the caged bird sings cries of valkyrie ⚔ protest initiation
Sept 7, 2020 19:38:47 GMT -5
Post by 𝓂𝒶𝒽𝑜𝓊𝒽𝑜🕊 on Sept 7, 2020 19:38:47 GMT -5
Names carry weight to them, as mama used to say. They can act as a rite of passage for the rest of your life, and when you feel lost, they can be what grounds you. Aarón was the eldest, bringing light into the lives of Ramón and Carmen Jiménez. Next I came eight years later, mama naming me after the curious dove that stayed on her bedroom windowsill for some months, always watching over my crib while I slept. Milagros came four years after me, arriving with a weak heart and so small that I was too afraid to hold her for several years. Holding tools like wrenches from papa’s shop never feared me. Its weight felt comfortable in my grasp, reassuring and exciting even. Yet Milagros was fragile, like abuela’s china that resided in a dusty cabinet we would never eat off of. She was as coveted as the worn pages of mama’s green journal, with graphite scribbled notes in a language I couldn’t speak but would be a tune Milagros grew familiar with. Aarón and I however grew up to the sound of blowtorch heat, clanging metal gears working on the now abandoned rust buckets that haunted the side of town that our elders told us not to venture near.
They say the potholes that the faceless clad in white left behind are dangerous, but did they forget we used to play in those streets before? Did they forget what happened when they first arrived? I don’t think mama did. The echoes of gunfire and loud clangs would haunt her at night. Towards the end, at dawn, you could find her sitting in her canary nightgown on the concrete front steps of our house. Mama’s eyes held an indescribable sadness as she stared into retreating dusk, almost as if she were hoping to find them walking home. But Aarón and papa wouldn’t after they crossed the broken fence that barred off the other side of town.
Once every year, for the past four years, we were forced to march past the fence, past the ruins of our once colorful streets. A makeshift wooden stage would host our weathered mayor, whose face seemingly got more leathered with every meeting. They called the faceless “peacekeepers” according to our new “president.” In order for us in the districts to be grateful to our new leaders, every year we were supposed to sacrifice more, and more, and more; because those who bring peace only come to take our own. No amount of bodies would satiate their thirst, not my papa’s, not Aarón’s, and now not mine. Because this year, my name was called. This year these supposed peacekeepers descended through the crowd and onto me. Their gloved grasp dug craters into my biceps, dragging me to past the stage as my ears filled with the worst song to come. Instead of the tunes mama used to sing, my name escaped in shrilled sounds from Milagros’ mouth. Tio Ernesto wrapped his burly arms around her small frame, lifting her up while her Mary Janes kicked into the air. All I could do was shout for Ernie to take her away, because I didn’t want Milagros to end up like mama, waiting on the steps for me to come home, haunted by the ghosts of once before.
But maybe we’re all haunted, haunted by these faceless drones. They kidnap us from our homes, throwing us into metal bullets, humiliating us by dragging our feet into mildew tunnels beneath. Like flour, they fling you into the bars and slam them shut as if a threatening hawk. But looking around as we file in from all directions, I don’t see any beasts like the ones that deserve to be locked in cages. I see children, some tall and lanky and others chubby cheeked and petite that remind me of her. We’re kids, and yet those wielding guns act as if they need to be protected from us. They have the gall to shoot our family and friends back at home, but here, their guns might as well be made of plastic. Because they’d be stupid to shoot their dog before the hunt.
Head throbbing from my temple making contact to the bars, every part of me seemed to vibrate like the crescendo that echoed throughout our halls during weekday evenings mama spent cleaning. It was intoxicating and alluring, drawing me to grind my gravel cut feet into the ground beneath. My gaze steadied into the black mirror, latching my hands onto the metal before me and thrusting myself to meet my reflection. Tongue drawing back, my lips parted, and I spat, giving the mirror a finishing polish. And now, my own voice found me. Mama never taught me to sing, but she’d give a standing ovation at my next words; “you peacekeepers are cowards!” Fingers threading down the bars, my right hand pushed against my braid soothingly. My next verse drew power from the sunflower silk ribbon weaved through my locks. I’m glad you weren’t here Milagros, but just know I’ll always be with you, and right now I feel you too. “What do we have to lose? You can’t shoot us, because we’re supposed to kill us! So why lock us in a cage, are you that afraid?”
They say the potholes that the faceless clad in white left behind are dangerous, but did they forget we used to play in those streets before? Did they forget what happened when they first arrived? I don’t think mama did. The echoes of gunfire and loud clangs would haunt her at night. Towards the end, at dawn, you could find her sitting in her canary nightgown on the concrete front steps of our house. Mama’s eyes held an indescribable sadness as she stared into retreating dusk, almost as if she were hoping to find them walking home. But Aarón and papa wouldn’t after they crossed the broken fence that barred off the other side of town.
Once every year, for the past four years, we were forced to march past the fence, past the ruins of our once colorful streets. A makeshift wooden stage would host our weathered mayor, whose face seemingly got more leathered with every meeting. They called the faceless “peacekeepers” according to our new “president.” In order for us in the districts to be grateful to our new leaders, every year we were supposed to sacrifice more, and more, and more; because those who bring peace only come to take our own. No amount of bodies would satiate their thirst, not my papa’s, not Aarón’s, and now not mine. Because this year, my name was called. This year these supposed peacekeepers descended through the crowd and onto me. Their gloved grasp dug craters into my biceps, dragging me to past the stage as my ears filled with the worst song to come. Instead of the tunes mama used to sing, my name escaped in shrilled sounds from Milagros’ mouth. Tio Ernesto wrapped his burly arms around her small frame, lifting her up while her Mary Janes kicked into the air. All I could do was shout for Ernie to take her away, because I didn’t want Milagros to end up like mama, waiting on the steps for me to come home, haunted by the ghosts of once before.
But maybe we’re all haunted, haunted by these faceless drones. They kidnap us from our homes, throwing us into metal bullets, humiliating us by dragging our feet into mildew tunnels beneath. Like flour, they fling you into the bars and slam them shut as if a threatening hawk. But looking around as we file in from all directions, I don’t see any beasts like the ones that deserve to be locked in cages. I see children, some tall and lanky and others chubby cheeked and petite that remind me of her. We’re kids, and yet those wielding guns act as if they need to be protected from us. They have the gall to shoot our family and friends back at home, but here, their guns might as well be made of plastic. Because they’d be stupid to shoot their dog before the hunt.
Head throbbing from my temple making contact to the bars, every part of me seemed to vibrate like the crescendo that echoed throughout our halls during weekday evenings mama spent cleaning. It was intoxicating and alluring, drawing me to grind my gravel cut feet into the ground beneath. My gaze steadied into the black mirror, latching my hands onto the metal before me and thrusting myself to meet my reflection. Tongue drawing back, my lips parted, and I spat, giving the mirror a finishing polish. And now, my own voice found me. Mama never taught me to sing, but she’d give a standing ovation at my next words; “you peacekeepers are cowards!” Fingers threading down the bars, my right hand pushed against my braid soothingly. My next verse drew power from the sunflower silk ribbon weaved through my locks. I’m glad you weren’t here Milagros, but just know I’ll always be with you, and right now I feel you too. “What do we have to lose? You can’t shoot us, because we’re supposed to kill us! So why lock us in a cage, are you that afraid?”
