We Are Not From Here

by Jenny Torres Sanchez

¿Si no peleamos por los niños, que será de nosotros? If we don’t fight for the children, what will become of us? —Lila Downs

Maybe that’s what having an artist’s heart means. Dreaming. Or maybe it means seeing color in the world, noticing and searching for it everywhere, in everything, because the world can be such a dark place.

“We are small people,” Pequeña said again. “With small names, meant to live small lives.” She looked like she was in a trance. “That’s all we’re allowed to live, that’s all the world wants us to live. But sometimes even that, even that it won’t give us. Instead the world wants to crush us.”

Even if Mamá thinks I have an artist’s heart, even if I try to see the world in color, even if I dare to dream—it doesn’t matter when your world keeps turning black.

I guess sometimes lying to those we love is the only way to keep them from falling apart.

Our lives have been stuffed into backpacks. Mine holds the picture of my parents in front of my father’s car, a cassette tape with his voice and favorite songs, a Walkman Mamá gave me on my tenth birthday, the money my tía sent that Mamá always meant for me but that still feels like I stole, extra clothes, a toothbrush, water, bread, candy.

When I said goodnight to Mamá earlier, what I really wanted to say was how much I love her and what a good mamá she’s been and that I’ll miss her and don’t worry, I’ll make it. And to ask for her forgiveness—for lying and for leaving her all alone. I wanted to ask her to pray for me, to pray with me, like we did when I was little. And I wanted her to hold me, one last time, in the comfort of her arms. That’s what I wanted to say instead of leaving it in the letter she’ll find tomorrow.

I picture my death. I am always picturing my death.

You can outrun danger, it tells me. But you can’t outrun the pain.

“Day will come,” I whisper. And it will. Because the world doesn’t care how much pain you are in, or what terrible thing has happened to you. It continues. Morning comes, whether you want it to or not.

I try to pray, but all I can do is wonder why we have to hurt to be worthy of God’s grace.

This danger feels more crushing, but maybe because it’s so close to where hope lives.

It’s fear with hope. And hope matters, as we ride into an unknown future.

Feeling too much will kill me, I tell my heart. Not feeling anything will, too, it says.

Through darkness, through imaginary worlds with water and spiders and stars—where witches who are also angels watch over you.

And how can the world hate us for trying to survive? And how are we only reunited with our mothers in death?

“Vayan con Dios,”

But here is what happens when you utter dreams— They haunt you. Even if you discard them, they refuse to let you go. They whisper in your ear as you walk through the streets, as you take in your surroundings, as your barrio splatters red with blood and black with death.

We are specks that don’t matter to this world. Our lives, our dreams, our families don’t matter to this world. Our hearts, our souls, our bodies don’t matter to this world. All it wants to do is crush us.