Abstract
I chose poetic performance narratives to create a provocative piece offering a glimpse of the reality, tragedies, dreams, and hopes lived daily by more than 12 million people in the United States. These individuals are reported as unauthorized, undocumented immigrants by the U.S. Census Bureau. These specific stories were shared and collected ethnographically on the agricultural fields of the South East of the United States. My goal is to have “captured” readers to be seduced into the “uncomfortable” world of undocumented people and have the poems/performance narratives become not only representation of the events but, as Renato Rosaldo said, “the event itself.”
“….y pos, ahi nomás,
caminando sin parar,
sin pensar,
con las manos delante,
abrazando nopales…
esos te hacen saber questas viva,
pos que arden…
queman tus brazos…ayy… y las manos…
y cuando parás, te toca desenterrar las espinas…
pero que importa…así es…”
(Maria testimonio, Dec 2012.
Woodard, T. & Espinosa-Dulanto, M. fieldnotes,)
This project is both personal and professional. As a resilient immigrant, a nonnative English speaker, an academic, and a Latina woman, I am passionately engaged with this decolonizing project (Anzaldua, 2012). The poetic performance narratives—crafted in English from the Spanish shared testimonies—are envisioned as celebration of struggles, difference, agency, and multiplicity.
The reality, the tragedies, the hopes, and the dreams were both shared and collected ethnographically on the agricultural fields of the South East of the United States. However, the poetic performance narratives are my own rendering, my interpretation, and my translation of the testimonies of undocumented women who are part of the 12 million people that the U.S. Census Bureau (2012) reported as unauthorized, undocumented immigrants. The challenge for these poetic performance narratives is threefold. First, to give witness to the “invisible” undocumented people’s world. Second, to recount the shared stories as intersections of power and privilege that illustrate how immigration status (legal vs. illegal) defines social space and opportunities, but more importantly, how it restricts basic human rights and creates an under-class, an un-authorized, un-documented population with no legal rights or legal protection.
Third, to highlight gendered practices and assumptions to point gender as the reason for continuous abuse and discrimination. Violence against women is prevalent. The use of poetic performance narratives allows to trace the risky expeditions, literal and metaphoric, undertaken by campesinas which bring to life a complicated cartography composed of the multiple death-defying journeys women take in their ordinary lives (Ellis, 2010). The poetic performance narratives of the undocumented women’s experiences give face to the numeric data, increase awareness about power and privilege, and present an opportunity for the readers to experience and feel the stories (Richardson, 1997) and may become not only representation of the events but “the event itself.” (Rosaldo, 2014).
I concur with Reale (2015) that the task of the poet/ethnographer is extraordinary yet intimidating as there are as many possible representations as there are stories. In addition, it is important to emphasize that truth and authenticity are fully respected while crafting these renderings as they are in my entire work. Finally, I have to humbly recognize the absolute limitations of these retellings as they should be considered neither as attempts to resolve the immigrants’ predicaments nor as oversimplification of their lives/stories. Rather, they are attempts to “present vividly and poetically, their plight, as people who will forever be far from home” (Reale, 2015, p. 1).
maria was born crying
cries of fear, cold, and hunger
calmed by mother’s warm tits
warmed by a few found rags
maria’s childhood came with more
fear, cold, and hunger
maria’s life-long true companions
fear, cold, and hunger
taught her tricks to get fed and clothed
fear presented survival talents
cold demanded crawling into warm places
unbearable hunger coupled with begging
a child in a well-developed body
maria became a woman before her time
raped by her father, stepfather and other men
maria learned more tricks to survive.
1
Maria at sixteen
started walking North
odd jobs held her en-route
from Querétaro to San Miguel de Allende
a week became a month—she reached Aguas Calientes
while cruising Zacatecas—Juan crossed her path
queretano también
Juan and Maria shared northern dreams
with 1800 more miles to go
soon, there were others
Carlos and Camilo from Zacatecas
Lucila and Pedro from la capital
and Ernesto and Patricio from Yucatán
Maria was not alone anymore
al otro lado waiting for them, it was—bold sunny California
2
so… you just go…
walking nonstop, without thinking
hands forward, hugging cactus …
learning that you are alive, because your body feels like burning …
shizzzz…those nopales prickles burn, your arms, your hands
and then, when we are allowed to rest
is time to dig up the thorns…
but who cares … it is what it is…
one April night, dark as an empty hole
the group crossed la línea
that part wasn’t as bad as stories Maria had heard
their coyote had water hidden in the dessert
Juan brought tequila to keep them warm and alert
no one felt tired, no time was too long
tequila and darkness mixed well
daylight found the group lost and drunk
near the Mission Valley Parkway
which was about 20 more needed-to-be-walked desert miles
from the place where the Los Angeles family
(in gringolandia that is called “gang”) was to collect them
“You, hide here… and you, better lay down… now!
pinche cabrones… never gonna learn…
getting drunk while crossing… are you fucking insane?”
Maria smiled at the coyote
of course she would lay down
no idea why the coyote was so upset
better find some shade…
a sueňito would help
the day was all gone when the group woke-up
hungry and thirsty to no more water or food
to an angry coyote herding them
onto an invisible trail found on an imaginary map
five, six, seven hours walking
pitch-black all around, reaching nowhere
made the group more tired, more thirsty, more hungry
less patient and even less compliant
punches, kicks, whacks came down all over
then sighs, groans, súplicas… blood!
the coyote was begging José to stop
the paliza made him remember the path to HWY 5
and where he had hidden some water and food
in a peachy-grey almost-dawn light
the group reached the meeting point
a sharp curve took the road onto a small path
where a huge troca was parked
fulsome bienvenidos filled the quiet air
strangers’ faces covered by tattoos—was the only thing Maria remembers
3
life in East Los Angeles was different from
the movies Maria used to watch
no one spoke English
everyone had brown skin, dark hair, and black eyes
lived in big abandoned buildings
with worn-down furniture and no cathedral windows
where are the bolillos? Maria kept asking herself
they were not at the Cahuenga Boulevard
that was the salvatruchas’ zone,
don’t want to get near the maras, was the daily reminder
or the camarillo street full of norteňos
18th street was Maria’s place to stay
and maybe Clanton 14th was OK too
so, Maria learned where to stay safe
from other brown people like her
but found no answer where to find
the beautiful, tall, blonde people
she saw in the movies and used to call bolillos
Juan arrived one night brandishing a new “piece”
he bragged something about smashing a chicken and a perro
who had encroached on the street wearing their colors
Juan’s clothes were ripped and stained
he was high with rough energy
he was loud with a horselaugh
waiving the gun as a valuable trophy
he caught Maria in a bear clasp
Maria was afraid
couldn’t understand what he was saying
feeling not at ease with his doings
biting, pushing her down on the floor
he tore her blouse
Maria’s breasts then crudely exposed
to the hommies who were in the room
Maria pushed Juan away
así no José, así no…
surprised by Maria’s reaction
he missteped and landed on the floor
an explosion of laughs and teasing noises
caught him on his landing
a running laugh from his hommies
Juan lost it
Maria paid for it
badly wounded
Maria awoke in an emergency room
lucky that Juan tossed her on the street
where the YMCA midnight cart driver found her
once again Maria was alone and afraid
4
in my new home in a foreign land
la angustia se apodera de mi garganta
giving me only asphyxia to look for
no reason for my tears
it doesn’t stop them
no reason for my anguish
it doesn’t stop it either
no reason for my sadness
it doesn’t need a cause
it takes over
I just feel it
when will I be too old to stop looking for my mother’s womb?
I’m old enough to be a grandma
still I’m looking for a mother’s embrace
my sadness is her absence
my emptiness is knowing
I was too late loving her
preparing soil to be sown
tomatoes, peppers, eggplants, peas, onions, carrots
planted under the steely southern sun and intense humidity
weeding, picking, packing vegetables
produced the $ that leads to dreams
the dreams were coming through
working long days in the field was the first step
the carrot packing was later
of course, that was also a step back
with that supervisor who wanted foyarla
left the carrots for another packing factory
boxing tomatoes, peas, and green beans
the supervisors were bitchy Latinas
who liked long shifts and no-answering back
no sexual threats, no sexual exchanges
but no stability either
new birthday— Maria’s 24th
alone, at her trailer, she kept dreaming
Maria wanted to finish school, she had left it at 5th grade
english classes after work, opportunities unlock
a factory job with controlled temperatures
sunday to friday—evening shifts
left saturdays to attend Mr. Jimenez’s beauty school
5
Maria began learning English at work too
with Duane, a gorgeous bolillo, master welder at the factory
he tutored Maria during breaks then during lunch time too
Maria began to laugh, she opened her heart to this Duane
“it feels so good to be with him, I think I’m falling for Duane”
to the courthouse entered Maria–no last name and Duane Lobianco
they exited as Mr. and Ms. Lobianco
she wrote a thousand times Maria Lobianco Maria Lobianco
it was her first legal name, Maria Lobianco
Duane found an immigration lawyer
“work, pay taxes, get involved with your community, be good citizens”
to work for Maria’s papeles, to resolve her immigration status
Maria and Duane worked as much as they could
saving money for Maria’s papers
saving money for the life they were planning
“we are trying to get pregnant”
a phone call came late at night
“It’s Valdosta police department
ma’am, we want to ask if you knew a female at 2100 Tree Lane…
- what? Maria?
is Maria the female on the poster for an art show?
- WHAT ARE YOU SAYING?
can you describe Maria?
- Maria, why Maria?
the tattoos will help us to identify…
- WHAT ARE YOU SAYING?
madam, someone will be there pretty soon.”
Maria’s dreams ended in an instant
a whack with a sharp object killed her instantly
her body was found decomposed
identified by tattoos, a big one, a heart
with Maria & Duane’s names
no documents meant no legal name
Maria held no legal space in the United States of America
it was not easy to identify her
on a pay-stub, Maria Cardenas
on a cashier check, Maria Rosales
on her tax-ID, Maria C. Rosales Lobianco
the marriage certificate, Maria Lobianco
none had Maria’s finger prints
there were no identification records
no birth certificate, no social security
no naturalization procedures
Maria was a latina jane doe
however, we all had shared it and were part of her life
Maria’s next of kin was the confessed killer
- it was an accident, Duane Lobianco claimed
- a premeditated attack, the coroner reported
for whatever reason Maria is gone, FOREVER
futile efforts for happiness led to a life cut short
with no relatives to claim the body
it would be sent to the pauper’s unnamed grave
no documents meant no legal name
Footnotes
Acknowledgements
The author thanks Dr. Tracy Woodard, Dr. Marnina Gonick, and Dr. James Jupp for their feedback in early versions of this article. In addition, the author thanks the staff at the Lake Park Migrant Clinic for providing invaluable advice and support.
Declaration of Conflicting Interests
The author(s) declared no potential conflicts of interest with respect to the research, authorship, and/or publication of this article.
Funding
The author(s) received no financial support for the research, authorship, and/or publication of this article.