Daraluz

Dar A Luz (Giving Light to Birth) is a collaboration among WritersCorps, Ana Teresa Fernández, and me, Leticia Hernández-­‐Linares. The Creative Work Fund supported my vision of developing writing about motherhood in community with young mothers and other women artists. I worked with WritersCorps teaching artist Minna Dubin and her Hilltop School workshop participants over the course of a year to exchange stories and writing prompts about pregnancy and parenthood. Ana Teresa took portraits of the young women writers and created artwork in response to my poetry. Minna, the young writers, and I prepared an event entitled Iron Mom: Not Just a Baby Mama to present our stories, our community, and the artwork. This website serves as a living document of our experiences. The photography, writing, and community pictured here is a portrait of our conversation as young moms of color and a Latina writer becoming a mother later in life, coming together in the Mission.

In Latin America, apellidos (last names) are long poetic lines representing the names of the fathers. I publish my poetry as Leticia Hernández-­‐Linares because the day I became the first in my family to graduate from college, my mother asked me to include her name on my diploma so she could get credit too. In 1993, the same year I graduated from college, I began to write poetry regularly and through that writing, uncovered stories buried under my skin and wrapped around the spinal cords of the women around me. I needed to find and write the names of the mothers.

Popular images of “Latino cultures” often focus on “family” and the same rings true for the connection between Latina women and the role of la madre, the mother. For me, obtaining a college and graduate education, working in leadership, and becoming a writer were all paths that had no road maps, no connections to or expectations of me as a bilingual daughter of immigrant teenage parents.

Through this collaboration, I am interested in unveiling the new roadmaps for motherhood that Latinas are cultivating⎯as a feminist who gave birth to two baby boys, one at 33, the other at 38 years of age. During my second pregnancy, I was leading an organization that employed and empowered low-­‐income young mothers and young women. I struggled to imagine my experiences of pregnancy at the age of 18, as I would talk with our participants. I recalled that my own mother was just that age when she had me. This continuum⎯from my mother, to me and the young teenage mothers in my neighborhood⎯as well as the public comment and reaction to our pregnant bodies seemed ripe for literary exploration. As women of color, we are not supposed to take up too much space, and we are often demonized for the very trait we are often associated with, giving birth. Through our writing, we have begun to expand the understanding of what it means to be mothers, and dismantle expectations and perceptions of our bodies and ourselves.

WritersCorps has partnered with the Hilltop School since 2008 to serve its students. Writer and teacher Minna Dubin welcomed me into the community she has led there to share stories and inspiration and create new work. This project connects the WritersCorps teen mothers’ stories with a wider audience, engaging the community in a conversation of relevance and significance that will challenge thinking and perception of teen parenting and motherhood.

Throughout this project, I have begun a new collection of poems currently titled Pluma: Featherpen. Minna compiled and edited A Few Things I Know, an anthology by the Hilltop School students. We have included pieces from their anthology, as well as ones we worked on together, to construct their performance. Writing together with these young mothers provided me a new level of inspiration and courage in sharing my own experiences. Exchanging poems and ideas with artist Ana Teresa created a wire between her artistic vision and my poetic musings that has tied us together. Patricia, Raquel, Tania, Veronica, Andrea, Yesenia, Malisha, Devi, Jo, Karla, Ana Teresa, Minna, and my two big baby boys helped me find my feathers. I hope you enjoy the recounting of my flight. I hope you see the beauty in each one of our journeys.

Dear Harlan,

I know you’re my big brother, and I know I used to look up to you, but lately, I’m disappointed. I’m upset ’cause I used to think you were a great dad to Maya and Berkeley, and that it was Amelia who ruined you. She built you up and broke you down. Since you’ve been with her, all you’ve done is destroy yourself even more. I know you love her. I’m in love, too. I know how it is to feel like you’d do anything to be with someone, but abandon your girls with our mom? You know she can’t handle all the stress. Look at dad, he’s been sick for the longest, and he was just in the hospital. Mom and dad don’t have enough money. They can’t take care of two little kids. What were you thinking? Mama y Papa won’t work for very long and then what will you do?

Harlan, do you know you’re 19? Are you out smoking or working? Who knows? I sure don’t. See, next time you get caught for something, it’s no longer juvi, it’s prison.

I’m just telling you what I’m feeling! Think twice about your decision because when you least

expect it, life will come back and hit you in the face. One day when you return, Maya and Berkeley aren’t even gonna remember who you are. Instead of Daddy, you’re gonna be “that man.” See, I’m a parent, too. I got responsibilities, and I have a kid younger than yours! How could you think this is right? What on Earth are you thinking? I guess you’re thinking, “My mom got time. She knows how to take care of kids. She loves kids.” But, no! She has two young kids, a husband who’s sick, and she takes care of people for a living! She don’t got time!

All I’m asking is for you to reflect on all this and think about it, ’cause I don’t wanna be that one telling mis chiquitas that you abandoned them. Maya has that beautiful look that hurts you inside-­‐out if you leave her with a tear on her face. And Berkeley has that killer smile. Mama says she’s pícara, so I shouldn’t mess with her. These two wonderful girls you brought to the world are not just a game, they’re a blessing from Dios and you shouldn’t take advantage of that.

Your disappointed sister, Yesenia

As a little girl, I dreamed
Of love at first sight,
Of one day finding Prince Charming, Growing old together.
But is it real?

Remember the stories we used to read
Of the young girl falling in love,
The girl that finds her prince,
The witch that disappears with water,
Or the fairy tale where the pumpkin turns into a carriage? They aren’t real.

A beauty falling in love with a beast Without the bibbity bobbity boo?
Now I relate.
A beast that doesn’t turn into a prince? Yes, I can relate.

But those old stories make that little girl dream, Make her dreams run wild.
She doesn’t know Prince Charming’s a myth And fairy tales don’t exist.

Shhh, don’t tell her.
Don’t snatch that little girl’s dreams. Don’t tell her there’s fear or hate. Don’t tell her there’s more
To this game called life.

Let her dreams run wild once more,
For old time’s sake.
Let her dream of her Prince Charming.
You can tell her the truth once she wakes up In the morning.

Tell her that her dream was a just a dream. Teach her life is not a fairy tale
Unless she writes her own.

So my advice to you is, yes, it’s going to be hard, but more than anything else, it’s going to be worth all your effort. Love and cherish your babies and the time you spend with them. They grow quick! Don’t give up. You are the best person that can be with your baby. Have patience and always have hope. You aren’t the first teen mom. And you aren’t alone. And remember, just because nobody’s told you your child is a blessing, doesn’t mean it isn’t true.

She was made from strong hands Raised in the ocean’s waves
A small town that looked like halls Of some unknown place

Her heart was taken away
Thrown to the wind
In the direction her mother desired And caught by a man

Thirteen chances to give life But death pitied her enough To give her five
Make her misery better

She gave it her all to keep her angels alive Giving up was not an option
Her heart remained strong
Courage like lions

Faith in her soul

No matter how hectic the life she knew In God she’ll always believe
The scars, they will never heal
She knows the pain was real

Eighty years
She knows her time is almost up
So day-­‐by-­‐day she remembers her past

Her mother she forgives
She regrets but holds no grudge She is now wise and old
Her life has changed
But her heart is still the same

It was around Thanksgiving when everyone began to notice I was pregnant. Some students would just stare. As I walked down the halls of Abraham Lincoln High School I would hear the same repetitive question, “Is she pregnant?” Some thought my baby bump and being pregnant were cute. I’d hear them say, “Aww, your stomach is so cute!” Then they’d lean over to the friend next to them and say, “I wanna baby.” I guess from the outside looking in, being pregnant is supposed to be the happiest experience in life, but from the inside looking out I felt like a person with my legs cut off not being able to do anything. Life felt it came to a halt. A billion thoughts were doing everlasting relay laps through my mind.

One day I cam in early to my English class and my teacher, Ms. Morris, glanced down at my stomach with some kind of a shocked frown. She said, “Raquel, what is that in your stomach?” I smiled with the quickness, said, “Nothing.” (beat) “A baby.” Ms. Morris asked when was I going to tell the staff. I replied with confidence, “It’s none of their concern, they’ll see my stomach eventually.” Although I was excited about my baby, I didn’t want to tell anyone. I wanted it to be a surprise.

By the time December rolled around everyone in school knew I was pregnant. My

What mistakes will she make? And will she learn from them? Will she sit me down
At the kitchen table

And silently let out the words that every parent fears, “There’s something I need to tell you,”
“I’m pregnant.”

There will come a time
When little footsteps no longer
Fill our homes.
We can’t help but wonder
Who our children will turn out to be.
We sometimes get caught up,
Analyzing every possible scenario.
What we will say
When they ask where babies come from. When they no longer only listen to us.
We can’t stop them from growing up too fast. And we can’t make them someone they’re not. All we can do is enjoy these years.
When daddy is a superhero
And mommy knows everything.

As a little girl, you would play with me, pick me up and spin me around. You would take me everywhere with you, even to pay your bills on Mission Street. I felt so close to you. I felt happy. You would treat me like a princess. When my mom would scream at me or make me cry, you would always say, “Come here,” and hug me so tight. I can honestly say that you were the best dad. Every time you would come home from work, I would get so happy and jump so you would hug me.

But time goes by so fast.

It feels like it was just yesterday when you held me in your arms, but it’s been almost eight years since you were in my life. Now you’re just a stranger to me, and all I’ve got are some wonderful memories. Every time I think about you, all those memories flood my head, and at times, I feel like crying. As a mother now, I see things, and I know exactly how I would feel without my son. I need my son in my life. He’s the reason why I wake up every morning with a big smile on my face. I wonder, Dad, how you can go around the world pretending like I don’t exist? I don’t get it. You make me feel like I no longer have a father. I wish you could see me, how I nurse Christopher when he’s sick and play with him all night when he can’t sleep. I wish

They were wrong.

It isn’t lion or tiger or bear or cow or goat.

When the little boy looks up at the tractor, at the bird, are you my mother, are you my mother, yes
I will say, I am your bird mother.

This barrio of colored words keeping record on walls,
of many languages, of calle cracked by historical moments, la Misión, nuestro nido, our nest.

Men in robes sing for penas while I haul a new sky with my beak hands to show you I am naked of shame, that conception is imperfect
and I am growing penna. Feathers in ancient church tongue.

With newly sprouting plumes, I fly new storylines, in fresh ink. Ensuing sermons absolve us all of any pena about a way
to do it right, way to do it wrong.

Con la pluma te escribo que me faltaban. Carrying wings, at birth, but they were bare. No one explained how to use them.

If the point of the feather stains my story onto paper
what does it mean to fill my pillow with them, will I fly in my sleep?

I dream with the bird that let its feathers burn for everyone to bear the sky, its stars, the day.

Featherless, the cold kept me listless for a while, así me querían. Then I grew a baby in my belly, and his extra heart filled
me warm, pinned feather to wings.

I was mother before to dogs and birds. The ones
we kept in cages died, the one who we let loose, decided
to walk instead of fly, she would be the one to love my father. Whistle when he was on approach like a dog wagging its tail. A girl bird, a bird dog.

Brand new my quills, and I am burning them. I used to devour books about birds talking. Now I talk to the birds who yell at me everywhere I go. I am a crazy bird lady.

Looking from their eyes I understand why in ceremony,
I could not offer my hair. My long dark tresses helped
cover my bare. My strands like feather to chorded instrument. There for the plucking, to be the foundation of the song.

Anchor to the history so many hands concealing.
A brown skinned woman from Santa Ana, El Salvador had the audacity to fly without wings, run for president, demand a vote.

No feathers, no tinta, she spit the words out until a puddle showed reflection. Ancestors tied their hair, painted their words on walls and skin, considered birth a battle to celebrate.

From this altitude answers stand out
for the incurable dryness of my skin, hair where magazines show it doesn’t belong. Scrolls hidden on my body,
my impulse to cover up, impeding full flight.

Because of my wishbone and ink filled lungs, they will have to cut the new bodies out.

Please excuse my feathered feet.

The birds brought me these boys, wrapped in black feathers
and a direct line to the spirits residing in bird land, on the other side of the curtain hanging over all of our heads.