MEChistA Voices
Chicano Park
Giant colorful tattooed arms of concrete and steel
sprout forth open hands
to grasp tightly onto the suspended roadways
over a piece of land,
small but sacred
in which a single race of people gather together to celebrate
an indigenous unity.
Tourists of fluorescent skin, descendants of those who have
conquered, enslaved, imposed
their laws upon my brothers and sisters,
come again from parts of Europe to steal our mural art
with fast clicking cameras
manufactured in the land of the rising sun
duplicating our personal tributes to the spirit of life itself.
In the park's corazon stands the quiosco
a stage—but much more a temple
pointing in the four directions of Mother Earth
the four faces of Man:
the physical, the mental, the emotional, the spiritual
faint ghostly images of ancient Mexican warriors
from once upon a time
can be seen performing ritualistic ceremonial dances
in the mists of cedar and sage smoke.
These theatrical entities tell stories of an army
with white faces—half man, half tortoise
carrying long sticks that spit fire
claiming to have come in peace, but in a short time
placed the earth people in bondage,
raped their women, butchered their children
then reproduced their own offspring.
As the night falls across the barrio
like a mother gently covering her sleeping infant,
homeless Chicano tecatos, Red Step boys,
San Diego gang unit detectives
and so-called illegal aliens
laugh sarcastically at messages of
"no drugs"
"respeto"
painted on the restrooms' front entranceway.
A veteran of black-tar heroin addiction enjoys
a rush of distorted dreams
as he lays on the dew-layered grass, his weary head
propped up on an old worn-out backpack
filled with his personal possessions
a pair of shoes, contraband and bullshit.
Echoes of annual events past can be heard
in the winds of the late hours
eerie sounds of laughter, music, cheers and great speeches
by the one and only Corky Gonzales
bounce off the tall cement structures
as if these solid formations were telling incomplete stories
of a modern-day Stonehenge
each one holding an unlocked mystery of its own.
Que viva, Chicano Park!
past...present...future...all the way to the bay
to city officials and others our little section of holy ground
is merely a waste of time and effort
a thorn in the side of progress, an eye sore
right smack in the middle of Border Town, Califas, USA.
Let's march on raza, let's put those individuals
who call us Hispanic in a cardiac arrest type panic
Let's make Aztlan live again!