated bodies hanging from an overpass in Mexico with signs like "this will happen to you, too..." you wonder about the dark place that one has to go to in order to commit those acts. In
Charity, the spirit of Gina's dead son, Emiliano tells Nana, "I couldn't do it, Nana." and she responds, "Of course, you couldn't."
On the day that Juan Francisco arrives from Mexico, Gina's brother and sister, Bobby and Betty, arrive to try to get Gina out of the house. And when Bobby says he needs someone to work in his hair salon to wash hair, Juan Francisco eagerly volunteers. And so Francisco begins his new life in Los Angeles working in a hair salon for his gay uncle Bobby.
Ofelia Medina arrived from Mexico last night to star in
Charity. She is a legendary actress and an outspoken activist in Mexico. She has been on two protest caravans with Javier Sicilia and her commitment to the people of Chiapas, Mexico, especially to the children is inspirational. We are honored to have her as part of our play. Our first preview is next Saturday, May 5th and we open on May 11th. Tickets are on sale now: www.thelatc.org.
Here is a poem that was handed out at the Central Library last night. It is written by Maria Rivera ans translated by Jen Hofer and Roman Lujan. Here is an article about the poem.
Los Muertos below in Spanish and way below in English,
The Dead.
http://www.poetryfoundation.org/harriet/2011/08/jen-hofer-and-maria-rivera-name-names-in-los-muertos/
Allá vienen
los descabezados,
los mancos,
los descuartizados,
a las que les partieron el coxis,
a los que les aplastaron la cabeza,
los pequeñitos llorando
entre paredes oscuras
de minerales y arena.
Allá vienen
los que duermen en edificios
de tumbas clandestinas:
vienen con los ojos vendados,
atadas las manos,
baleados entre las sienes.
Allí vienen los que se perdieron por Tamaulipas,
cuñados, yernos, vecinos,
la mujer que violaron entre todos antes de matarla,
el hombre que intentó evitarlo y recibió un balazo,
la que también violaron, escapó y lo contó viene
caminando por Broadway,
se consuela con el llanto de las ambulancias,
las puertas de los hospitales,
la luz brillando en el agua del Hudson.
Allá vienen
los muertos que salieron de Usulután,
de La Paz,
de La Unión,
de La libertad,
de Sonsonate,
de San Salvador,
de San Juan Mixtepec,
de Cuscatlán,
de El Progreso,
de El Guante,
llorando,
a los que despidieron en una fiesta con karaoke,
y los encontraron baleados en Tecate.
Allí viene al que obligaron a cavar la fosa para su hermano,
al que asesinaron luego de cobrar cuatro mil dólares,
los que estuvieron secuestrados
con una mujer que violaron frente a su hijo de ocho años
tres veces.
¿De dónde vienen,
de qué gangrena,
oh linfa,
los sanguinarios,
los desalmados,
los carniceros
asesinos?
Allá vienen
los muertos tan solitos, tan mudos, tan nuestros,
engarzados bajo el cielo enorme del Anáhuac,
caminan,
se arrastran,
con su cuenco de horror entre las manos,
su espeluznante ternura.
Se llaman
los muertos que encontraron en una fosa en Taxco,
los muertos que encontraron en parajes alejados de Chihuahua,
los muertos que encontraron esparcidos en parcelas de cultivo,
los muertos que encontraron tirados en la Marquesa,
los muertos que encontraron colgando de los puentes,
los muertos que encontraron sin cabeza en terrenos ejidales,
los muertos que encontraron a la orilla de la carretera,
los muertos que encontraron en coches abandonados,
los muertos que encontraron en San Fernando,
los sin número que destazaron y aún no encuentran,
las piernas, los brazos, las cabezas, los fémures de muertos
disueltos en tambos.
Se llaman
restos, cadáveres, occisos,
se llaman
los muertos a los que madres no se cansan de esperar
los muertos a los que hijos no se cansan de esperar,
los muertos a los que esposas no se cansan de esperar,
imaginan entre subways y gringos.
Se llaman
chambrita tejida en el cajón del alma,
camisetita de tres meses,
la foto de la sonrisa chimuela,
se llaman mamita,
papito,
se llaman
pataditas
en el vientre
y el primer llanto,
se llaman cuatro hijos,
Petronia (2), Zacarías (3), Sabas (5), Glenda (6)
y una viuda (muchacha) que se enamoró cuando estudiaba la primaria,
se llaman ganas de bailar en las fiestas,
se llaman rubor de mejillas encendidas y manos sudorosas,
se llaman muchachos,
se llaman ganas
de construir una casa,
echar tabique,
darle de comer a mis hijos,
se llaman dos dólares por limpiar frijoles,
casas, haciendas, oficinas,
se llaman
llantos de niños en pisos de tierra,
la luz volando sobre los pájaros,
el vuelo de las palomas en la iglesia,
se llaman
besos a la orilla del río,
se llaman
Gelder (17)
Daniel (22)
Filmar (24)
Ismael (15)
Agustín (20)
José (16)
Jacinta (21)
Inés (28)
Francisco (53)
entre matorrales,
amordazados,
en jardines de ranchos
maniatados,
en jardines de casas de seguridad
desvanecidos,
en parajes olvidados,
desintegrándose muda,
calladamente,
se llaman
secretos de sicarios,
secretos de matanzas,
secretos de policías,
se llaman llanto,
se llaman neblina,
se llaman cuerpo,
se llaman piel,
se llaman tibieza,
se llaman beso,
se llaman abrazo,
se llaman risa,
se llaman personas,
se llaman súplicas,
se llamaban yo,
se llamaban tú,
se llamaban nosotros,
se llaman vergüenza,
se llaman llanto.
Allá van
María,
Juana,
Petra,
Carolina,
13,
18,
25,
16,
los pechos mordidos,
las manos atadas,
calcinados sus cuerpos,
sus huesos pulidos por la arena del desierto.
Se llaman
las muertas que nadie sabe nadie vio que mataran,
se llaman
las mujeres que salen de noche solas a los bares,
se llaman
mujeres que trabajan salen de sus casas en la madrugada,
se llaman
hermanas,
hijas,
madres,
tías,
desaparecidas,
violadas,
calcinadas,
aventadas,
se llaman carne,
se llaman carne.
Allá
sin flores,
sin losas,
sin edad,
sin nombre,
sin llanto,
duermen en su cementerio:
se llama Temixco,
se llama Santa Ana,
se llama Mazatepec,
se llama Juárez,
se llama Puente de Ixtla,
se llama San Fernando,
se llama Tlaltizapán,
se llama Samalayuca,
se llama el Capulín,
se llama Reynosa,
se llama Nuevo Laredo,
se llama Guadalupe,
se llama Lomas de Poleo,
se llama México.
The Dead
There they come
the beheaded,
the handless,
the dismembered,
the women whose coccyx were smashed,
the men whose heads were crushed,
the little children crying
between dark walls
of minerals and sand.
There they come
those who sleep in buildings
that are clandestine graves:
they come with their eyes blindfolded,
with their hands tied,
shot between the temples.
There they come, those who got lost somewhere in Tamaulipas,
brothers-in-law, sons-in-law, neighbors,
the woman they gang raped before they killed her,
the man who tried to make them stop and got a bullet instead,
the woman who was also raped, who escaped and told it, now comes
walking on Broadway,
comforting herself with the wail of ambulances,
hospital doors,
the light shining on the water of the Hudson.
There they come
the dead who left Usulután
La Paz,
La Unión,
La Libertad,
Sonsonate,
San Salvador,
San Juan Mixtepec,
Cuscatlán,
El Progreso,
El Guante,
crying,
those who were bade goodbye at a karaoke party
and were found shot in Tecate.
Here comes the one who was forced to dig a grave for his brother,
the one they murdered after collecting four thousand dollars,
those who were kidnapped
with a woman they raped in front of her eight-year-old son
three times.
Where do they come from,
from which gangrene,
oh lymph,
the bloodthirsty,
the soulless,
the butcher
murderers?
There they come
the dead—so lonely, so silent, so ours,
hooked one to the other under the enormous sky of the Anahuac Valley,
they walk,
they crawl,
with a bowl of horrors between their hands,
their terrifying tenderness.
They are called
the dead found in a ditch in Taxco
the dead found in remote spots in Chihuahua,
the dead found scattered among plots of land,
the dead found dumped in La Marquesa,
the dead found hanging from bridges,
the dead found headless in communal farmlands,
the dead found by the side of the road,
the dead found in abandoned cars,
the dead found in San Fernando,
the countless hacked to pieces and not yet found,
the legs, the arms, the heads, the femurs of dead people
dissolved in barrels.
They are called
remains, cadavers, deceased,
they are called
the dead whose mothers don’t get tired of waiting,
the dead whose children don’t get tired of waiting,
the dead whose wives don’t get tired of waiting,
picturing them among subways and gringos.
They are called
tiny sweater woven in a drawer of the soul,
tiny t-shirt for a three-month-old,
photograph of a toothless smile,
they are called mamita,
papito,
they are called
tiny kicks
in the womb
and the first cry,
they are called four children,
Petronia (2), Zacarías (3), Sabas (5), Glenda (6)
and a widow (girl) who fell in love in elementary school,
they are called wanting to dance at parties
they are called reddening of flushed cheeks and sweaty palms,
they are called boys,
they are called wanting
to build a house,
to lay bricks,
to give my children something to eat,
they are called two dollars for cleaning beans,
houses, haciendas, offices,
they are called
cries of children on dirt floors,
light flying over birds,
flight of doves in the church,
they are called
kisses at the edge of the river
they are called
Gelder (17)
Daniel (22)
Filmar (24)
Ismael (15)
Augustín (20)
José (16)
Jacinta (21)
Inés (28)
Francisco (53)
among bushes,
gagged,
in ranch gardens
hands tied,
in the gardens of houses with security systems,
fainted,
in forgotten spots,
disintegrating silently,
hushed,
they are called
secrets of hit men,
secrets of slaughter,
secrets of policemen,
they are called cry,
they are called fog,
they are called body,
they are called skin,
they are called warmth,
they are called kiss,
they are called hug,
they are called laughter,
they are called people,
they are called pleading,
they were called me,
they were called you,
they were called us,
they are called shame,
they are called cry.
There they go
María,
Juana,
Petra,
Carolina,
13,
18,
25,
16,
their breasts bitten,
their hands tied,
their bodies burnt,
their bones polished by desert sand.
They are called
dead women nobody knows nobody saw being killed,
they are called
women who go to bars at night alone,
they are called
working women who leave their homes at dawn,
they are called
sisters,
daughters,
mothers,
aunts,
disappeared,
raped
burnt to ashes,
thrown away,
they are called carne, flesh,
they are called carne, meat.
There
with no flowers
with no gravestones,
with no age,
with no name,
with no tears,
they sleep in their cemetery:
it is called Temixco,
it is called Santa Ana,
it is called Mazatepec,
it is called Juárez
it is called Puente de Ixtla,
it is called San Fernando,
it is called Tlaltizapán,
it is called Samalayuca
it is called El Capulín,
it is called Reynosa,
it is called Nuevo Laredo,
it is called Guadalupe,
it is called Lomas de Poleo,
it is called México
