I bought Armando B. Rendón's Chicano Manifesto (1971) hoping to better understand why, when and how the Chicana liberation movement came to distance itself from the Chicano movement. The book genuinely failed to meet my expectations. What I discovered in fact, under some reviewer's promise of it being "the first book written by a Chicano to give vibrant expression to the spirit of a cultural revolution", was a book of hatred, propaganda and semi-misogyny. Since I'm on the what almost seems impossible endeavour to write a thesis on Chicana literature, I am one of the fewest people I know who understands and empathizes with both the Chicana and Chicano struggle of being heard and respected; of being, full stop. Yet, my empathy stopped when I encountered Rendón's rage. I do understand the rage, but I truly think that it is not in the best interest of humanity to answer oppression with hatred, violence and propaganda.
Se afișează postări din decembrie, 2016
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His tongue met her tongue. This is what tongues were for. His hands clenched her hair. This is what his hands were for. Her mouth opened wide to him. This is what mouths were for. Her hands reached under his shirt, his warmth, his firm, fleshly warmth. This is what her hands were for. He undid her blouse, found her niña breasts, her erect nipples, each one, in his warm, wet, sucking mouth. This is what breasts were for. She licked his dark, crescent moon nipples, his head thrown back, moaning. This is what dark, crescent moons were for. His fingers grazed her body like a blind man, finding the hot wetness of her orchid. This is what fingers were for. He entered her blindly, weeping with dumb joy, and they danced with creation, they danced. This is what creation was for. This dance. Nothing separated them. In this moment. Each moment. Was complete. They lacked nothing. In this naked vulnerability. They lacked. Nothing. In this. Moment. Naked. Vulnerable. This is. What freedom. Is for…
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She has to remind herself why she loves him when she changes the baby's Pampers, or when she mops the bathroom floor, or tries to make the curtains for the doorways without doors, or whiten the linen. Or wonder a little when he kicks the refrigerator and says he hates this shitty house and is going out where he won't be bothered with the baby's howling and her suspicious questions, and her requests to fix this and this and this because if she had any brains in her head she'd realize he's been up before the rooster earning his living to pay for the food in her belly and the roof over her head and would have to wake up again early the next day so why can't you just leave me in peace, woman. Sandra Cisneros, "Woman Hollering Creek and Other Stories"