Dear kitchen,
You are my mother's lover. My mother’s sister’s, my grandmother and the women before that. It is so lovely to be in your presence. Your perfume that spells grilled onion, well-done beef, fresh warm tortillas and the steaming trail of chicken soup. I love you kitchen. I love the things you make for me, for my mom, for my grandmother; how she adores you. What you don't know kitchen is that we appreciate everything and all of you, for you are the savior of our hunger and soulmate of our talents. But there's something i've been having in mind and I want to say it to you today. We are not meant for each other. And I love you, but not that far to stay with you. I have been waiting for this my whole life. My mother, my grandmother, my father, they have prepared me for the moment in which I will become a housewife. I don't know if it may have something to do with my education, my philosophies, the feminism, the books you urged my mother not to let me read. I still believe from the very bottom of my heart, like I have from the very day I saw you and mom, my grandma, and all my aunts, I do not want to be with you at all. We are not meant for each other. I see the way you make my mother think of me when I burn the rice. So then my mother would believed I should've spent more time with you and not with my laptop. How you and all other kitchens in hispanic homes gossip all around and discriminate us young women for our long lost dreams and desires. It's bad enough to see that according to an article from TrueChild.org, that “Young Latinas are more likely to act on their families’ health needs and ignore their own.” How that later on leads to how, “CDC statistics show that young Latinas have one of the highest rates of depression of all racial and ethnic groups.” I look around and I say that's not true, I live my life as I want and I do not fall under that category. But then again, I see my friend every single day leaving school as soon as possible so she can get to work on time because she needs the job to help her mother buy food for her siblings. I can hear my cousin still complain of the scar on her hand when when was told to iron her fathers collared shirt in the morning before school as she also rushed to make breakfast for Tonito and Angelita. As later one that day she sits down to so her homework on the couch after tucking the kids to bed, the door opens to hear her mother scream about the kitchen not being clean, “You never do anything around here, your always with your stupid computer, “haciendome pendeja.” I went out with Chelsea from church the other day at her house to help each other on a video project. We worked on the project as soon as she finished preparing food for her father on the table with the chopped up creamy guacamole salsa and warm tortillas. When her father came home, he waited until we went to the living room to get something and asked a question. “ Cuando te vas a empezar a ser una mujer y hacerme una pinche salsa? Pa qué vas a la escuela”? I stood in the living room couch and tried to engage myself in the soccer match on telemundo. I heard him ask her about me and soon enough he called me over. “Help her” he said to me. At that moment I had wished this were at my home where my mother only asks me to wash the five dishes in the sink, which I still refuse to do. I headed over and then finally I had realized then, she doesn't belong to you either. Our intentions were to finish our project, but that was no use because we were clogged with you all day washing your dirty dishes and cleaning the stove. I realized Chelsea had begun to sacrifice her own academic achievements by giving up the extra credit, for her women roles in Hispanic culture and prepare to cook a lifetime book of recipes in order to please the men of the house or achieve romance or marriage that her father had destined her to. Although I as a Latina prioritize achievements and career, I surely find myself stigmatized for being selfish and “unfeminine” because “good girls” should prioritize their families, children and not their own ambitions. So here I tell you today dear kitchen, that we are not meant for each other. And this is why. Love, Joanna
5 Comments
picture #1 This photo mainly represents the whole problem in which I have in society, well especially in some Mexican cultures where some women are expected to remain in the kitchen and learn how to become the perfect housewife to their family as a young age
picture #3 I think that in multiple families in which kids are born to Mexican parents have so much expectations and rules. We are pressured into becoming successful especially since we were born in the U.S, we are expected to go to great schools and achieve a degree that will allow us to get good job, but they dont know the struggle entirely. They have so much rules that make us so "perfect" but they always end up disappointed in some way because you dont really have the package entire. The saturation swirling within each corner eye.
All too exposed, all too vividly alive. These are the brothers and sisters that collide side to side. They are the interaction of the blank surface beneath their running. Dancing into their identity back and forth. Soft as the sky, and hard like water; brother blue dance! Red throw your flames, As yellow will illuminate, In green hills far by, Into dizzy orange clouds of sunset. A tulip, Forced into a daydream scene , Like chanting tides, Within the shore breeze. Long and sturdy, Slowly prickly away, No chance of turning thirty, With only twenty sharpens to flee, with no more hue, just only gray. White pearl antique chairs, the table with gold shimmer lace, and the confetti spread upon the circle circular seating chart. People kissing cheeks in pleasure, with laughs and shrieks, a gathering of gratitude and celebration. As children run in tiny suit up tuxedos, chasing the girls with beautiful flowing ball gowns of their own, baskets full of pink sunset roses. The family tree gathered together one day, from three thousand miles away, they are glad to be seeing the charming day for their granddaughter, or daughter, or son, or cousin, or niece, or long lost friend, sister, or uncle. As the elegant tall castle cake arrives, the two little people put all the way to the tower top. Cheers to them, cheer to all.
The obligation of one’s beloved
It is a strange thing that hides from other rich. A language so ravishing and faithful My Love Desire I must say, You are the Godsong all full; Devotions and verses. Countless retellings With only just to know, You are the masterpiece; My moral ambiguity. Deep within, You make me a blood-soaked poet. I'll discuss the the faith in space, Like karma and dharma, My love desire, I'll proclaim you the utmost secret I wished not to bear . Something that has been going on in the world is specifically the amount of hatred and the unjust in other countries including ours. Oppression towards woman in Afghanistan, the war in Syria, sexism everywhere in general, and lack of education in Africa. I think that by having this president in our country , has lead to major conflicts that make what our society is now. It just not happens to be in this decade but century ago. Too much prejudice and discrimination towards minority groups coming from different ethnic background specifically by the dominate group(whites). The main subject that mainly interests me the most is the difference between a well stabled society and then a damaged one like the one we live in right now. Not a dystopian society but mainly in the way Finland lives in right now. According to BBC news, Finland has been recognized and proven to be the world's happiest country. It is wrong to even state that they are all one equal race because in 2016, Finland had counted some 300,000 foreigners. I can agree that they are the happiest country due to the fact that my pen pal from world history class lived in Finland and she explained the ways of her country, that seemed to be really alerting because they will never be like that in America or anywhere else. For example, They have access to free college, they have so much free time to enjoy life and have fun, they have very few security systems because no one really does any crime, and if they do, their jails are practically like an apartment with a garden in the back an airport service. Nothing compared to the U.S.
I think that specifically creative writers should be stay up to date in the current events because they can contribute to the setting and more specifically the way a a character can be or the rising conflict all leading up to the main plot. It is just most important to understand the current events today because we could transform that into better literature and expand our minds into them with, "what if" or maybe do things the other way, the way you wanted that certain event happen. This can be very good for the protagonist because it all depends on what obstacles or lesson he or she must overcome in the whole message in the story. For example, there has been hundreds of great novels that come to be inspired and taken place during WW ll or the revolution of time traveling back to historical events. The Book Thief is one of the greatest and personally one of my favorite books I've read, and it is taken place during the Holocaust and the protagonist being German who no one would expect because it was truly the Jews that suffered, but it was written in the perspective of death; truly a beautiful book. With these things in ones mind, I think that one could create a wonderful written story because it allows us to write about the other side of which none really speaks about. Vanishing in the blue hidden sky, The inches and years that sprout; Long upon a bittersweet goodbye While the closet so bald. My self-child still carved in the walls. They are the hieroglyphics everywhere sprawled The battered crafted frame from the third grade, The bizarreness of the glitter extend, With a beamed up rosy smile, And the displayed braid with Color schemed faded dress Because I wanted to be a mermaid. When everyday, I would draw and paint, The glee that I wish I would have gotten, Everyday, there in my open scribbled book of shattered clay, With stories already forgotten. Orange trees, purple heads, blue hair and hands of melons, There they were just, The dreaming build up family From the shattered snow globe of my pedigree blood. My ribbon collection inside the white peeled drawer, Early in the morning strangles within my perfect curls My mother would set me into the hair rollers each night. The slippery cloth so white in pink and milky cold blue, tied me too From the sleek of my head, That she managed to keep me view , That life I had wasn't so true. And I was carved within the walls. My eyes had told me what I didn't knew And the noise that ran and hit my bedroom door, I still looked up head to my glow in stars, To follow in a quiet yearn , Like the pigeons in a crumbling storm, Just like that i wanted it to be no more. In the blue sky, I had vanished. From my inches and my sprouting years, I gave a pull to my ribbon wool. My waterfall of spinning hair, Now a river running straight to who knows where. Long upon a bittersweet goodbye While the closet so bald. My self-child still carved in the walls. They are the hieroglyphics everywhere sprawled |
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May 2018
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