Ana Castillo

...[we] had abruptly appeared in Mexico as two snags in its patterns. Society could do no more than snip us out. How revolting we were, susceptible to ridiculw, abuse, disrespect. We would have hoped for respect as human beings, but the only respect granted a woman is that which a gentleman bestows upon the lady. Clearly, we were no ladies. What was our greatest transgression? We travelled alone. (The assumption here is that neither served as a legitimate companion for the other.) (p59)

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. (p59)

The road in either direction

is neither longer nor shorter,

nor more narrow nor wider

than the fear that closes your heart.

paintings

and books conceal more than they ever tell.

As if we should not be scandalized

by surprise bombing over any city at night,

bombs scandalizing the sanctity of night.

No one is very certain about anything after a while.

Let us shout louder than her memory,

louder than the unheard cries

of 200,000 disappeared,

buried alive in pits,

thrown alive from planes,

butchered and bayoneted

defenseless and blindfolded

in the name of democracy.

It is real, the nightmare,

and without end.

How can we sleep?

How can we sleep?

do you remember the Conquest

of the New World? Some scholars call it the Conquest

of women, because that is when women became a thing to own.

We pray for joy and love to fill our hearts,

our days and our nights

And I write these few

words

into the earth

before I forget that sadness

isn't everything.

We pray that our government's leaders

look into their souls,

that they think with the heart of a mother

in making the decisions that affect

the world's populations.

You chose, as I choose

to despair, or not

on a given night or day.

That despair turned inside out

you called love.