OCT-NOV 97 - HOME

The Barrio Bird

a message from our elders

by César A. Cruz

She cries and cries while the dust picks up its storm. A donde vas? (Where are you going?) I must leave, but don't worry, I'll be back soon. Time passes. I've arrived, but it seems like every entrance is locked. The gate seems open; I'll try that. Nada! (Nothing!) A bright light glares stronger and more powerful than even the moon: an industrial creation that hovers over like the hawk. Some call it the Barrio Bird, but me, I just see it as Uncle Sam's Eyes.

It swoops over with its followers all on the search. It's funny how metal machinery can make you feel more guilty than a Catholic priest! ¿Pero y yo, que hice!? (But what did I do?) I've nowhere to run, so I'll just await my judgment day. Always running is what they call it. But I've never run! And unless God's calling, I probably never will! Others have, though. They made it over and thanked everyone for it. But I keep here to myself waiting for the day when the Barrio Bird lands and feels the safety of shutting off its attack. The good thing, though, is that I don't wait silently. I've always gathered a few crowds, talking to them, him, her and it. They only laugh at me though. I speak of simple things.

I remember the days when grandpapa would speak to me of the beginnings: the Olmeca, the Tolteca, the XiXimeca, the Maya, the Nahuatl, the African, the Azteca, and the Español. I saw bits and pieces of all of them in my complexion. I understood, but I didn't really care. It was all a blur. A forgettable memory. One of those that you swear you'll keep in the closet. What I learned to forget and to not feel was torture. The mental kind. The physical kind. I was beaten, shackled, and violated. I've sweat. I've lost blood. I've done time. Now everything is a blur.

This land is your land, this land is my land...this land was made for you and me! Lost, mindless, thoughts of suicide, marginal, blurred. The bird's wings expand like the extinct bald eagle while soaring through both technology and ruin. All man-made, all man-destroyed. The glare blinds us. We've lost all focus. But I'm allowed to feel again, at least once in a while. I feel fear. I shake as I cry with no tears left to give. Dry as a bone. But that fear blinds me. I've seen far too many go down to the barrio bird's power. It's gone. It's gone. Jump, swim, cross, or crawl. Because it will fly again. But I'll remain here waiting for you.

I can't go! Why? Because I've lost too much soil. A straw keeps sucking and extracting my heart. The tri-colored straw. Red for our bloodshed. White for the imperialistic White man. Blue for the bruises of my mothers and children. My breasts are swollen. I'm dizzy! All I can see are stars and all I can hear are children reciting: I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America, and to the Republic for which it stands... one nation under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all. And justice for all. They've sung that tune before. So maybe I've been missing out.

But where was I? It's rattling again. The house shakes at 9:00 p.m. every night. I know because that's when the sun has already gone to sleep, and it's time for cover. It runs your life. It decides when to go out, and when to hide. But I don't hide. I just sit here wrinkling and complaining. Old and raggedy. No one listens. Que voy a hacer? (What am I going to do?) As it hovers over, the radio static tunes up. The glare shatters my window sill, and I hear young voices in laughter and rejoice. The power of your machines. It has transformed my youth into mute robots. They don't even speak our language. A foreign tongue. A foreign thought.

But I just sit here waiting for the day. The day of reckoning. When slowly every one of us removes the shackles of mental incarceration. Until then I'll just sit here waiting. But you, the youth, the spirited, the innocent, don't follow in my footsteps. Awaken, arise and fight. I'm already half-dead, but you, you've got to struggle for the day. For the day of reckoning, harmony and unity. For the day in which humanity can tackle their problems as one, and not as colored fragments. Not divided, shackled, lost, assimilated, resistful, or scornful. A reminder that no matter what class we are from, how high up we think we are, how much we have achieved, how important we feel: we all still have a nopal (cactus) imprinted on our foreheads.... and those roots are sprouting...the barrio bird will learn. Will we?

-Note: the barrio bird represents any and all metal machinery utilized by government and/or police forces to hover over barrios, ghettoes, and borders as a tactic of physical, emotional and/or psychological repression.


-César A. Cruz: also writes for the 4080 Hip Hop Magazine and the Orange County Weekly.

OCT-NOV 97 -- N.C.Xpress -- Archives -- Electrons to the Editor