These truths would moonstone in her palm and she would grasp her hand shut, hold it tight to her heart, and try to carry it with her toward the front door, out onto the walkway, into the world.
Where Anzaldúa and Castillo dwelled, where she fed on the nectar of their toughest blossoms.
She’d have been a Queen of the Night and taught her daughter to give her body to no Gabe. She would’ve chosen the one night a year the night-blooming cereus uncoils its moon-white skirt, opens its opalescent throat, and allows the bats who’ve flown hundreds of miles with their young clutching to their fur as they swim through the air, half-starved from waiting, to drink their fill and feed their next generation of creatures who can see through the dark. If she’d chosen for herself, she would have chosen the cactus spines. She was blessed with choice.Īwareness must come. She was blessed with women to check her for bleeding. Intergenerational trauma is a term that is often not talked about, resulting in a lasting impact on later generations. What she did know: She was blessed with a safe procedure. Intergenerational traumasometimes called transgenerational traumais a term that is used to describe the impact of a traumatic experience, not only on one generation, but on subsequent generations after the event. Had they done it for her? Or for their son’s chance at a football scholarship? The cactus flower had dropped from her when she should have been having a quinceañera, blooming across the dance floor in a bright, sequined dress, not spending the night at her boyfriend’s nana’s across town so that her mama wouldn’t know what she’d done, not taking a Tylenol for the cramping and eating the caldo de rez they’d made for her. She could sense it warping the roots from within. Only, since she’d met Gabe and become La Llorona, she’d been growing the ugliness inside her.
#Trauma quotes movie
Where her bisabuela had picked pecans and oranges in the orchards, climbing the tallest trees with her small girlbody, dropping the fruit to the baskets below where her tías and tíos and primos stooped to pick those that had fallen on the ground, where her abuela had sewn in the garment district in downtown Los Angeles with her bisabuela, both women taking the bus each morning and evening, making the beautiful dresses to be sold in Beverly Hills and maybe worn by a movie star, and where her mother had cared for the ill, had gone to their crumbling homes, those diabetic elderly dying in the heat in the Valley-Bianca would grow and tend to the broken world, would find where it ached and heal it, would locate its source of ugliness and make it beautiful. There was a time she believed she would change the world, lead a movement, follow Dolores Huerta and Sylvia Mendez, Ellen Ochoa and Sonia Sotomayor. “She hadn’t always been obsessed with babies.
0 kommentar(er)
