Guest Blog: The Lost Boys (with Poetry) Freddy Merlos

Freddy Jesse Izaguirre Merlos

Guest Blog for Afja.ES

December 25, 2018

I often think about the juxtaposition of our experiences in El Salvador versus here in the United States. Given everything that is going on in the news, I am eternally grateful to Steven and the AFJA ES family for inviting me to guest write my thoughts in this blog. My heart is always with our people, and I am delighted to share with you my recent scribbles.

Since I first saw it, I have been inspired by the powerful photograph that Oakland based photographer Ayse Gürsöz took of Granny Helen Red Feather of the Lakota Nation at Standing Rock; which Ernesto Yerena Montejano turned into a beautiful illustration. He titled it, We The Resilient.

Yes, we are.

se | uno

scene. a memory.

He sits on the floor, shirtless. Right on top of the beige-tan carpet that matches the hue of his skin when it is not sunkissed and golden. His is like color shifting ink, changing with the seasons. The family room is lit only by daylight and from this angle you can barely see his acne scars. His torso, after all these years, still bears the resemblance of a Karate tournament champion, which he leans against the edge of the couch while firmly holding the TV remote. His long and thick black hair is in a perm. Papa won’t say it out loud, but we all know he did it to look like the legendary Mágico González.

Mama enters the room, glances at Papi’s hair and groans. The Sears family portrait we took that immortalized his current do is not a particular favorite of hers. My two youngest brothers, my sister who follows, and myself, the oldest, are all gathered along with our Papa in the same room; a literal feat. Mama is equal parts grit and soft. A flawless cocoa complexion with Náhuat features that defy the conventional beauty standards of yuna, like a pageant contestant everyone seemingly ignores but fetishes from a distance. Her hair is straightened at the moment, but normally ebbs and flows from naturally wavy to snug curls, and so, she lets out an audible sigh at my Papi’s attempt at vanity. Tsk, que sabe?

Papa's dark brown eyes stare at the television set like the fixed lens of a National Geographic photographer bearing witness to an elusive creature in the wild. We live in Pasco, Washington, part of greater Kin-i-wak (occupied Chemnapum territory), where the Columbia Basin forms a desert landscape on the eastern side of the state that brings harsh winters and brutally hot summers. The windy season is the most unsettling, pummeling homes and uprooting trees. Quite the shift from our property in San Salvador. Even still, the humble abode we rent, which was originally built in 1959, has space for all of us. A major step up from the tiny apartment where we first lived for years after coming to yuna during the late 80’s. We are a tropical people, Salvadoraños, unfazed by humidity, and our casita smells of frijoles and plátanos fritos but neither Papa, Mama, nor my siblings and I are on the hunt. We are all too fixated on the images emanating from the screen.

I sit next to my Papi, smiling. It is July 17, 1994, and the FIFA World Cup Final is on. I am twelve years old. My hair is once again reminiscent of the evermocked mullet. I have the combination melanin of both my parents, and this sweltering July, the sun turned my basic tan into a deep caramel brown. All summer I have put up with the put downs from the neighborhood kids over my darkened shade. Meanwhile, the taunts and jeers from my school classmates will come soon enough when the ink of my skin shifts yet again before their eyes, and I lose the extra blessing over the course of the fall. They will carry on with the mocking of my accent, and of my long hair by switching niño to niña and adding fea for good measure. They will bully me at knife point. They will marvel at my chameleon skin and use mixto as an insult asking if I am actually my mother’s son. All of course, except for my friend Tony. The Afro-Latino boy down the street that I know from church, whose parents are from the Dominican Republic.

Tony kept it the realest. When the Chicano boys would make fun of me on the basketball court in Richardson Park just blocks from our homes he’d speak up for me. When they turned to insulting him in Español, thinking he wouldn’t understand, he’d fire back much to their chagrin, in beautiful Dominican Spanish. It was from Tony that I learned the power of solidarity. Long before I understood the concept of conditional privilege which would govern people’s reactions to my presence, I realized this: to be permanently dark like Tony or my Mama was to be loathed. To be light was to be expected to act white. Any betrayal of this code of conduct would infuriate fair skinned Latinos and brainwashed Mestizos as they attempted to place you in the pecking order of Latinidad.

It would be a long time before I thought of the browning season as a blessing and appreciated my roots. It would be even longer before xenophobia and colorism were explained to me in an academic setting. All I knew then, was that these kids with similar histories and struggles as my family did not like us one bit. Now, it’s quite clear that the necessary elements for self-love were there to guide me all along. The ancestors were always dropping hints. I simply hadn’t been paying attention.

So, back to the game.

The end of extra time arrives and inside the Rose Bowl in Pasadena, CA, there is history in the making. Italy and Brazil head toward the fist ever Finals shootout. My family and I are on the edge of our seats as we watch.

Baresi for Italy. He shoots over the top bar.

Santos of Brazil. Pagliuca with a save.

Oof, says Papa. 0-0.

Albertini scores. Romario scores. Evani and Branco follow suit. 2-2.

Massaro takes his shot and we all hold our collective breath. The Brazilian goalkeeper, Cláudio Taffarel, dives to the left and makes an impressive save.

Oooh, from all of us.

Eso! from Mama.

Dunga, the capitán of Brazil shoots and scores. 3-2.

We are too nervous to celebrate just yet.

The suspense pauses time and during the closing moments of the game we forget ourselves. We forget that we are a mixed status family. Mis hermanitos, born here. Papa with one year into his permanent residency visa, and four years left until his imminent death. Mama, mi hermanita, and I without documents. A band of unrecognized refugees who fled the violent and US funded Civil War in El Salvador that lasted from 1980 to 1992. We forget the depths of our struggle to stay afloat in America having spent whole winters with no heat. In this moment, we are grateful we do not have to worry for my hermanita, who like so many of our Indigenous sisters, could mysteriously disappear into the night. Or fear that my hermanitos could be forced to hold guns being pushed to grow up far too quickly because to not do so is the highest risk to their safety. In this moment my Mama is not being targeted by Death Squads due to the color of her skin, the pattern of her skirt, or any word that may slip out of her mouth in Nawat. In this moment my father is not coming home to discover none of us are coming home. In this moment, we are not fractured and removed from our beloved homeland by borders, afraid of INS and their raids or federal policies with only our Caribbean neighbors to offer genuine and selfless hospitality.  In this moment my Papa is alive, and I can see him, touch him, and tell him I love him to his face. In this moment, we are just pins and needles, bearing witness to Black and Brown excellence enjoying la copa mundial just like any normal Latin American family because, and you can look this up:

Baggio misfires, and Brazil is crowned the fourth time world champions.

ume | dos

poema. a prayer.

how many
generations of men
will we continue to ruin
with delusions of grandeur
and
an M16?

lost boys of El Salvador

yey | tres

replay. present. occupied Ohlone territory.

The eastbound BART train headed toward downtown is packed to capacity. We are all making our morning commute to work. Outside the smoke-filled air serves as a reminder of the still not fully contained wildfires of California. The rains of relief are yet to come. I adjust my N95 mask and look down at my phone screen. I received a notification. A report about the caravan from Centroamerica making their way through Tijuana, Mexico, is sitting in the queue of my news app. I pause my music and listen to the piece. They were met there by protests and violence. The encampment was protected by literal human shields comprised of gente from Mexico and the many volunteers of Pueblo Sin Fronteras. The report continues, and a sound bite of President Trump being interviewed comes on. In his remarks he goes as far as to question if Centroamericanos even need asylum given how they have been photographed carrying the flags of their home countries during their trek.

Sinvergüenza.

These colorful faces fleeing devastation serve as the mirror to the lifetimes upon lifetimes of ache that pulse through my veins. I close my eyes and whisper I see you. I came to yuna when I was five, and spent thirty years of my life flustered by the ever shifting process of getting papeles. Spared from the frying pan of war back home, but then tossed into the fire that is to be undocumented in America; it is by grit that we learn to thrive.

The violence that drives our people to leave everything behind isn’t new. Simply, evolved. From war and state sanctioned violence to the import of the maras. From skyrocketing homicide to femicide, homophobia, anti-Indigeneity, anti-Blackness, and endless interventionism. The wounds of our homelands that cause the outflow of hundreds of thousands is the glaring bloodstain on the white blouse of America, while she blows a kiss to the smoking barrel of her gun and poses for a selfie.

Hashtag blessed.

In the fall of 2017, at age 35, when I finally obtained those highly coveted documents I realized that what separates us most from our previous selves is: nothing. Now, one year into my tenure as a naturalized citizen of this nation, I refuse to have my existence reduced to slurs and lies.

The friends, families, and children of the caravans? We are them, and they are us. How then, hearing their cry can we not reach out through the fog of our diaspora and extend a helping hand? Or center their voices in the struggle. Or advocate on their behalf in the political arena when both sides use them as rag dolls to punt in hopes of better field position during the elections. Or help them navigate the quagmire that is the US immigration system by showing them how to overcome these obstacles so they, too, can help those back home.

The great work of organizations such as AFJA, CARECEN, and Pueblo Sin Fronteras are nothing short of remarkable. They evoke the powerful spirit of Santo Romero. In times when such vitriol emanates in the public square will we follow their lead of defiance and give voice to our voiceless? The way we hoped someone would speak up for us when we were afraid. Just like Tony did for me, so many years ago. I join a chorus of fellow Salvis to commend Steven’s grassroots efforts with AFJA in mobilizing our community, and changing lives for the better in the pulgarcito. Rallied around something so profoundly simple: el poder del juego. I believe in his vision of taking the academy beyond Los Amates. Building a bridge between us of then, and they of now.

In the future of our dreams, when we look back upon this time will we agonize over asking ourselves if we did enough? Or if we squandered our willingness to make a difference because we couldn’t afford to be bothered? While the ones in caravans camp just outside the ports of entry facing tear gas and bullets and those detained then held in cages risk having their babies die at the hands of border patrol.

Mi pueblo, will we fail another generation of children...again?

The news story ends, and I toggle back to my music. I step off the BART train at my stop as the beat kicks in and the choir hums.

I recognize this song.

It’s the theme of a movie I loved as a kid, about a boy with a lost soul, the orca he befriended, and then set free.

—con amor,

Freddy Jesse

Freddy Merlos is a writer and poet based in the Pacific Northwest. Currently, you can find his poetry on IG @pursuingarete.