Hibiscus Collective
Verses of color
Verses of color
| Blood Kin by Fabu we gathered as magnolia blossoms scented Holly Springs, Mississippi the blood kin of six alabaster brothers and sisters cause Mary never birthed. i stood crowded with my kin seeing us repeated in every face knowing the red fire of their blood glowed crimson in me too. i felt swishing inside like my first time in Africa an immediate connection to land and people our blood rushing hot to quickly tell our stories. then came cooling tears for the gone kin as the sweet breath of our elders reminded and rejoiced among us our children danced and sang their newness rooted in the Cunningham past. The Cunningham Family Reunion in May 2008 after 30 years. |
| Hibiscus Collective Members: Araceli Esparza (l-r), Rakina Muhammad,Nydia Rojas, Fabu, Jolieth McIntosh and Blanca Cruz after their poetry reading at the Middleton Public Library on April 4. |
Hibiscus Collective by Blanca Nydia Cruz The Hibiscus Collective brings a new perspective, whether you enjoy it, is your elective, our vision from here on, and to the future is prospective, and our mission as a leader, as a member, is to be active. We bring a new view, we offer diversity, we represent the many faces that found a voice, a meaning, in the collective… We are sisters of international backgrounds, we are the energy that found a soul, a mind to inspire, a breath of fresh air. We, like the breeze of change in our nation, are united to bring you reflection… We are a new era, of meaning and word, we claim our position of brightness and sun. We are the Collective that brings a new sound, of rhythms, of joy, of passion and love, we carry the meaning of ancestors’ hopes, of dreams, of prayers, of getting along. We are diverse, and in that we find joy, we share the struggles, the historical pain. We, like the Phoenix, stand strong from the ashes, of what was or had been, and it is time for change. We are the Hibiscus Collective, who bring a new perspective… of international backgrounds, of world views under a new sun, we found a new meaning in the Collective of one… |
A LOVING MOTHER Each day after school, my mother checked our school work. “My children,always do your best,” she reminded us. “Education is the key to success.” Now her hands are still, Now her voice is still. Mother’s strong alto voice boomed above everyone else’s. Her skilled fingers danced on the piano keys. Her firm body rocked to the rhythm. The choir sang along, ‘I’ll Fly Away oh Glory’ They too rocked to her music. Now her voice is still, Now her body is still. My mother loved to read. She was interested in knowing about other cultures. She loved to walk. She had an easy sense of humor. Now her feet are still, Now her laughter is gone. Mother shared lollipop with children. She loved to hug them. “Be kind to each other”, she told them. Now her hands are still, Now her voice is still. My mother cooked curried chicken for her family. She taught us to fry parrot fish and bake potato pudding. Mother taught us to wash and sew. “One day you’ll need these skills”, she said. We listened, we learned and we under- stood. Now her hands are still, Now her voice is still. My mother woke one morning, Ready to fix fried dumplings and callaloo for her family, but she could not move. “Not good!”, said the doctor. Grief flooded our hearts; The words of hope from her lips were few and faint. “My dear children and my kind husband, do not cry. I had a happy life.” Now her body is still, Now her voice is faint, Now her smile is gone. We hugged and kissed her. “Mother,we love you”,we told her. We gave her the medication. We fed her with nutritious chicken soup, but she did not revive. Our bodies shook with grief as she took her last breath. Mother, now you are gone, but mother,your words and deeds are alive. Alive in your children’s faces, Alive in our hands, Alive in our feet and alive in our lives. Mother, your are dead, but in our hearts, you will be ALIVE FOREVER. c 08.24.07 / Jolieth McIntosh |
| Carlos and his Guaraches by Araceli Esparza Carlos always wears Nikes, K-Swiss or some other expensive wannabe shoes. The type of shoes that costs a lot and lasts very little. I’m sure you’ve heard how his relatives make them for pennies and his father sells them for hundreds. Now he wears guaraches, I ask if it’s because of the shoelaces. That’s what I was told one time. They take your shoes laces away because their afraid of you doing something with the laces. You might commit suicide, but how? I suppose guaraches take that worry away. I bet they remind him of los pobres de Mexico. Irony is starting to taste bitter for all of us. Nobody comes anymore to ask about him. The watchdogs have been re-tracked. The village has been raped and burned. The prisoner is safe without shoelaces and left with just his guaraches. |
| And Those Abroad (excerpt from chapter 1 of novel) (by Rakina) He dreams of marionettes riding a square horse, flapping their arms and dipping their small bodies in time to the pulsating bass drum, the djun-djun. It is in this place that he is happiest; his best boyhood years were spent here, in the village of his mother’s mother. The people sit on the ground in a circle; the bright and colorful boubous of the adults never seem to pick up dirt from the dusty red earth. All eyes are transfixed on the show in the center of the circle, especially those eager, sun-reddened eyes of the children. They knew that those puppets were not playthings; they represented the ancestors, very important ancestors. On occasions like this his grandmother dressed him in crisp European clothes, and so he was expected to stand, not sit, to watch the dancing puppets and other performers. He jumped about excitedly, stomping his foot occasionally to the rhythm of the drums. The djun-djun. His adult body now twitches and commences its tug-of-war routine between sleep and wakefulness. The drums play louder, and he sees flashes of the drummer’s fat sticks coming up and down, flying and waving in midair, seemingly detached from the hands that held them. Then everything fades, and everything… everything has gone black. Footsteps now, footsteps strike as heavy as the djun-djun ensemble. Heavy as an innocent man’s heartbeat. Sam wakes up and asks himself; what has happened to Mamadou? He felt it should be morning by now but the room was still pitch dark and he remembered that it was his fourth day in America. At this realization, his heart rejoiced then sank as he lay flat on his back in a foreign bed with eyes wide open. He wondered about the tiny green light that shone above his head. At that moment, there was a banging on the door accompanied by loud voices speaking English. “Police.” The knocking continued. “Open up. Police.” |
| Unexpected by Nydia Rojas The grass on the backyard is turning green and lush. The crab apple tree is in bloom. The delicate blossoms have returned for another season of light. Birds and wind join in a celebration that can’t be brought to an end. I walk around the garden looking for signs of what might have survived last winter’s blizzard. Every so often a discovery. The tender shoots peeking through the ground, a tentative exploration of the world above. Every so often a surprise. The gladioli bulbs I forgot to dig out last autumn, the ones I was certain would not survive the blizzard have sent their tender tongues to taste the world. Coming the warmer days of summer they will offer to the world their stalks of bright red blossoms. The grass on the backyard is green and lush and feels cool to the touch. Crab apple petals fall like pinkish snowflakes bringing in joy. If this moment was a picture in a calendar I would not want to turn the page. |
