“Dicen que soy hombre malo,

Malo y mal-averiguado

Porque me comí un durazno

De corazón colorado…”

Mexican Folk Song

“Esta parte de la canción habla de ir en contra de la corriente, aunque la gente hable mal de ti, tienes que ser tu…”Grandmother Maria taught me a lot about life through songs, poetry, political activism and storytelling. Abuelita Maria had no formal education, she was taught how to read and write by the nuns (whom she hated deeply) and she fell in love with three things, poetry, politics and men. Every song had a story, an author and a message. My grandmother had a raspy old voice, she had no singing voice but she would sing regardless, because “it was her voice” and her voice existed. My grandmother’s reclamation of her voice resonates with me, every day, I remember that no matter what my voice sounds like, my voice exists, quoting Gloria Anzaldua “I will have my voice… I will overcome the tradition of silence.” My grandmother would often criticize contemporary song writers stating that they had no poetic flow, no message and no appeal. As an undergrad, when I sat on classes I always wondered what my grandmother would think about Shakespeare’s King Lear, or Poniatowska’s Hasta No Verte Jesus Mio.

My grandmother taught me the power of interrupting oppressive narratives. She would often talk about her experiences out loud, she wanted people to know what she had been through, as a woman, as an immigrant worker, as a survivor or sexual and physical abuse, as a woman who owned her sexuality and refused to be shamed for it. I often remember my grandmother’s voice when I’m about to interrupt a problematic statement, when I have to be what Anzaldua calls an “hocicón” a loud mouth, a traitor to white supremacy and sometimes a malinchista, a traitor to my tradition, much like my grandmother I refused to be quiet about my identity, instead, I decided to teach and aimed to inspire others with my stories, my poetry, my songs. I often employ these in my classroom, I tell my students stories, counter narratives, I ask my students to analyze their text through art, whether it’s drawing, spoken word or storytelling, I find my grandmother’s voice in my classroom.

Abuelita Maria taught me to be fearless, to stand up for what is right, and to fight back. I accompanied my grandmother to many protests and demonstrations. At times there were only a few of us, for many people were afraid of repercussions that were sure to come from their action. But my grandmother remained firm in telling me that one had to be willing to risk a bit to bring about change. One of the last acts of defiance I committed with my grandmother was crossing the border. My father, a violent, drug addict alcoholic did not want to let us join our mother. We were all afraid of him, except for my grandmother. She woke us up, early in the morning; we packed 2 changes of clothes into an old leather suitcase and took a bus to Sonora. In Nogales, Sonora my grandmother decided we were going to cross the border no matter what. We were stopped by immigration officials, they were abusive, and made it a point to make us feel unwelcome; and after several hours of detention they told us to go back. Feeling defeated, I remember telling my grandmother, “let’s go, they don’t want us here. We don’t belong here.” She looked straight into my eyes and said “what they want does not matter. What matters is what we want and what we are fighting for. You will join your mother tomorrow, don’t worry.” We crossed the border successfully the following day and took a bus to Las Vegas. I remember my grandmother’s words every time I feel that I do not belong in a space. Whether it is academia or an activist space I know that we must take risks if we want to make change and that it is important to stand up and be persistent.

“Hoy comienza en mi vida una pagina mas

Hoy me enseña la vida que me quiera yo mas…”

My mother and I would walk long distances to get to the schools where she taught. I loved walking with her because she would tell me stories about her students. Rosalia was one of her favorite students. She was an octogenarian woman who decided that she wanted to learn how to read and write so that she could read her son’s letters and send responding correspondence. I remember my mother rushing me one afternoon. It was the last day of instruction and my mother wanted to get there early. Rosalia told her that she had a surprise for her. We took the usual bus to the neighborhood of “La Estrella,” a neighborhood with houses made out of bricks, cardboard and whatever folks could find. A neighborhood filled with poverty, desperation and countless stories of migration.

We arrived to the school and there was Rosalia, waiting patiently for my mother, wearing a beautiful patterned rebozo. She had not brought her notebook or pen. She only brought a letter. “Maestra” (Teacher) she said “I want to share something with you.” My mother could not hide her tears as Rosalia started reading the first letter that she had written to her son. “Mijo, ya se leer, ya se escribir” (My son, I know how to read and write now). Rosalia somehow seemed taller than usual. She was fearless and empowered. She had something that no one, not even the corrupt government she so much criticized could take away, her education. From that moment on I decided I wanted to become an educator.