Recuerditos de Casa

Note from the artist about the piece:

When I’m asked how I learned embroidery, I usually say "by osmosis." I can’t remember if it was one of the ladies at church, my mom, or maybe that Bible school the summer after fifth grade. Growing up in Tennessee, it felt like every girl knew how to sew. When I’m asked where I got my first beads, I’m not sure about that either – maybe from my abuelita when she lived with us, or from my tía when she visited from Los Angeles. This artwork intentionally uses media and materials that bring together my heritages from Tennessee and Guatemala. It is an homage to the people and cultures that raised me. I am grateful to Vos del Sur for the opportunity to reflect critically on my positionality and on what it means to me to be from the South.

Piece 1: The Kitchen

Dirt and Tortillas

i always thought my house smelled like dirt and tortillas

the smell normally hit me as i entered the house after school, or band practice

after the long hike up the driveway from the bus stop

through the trees that grew smaller and less intimidating as I grew

their branches shading my skin, creating beautiful patterns 

maybe burnt tortillas depending on whether or not my dad was burning any while cooking dinner 

if he was home 

and not in jail

and if I was lucky the sticky sweet scent of also burning, but intentionally so, platanos fritos would round out what my nose will forever identify as home

Piece 2: The Dining Room

—> Content Warning: This poem includes depictions of domestic physical abuse.

Sticky Fingers

when i got up the driveway there was often fruit waiting for me

on the table in the dining room

cut mangos and kiwis that always ended in sticky fingers

on that small, old, wooden table that was my grandmother’s

always dressed in a tablecloth of gaudy scenes of papayas, pineapples

my dad had picked it up at el venado when a store for us finally popped up within an hour’s drive

sticky fingers that would cover my eyes when he couldn't control the rage

when the screaming started and fists started flying

sticking to the phone we used to call the cops

sticky fingers I’d wipe clean with tears and that old tablecloth

as I watched the blue and red lights pull out that long driveway