If it were literary criticism, I would already be labeling this as the new poetic generation of the diaspora of the former Spanish colonies or something more impressive, but since I am just someone who comes across these people in the squares shouting against the Immigration Law and institutional racism and in some recitals, I will say yes, that something has begun to cook under the fire of our anger and resistance.
I remember the first time I heard Lucrecia masson in the court of the Casino de la Reina park read a text from his book Here I am the one who left about “migraine pain”, when her Tehuelche grandmother took her to the airport and a Spanish man sat next to her on the plane that would take her to Spain and told her with amusement that he was traveling to Argentina because there he had “an Indian woman.” I thought that I too, like her, had woken up one day as a sudaka and had the urge to get the experience off my tongue. There, among them, close to their dissidents, I learned the reason for that wild and monstrous place in which History had placed us and the sense of joining us.
Some of the best texts that I had heard that afternoon in Lavapiés and other evenings and nights of readings, as in the cycle “Spitting out rage”, would be collected in the book Give us back the gold, with its “perverse worldviews” and its “anti-colonial actions”, voices, bodies and images brought together thanks to Ayllu collective, which sprouted “from that colonial wound not yet healed.” I also read and learned from Lía, the mermaid girlfriend (today Cucaracha de barrio), Jos Piña, Leticia Rojas, Caborca Lynch, Pancho Gody, Gabriela Contreras, Nayare Montes, Jeannette Tineo, Artemisa Semedo, and news of their fanzines, platelets began to reach me. and poetry books, of their work, healing and life in common. Migrant people, black, Sudaka, queer, determined to create survival through beauty, seeking that what is alive is returned within the walls of Madrid, like a newborn who falls on the asphalt and moves on. The police had just chased Mame Mbaye to death or that was going to happen sooner or later, as it still does.
“–Why are you running?
– We had a race.
“Do you have drugs?”
we never talk it to each other,
but that was one of the first times
that the police marked us,
he told us:
Those verses of Admission rights, the precise poems from Yeison F. García López, place us directly on the path and the memory of the tenths of Victoria Santa Cruz, in which the disconcerting first cry of “Black!” (“What is it to be black?”) About the infantile body, its brutal, public, worldly racialization, in a street, make that voice feel black for the first time, but because of all the bad and the pain that it contains.
Triksia Chinchay also does it in her manifesto I am chole and do not pity me, published as a fanzine, which transits the genre of that Luis Abanto Morales theme to vindicate their Andean descent, a non-binary cholety that is revealed in the face of racist structures that speak of “humanity” while excluding non-whites from that humanity. And from his Instagram, he is placed again by @HildaPankarita, who writes against the “extractivism of love” and “how the world is inhabited without asking for forgiveness or permission, with intense dignity.”
Giovanni Collazos a couple of years ago dumped the experience of the precariousness of the diaspora in language in his collection of poems Migrant, and also in his recent Clothes, in which she weaves her multiple identities, split, border, gender, class and race, until she makes them breathe on the back of her neck: “Being more than one with a broken body.” The collective collects the pieces and writes, breaking the syntax, vanguarding, vallejiando like Cholo, another migrant in Spain who suffers only but who always likes to live. And I no longer know which of the cholos I am paraphrasing.
But among all the things that move and occur in these writings, there is one that is also the axis in the mythical poem by Victoria Santa Cruz: that fabulous twist in which the racist’s tongue is twisted to turn hatred and stigma into pride. , slavery on wings, and condemnation in blessing. That is the path traveled by those who today write and resist in their word against racism.