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138 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1986
Mexico. Melancholy, profoundly right and wrong, it embraces as it strangulates.There are many gaps in my reading record, but one of the largest and/or most unforgivable is that of Chicana/Xicana literature. My return to the university has brought me even closer to that country my homeland loves to bleed, the food and the views and the people of that Latino/Latina/Latinx extraction, fueler of drug lord narratives and political plans of the Great Wall of Texas, or whatever is the name of the latest US scheme to control absolutely what along this particular borderland is injected and extracted. I've indulged in Bolaño and Márquez and Allende in a half-assed attempt to understand the whole of the countries in the south of this unnaturally spliced continental mass, but it's not the whole that's cleaned my house every month for as long as I can remember. It's not the whole that's railed against on public television with implications of single mothers and welfare and the utmost need for women like me to sterilize the likes of them out of duty to nation and kith and kind. Academia has its ills, but shoving me through whatever ice was keeping me from books like The Mixquiahuala Letters is not one of them.
Destiny is not a metaphysical confrontation with one's self, rather, society has knit its pattern so tight that a confrontation with it is inevitable.
The hour that was for them, for us, all who had awakened one morning to see their fields covered with blood rather than the harvest, who didn't seek to change the world but lived in good faith and prayer offered to an imposing God, for the young women who mended their mens' clothing and held their sons' mouths to the purple nipples of sweet breasts, for the man who watched the sun descend behind the mountain every evening and dreamed and when his sons were grown, passed on his dreams, for the black nights when guitars harmonized with the wind's song, to the bottle of regional brew, and a hand-rolled cigarette, to the baptism and a dance of celebration, to the aroma of soups simmering on wood-burning stoves and filled the bellies of those who worked the fields, to a candle that burned in vigil while a hungry mind gulped the printed truth of another's legacy, to the owl that called from between the moon and earth while lovers enwrapped their passion on silver tinted grass, to the history of the world and to its future, to all that had lived and died and had been born again in that moment as i approached an opaque window and pointed my weapon.