Gia Raquel

This painting and poem were for Northwestern University’s Descoloridos: A Night of Artistic Activism on January 31st and February 1st, 2019.

“The containment of Latinx people is rampant in our world today. From the political corruption in Latin America, to the crisis at our own border, to stereotypical representation in the media and underrepresentation in history, it seems the Latinx identity is constantly being drained of all its color. Radius Theatre will feature a diverse collection of Latinx artists to help us re-envision our present and paint our future in full color.”

Artist’s Statment for Mariposa

This painting is titled, Mariposa. It represents the hypersexualization of Latinx women and the fantasy people impose upon them. The face in the lower right-hand corner shows a woman peering in on this fantasy, witnessing how people see her how they want to rather than for who she actually is.

Mariposa was also accepted in Northwestern University’s Spring 2020 edition of Helicon Literary & Arts Magazine. It can be found here.

This Is Where Home Is

In biology class, I found out that tears have DNA

I wonder where you could trace mine to

Down to my abuelo

Who told his stories like harmless lullabies

Because if he made it in America

I would have to make it in America

When I am drowning in the Hudson

A child again

When I was young

I used to say the word

Abuelo

So much, so quick

It wouldn’t make sense

Abuelo

Abuelo

Abuelo

Abuelo

Abuelo abuelo abuelo abuelo abuelo

He would laugh,

Barely understanding my Spanish

Just as I hardly understood his English

I would write songs to sing for him

Instead of poems to read to him

Because he grasped onto the rhythm rather

Than the words

For I could write all the poems about him

But if he couldn’t hold their meaning 

Then those words were for myself

More so than him

When I wanted to give him all of my English

And force my brain to mold into Spanish

The r’s refused to role

The stutter started too young

How could I beg my mouth to encapsulate a culture

To reclaim a culture

That never belonged to me to begin with

This poem is one of many

Asking for forgiveness

For validation

From a society thats sees me

In all the wrong ways

The fear that’s streaked down the generations of women

Resulting in my own conception

Leaves me to wake up panting

Shaking

Asking an empty ceiling

Where is home?

In the smell of empanadas on Sunday mornings?

In the sound of Maná playing in the car on the way to school,

my mom translating every verse?

It is Abuelo’s shop in Astoria

With his Father’s picture, framed, collecting dust on his desk

Where he would watch Caso Cerrado

And pay me $3 to get coffee from the cafe next door

My mother in the next room,

Speaking in a language

I only translated as

A melody

A small girl, not understanding

The concept of identity

Merely accepting

Her pale, pale, skin

As it came from somewhere

Now, grown and too aware

Ready to beat you to the punchline

I’m the gringa

Yeah, spicy white

No no, not Swedish

Or German

Or English

Maybe Jewish?

Half Colombian

Yeah, Mom’s side

No

I don’t speak a lot of Spanish

I took classes

I-

I-

I-

It feels like a phone call

I never want to make

The exhaustion

The explanation

The Astris

That comes with who I am

How times I’m off beat when I dance

How Gracias sounds like an attempt to be polite

When it is an attempt to ask you to be gentle

Please

My accent is poor

But I just want to go home

Stop telling me where home is.