They couldn’t do it with firearms.
Later they came disguised
as kind-hearted people.
We bring word of a merciful God, they said.
Little by little they imposed their cross.
The cross they brought from the one true god,
brought the death of ours.
If we refused to believe in their god
the edge of the sword gleamed
to destroy our teachings.
To rip out our roots
they learned our language
exchanged our deities
for saints and the images of virgins.
Out of fear for the scorching flames of the pyre
we turned ourselves into seeds
to germinate at the appointed time.
Germinar en el tiempo
No pudieron con armas de fuego.
Más tarde llegaron con engaño,
como gente de buen corazón.
Traemos palabra de Dios bondadoso, dijeron.
Poco a poco impusieron su cruz.
La cruz que trajeron del único dios,
trajo la muerte de lo nuestro.
Si no queríamos creer en su dios
brillaba el filo de la espada
para derrumbar nuestros saberes.
Para arrancar nuestras raíces,
aprendieron nuestra lengua,
cambiaron nuestras divinidades
por santos e imágenes de vírgenes.
Por temor al fuego de la hoguera
nos convertimos en semilla
para germinar en el tiempo señalado.
Muxp mää tyemp d’ukpääty
Kä’t ojts jëën tujn tamädä’kt.
Janëm jadëjk ojts jyä’ät jënë’np,
tamëgueexy tyaxy’oy jä’äyë’nt.
Yos kyajpxy ëëts nakmentëp, nëm ojts wyä’nt.
atyä’äky ojts ja’ kyrus jakmëpëkn.
Ja krus mëde’p dakmend ojts,
o’jkë’n tëko’oyën ja’ yakjä’tëp.
Ku kä’t ja’ tyios pën tjajanchawëyä’ny,
nejt jakxon pujx y’äntä’äky
jëts adom ja’ nja’ dakutëgoy’änt.
Ku äätseptpy tyimtyonä’änt,
jabety adom n’ayuujk ojts dakyujt,
ojts adom ja’ ntsämääx yakkontëkätst
ta syänt ojts tpëktä’äkt.
Ja’ yaktsë’ëkëp ku jä’äy xakto’yën,
taa ojts ntëmt jëmpijtyë’m
jëts nmujxë’n mää tyemp d’ukpääty.
Mixe Boy
Every time the Mixe boy
made a few words bloom
martyrdom arrived in form of the teacher.
At times, only silence protected him.
Other times, a simple yes or no
saved him from punishment.
Whenever he caught sight
of an eraser, a ruler, or a rod
an icy tremor seized his body.
Every word in Spanish
was a piercing thorn, a wound. For him
school days were an unbearable torment.
Niño Mixe
Cada vez que el niño mixe
hacía florecer unas palabras,
llegaba el martirio hecho profesor.
A veces, sólo el silencio lo abrigaba
y otras veces, un sí o un no
lo rescataba del castigo.
Cada vez que sus ojos descubrían
una vara, una regla o un borrador,
un temblor frío invadía su cuerpo.
Cada palabra en español eran espinas
que lo herían en los días de clases.
Para él, la escuela era un tormento.
Mutsk mixy ayuujk jä’äy
Ku mutsk mixy tu’k’oojk tu’koojk
ijty kyajpxy myatyä’äky ayuujk,
jaa yak’ëxpëjkp tyëk tëtyunp.
Ja’y junety amëny y’ity
jëts junety wyä’ny sí uk no
jëts kedee yaktëtyu’nt.
Ku ijty mää t’ejxpääty
tu’uk mä’ts, tu’uk kejpxk uk tu’uk jo’ots,
timyubejp maxu’unk nye’ekx kyojpk.
Ku jä’äy tmëdey amaxän kyajpxy
kujp djaw timykuujmëp ku y’ës’ëxpiky.
Kajanaxy ëxpëk tmë’ayëy.
They Only Looked at Us
When they looked at us with night-ridden eyes
they thought we were senseless creatures
and didn’t believe we had a soul
because our words didn’t move to the rhythm of theirs.
Looking at us through clouded eyes
they didn’t see the universe that blesses us,
nor the stars that protect us day and night,
nor could they see that the sun and moon
gathering between mountains and hillsides
gave us the color of baked clay.
.
We are little quails.
On the watch for danger
we turn ourselves into fallen leaves
or sometimes into rock or stone
while the universe protects us
from any pest that wants to stamp us out.
Sólo nos miraron
Cuando nos miraron con ojos de noche
nos creyeron seres sin sentido y
nos imaginaron ausentes de alma
porque nuestras palabras no marchan al ritmo de las suyas.
Al mirarnos con ojos turbios,
no vieron el universo que nos bendice,
ni estrellas que nos protegen día y noche,
tampoco pudieron ver que el sol y la luna
nos coloreó de barro cocido,
entre las montañas y laderas.
Somos pequeños codornices
que al acecho de algún peligro
nos convertimos en hojarasca,
en otras ocasiones en roca
mientras nos protege el universo
para evitar que algún bicho nos extermine.
Ja’y ojts xjën’ixyë’m
Ja’y ojts xnë’ijxyë’m,
Kä’t ojts nak’ixyë’m tam jä’äyën
Kä’t ojts t’odät ku jajp n’änmëjä’n
Ja’ ku nayde’n nkakäjpxtääjkyë’m.
Ku ojts nakjën’ixyë’m,
Kä’t ojts t’ejxt ku et näxwiiny adom xpëdëjkyë’m,
Ku matsä’ xkuno’okyë’m ja xëëjny ja koots,
ni tka’ejxt ojts ku xëë ku po’o
adom xakaxë’kyë’m nääjxte’kn,
ku tun kojpk mëëd njuujky’äjtyë’m.
Muskte’nety adom,
pën jaa tee ka’oypy xnëjä’tyë’m
Ääy ujts natyapëdejkyë’m,
Junety napyëjktääjkyë’m tam tsääjë’n,
Ku Et Näxwiiny xnëkë’yëm xnëxäjyë’m
Jëts kedee tee xak’ojkë’n xaktëko’yë’n.
This poem was previously published by IHRAF/IHRAM.
The Essence of Corn
When we learned about wheat bread
our tortillas of corn
became food for the poor
who don’t know any better.
Bread makes you smart,
they told her again and again.
She longed to be smart.
With her baby on her chest
and on her back, a basket of corn and beans,
raised by her own chapped hands,
she traced her footprints from sunup to sundown
to reach the village of baffling language
to trade her grains for yellow bread.
“Bread makes you smart,” she repeated.
She was trapped in the deception.
She forgot the essence of corn,
lost the path of the elders,
the wisdom of the corn could no longer be heard,
the offerings and hymns for the earth vanished.
One day she was visited by an owl,
the messenger of the lords of the night,
delivering his news with a song.
At dawn, her feet did not move.
It was a wijy jä’äy[i] who interpreted the meaning
and helped her to heal.
It was the essence of the corn
that gave her strength to go on.
[i] The one who can read supernatural messages by consulting with kernels of corn. Sometimes called a curandero or a healer.
Esencia de Maíz
Cuando supimos del pan de trigo
la tortilla de maíz se convirtió
en alimento para los pobres,
quienes carecen de sabiduría.
El pan te hace inteligente
le pintaron a ella una y otra vez.
Ella ambicionó la inteligencia.
Con su bebé en el pecho y,
en la espalda, un canasto de maíz y frijol,
cultivados con sus cuarteadas manos,
dibujó sus huellas durante todo un sol
para llegar a la aldea de confusa lengua
y canjear sus granos con pan amarillo.
“El pan da inteligencia”, repetía ella,
la había atrapado el engaño.
Olvidó la esencia del maíz,
extravió el camino de los sabedores,
las palabras del maíz dejaron de oírse,
el brindis por la tierra se desvaneció.
Un día tuvo la visita de un búho,
mensajero de los señores de la noche,
entregando con su canto la noticia.
Al amanecer, sus pies no respondieron.
Sólo un wijy jä’äy[i] interpretó el significado
y le ayudó a encontrar su energía.
La esencia del maíz le brindó fortaleza.
[i] El que puede leer los mensajes de los sobrenatural, al consultar con los granos de maíz. Otros lo nomrarían como el curandero.
Moojk myëjk’äjtë’n
Ku tsäpkaagy ojts yak’ex’aty.
Ayoob jä’äy mojk kaagy daktundëp,
pën ka jënmä’nmyëëdëdëp,
jëts tsäpkaagy yë’ den tii yakwëjp yë’
nëm ojts jä’äy ejtp nyi’mxy.
Kajaa ja’ wijy’äjtë’n timcho’km.
chimy myaxu’ung jyëntuujy jets,
jyëxkixpy, tu’uk kach moojk xëjk,
tëë tunk kyë’ë tniaktsa’pxkëxn,
tu’kxëë ja’ tmëyo’oy
ku agätsetpy nyijkxy
jëts tsäpkaagy t’ëstakukonä’ny.
“Yakwejp yë’ tsapkaaky”, nëm ijty ejtp wyä’äny.
Tëë näjty yakjën’ëëny.
Ojts tjatyëgoy ku moojk de’n timchopätp,
taa tyu’tëgööny, kä’t wijy jä’äy t’uknënëjkxn,
Kä’t moojk ayuujk t’ukyäjkn,
taa kä’t nääjx y’ukakjëntsë’ëkën.
Ja’ xëëb ojts këxexpuuj jyä’äty,
tsuuj koots ojts nyaskax,
ojts ja ayuujk t’ësyaky.
Ku ojts xyëntyä’äky, kä’ t tyeky y’ukmadäkn.
Wijy jä’äynëm ojts tnëgajpxy tii tunäm jätäm
jaanëm ojts jyotkuk.
Kaagy moojknëm ojts tamëjkpiky.
Rosario Patricio Martínez is an Ayuujk ja’ay (Mixe) poet, lawyer, interpreter, and cultural worker, originally from the community of El Duraznal, Ayutla, Oaxaca, Mexico. She is the current president of the Indigenous Plurality cultural association and was the coordinator and translator of the National Anthem into the Ayuujk language. A promotor and teacher of the Mixe language, Rosario has published in various print and electronic media, as well as national and international poetry anthologies.
Kim Jensen is a Baltimore-based writer, poet, educator, and translator whose books include the novel, The Woman I Left Behind, and two collections of poems, Bread Alone and The Only Thing that Matters. Active in transnational social justice movements for decades, Kim’s writings have been featured in many journals and magazines. In 2001, she won the Raymond Carver Award for short fiction. Kim is currently professor of English and Creative Writing at the Community College of Baltimore County, where she co-founded an interdisciplinary literacy initiative that demonstrates the vital connection between classroom learning and social justice in the broader community.
the Decolonial Passage 