it was 1962 i was only two, but i was already born with the gift to see.
i couldn't believe my eyes, when Martin Luther King came to dinner at our house in the barrio.
i was the youngest so i got to sit at the table on a regular chair tied with a birdseye cloth diaper.. so if i was to wiggle i would not embarrass me or my family..the stacks of phone books underneath me placed me right about where i needed to be.
next to Martin L. how keen....
mi abuela had come back from mictlan to prepare the mole.
she had hand-ground the spices
very carefully,and the cakahuates exploded with oils mmm..
the entire house smelled like a revolution.
there were black people all around me, and i loved the fact that they loved me.
there was mole and arroz and tortillas homemade and there was different chiles and salsas'
ancient recipes.
Mr. King said he loved chilis and that it reminded him of his own way spiced and down homeway.
he talked to my father about World War 2,and my father recounted his stories of buddies getting blown up by enemy fire before his eyes.
Martin looked honored to have met my father,and my mother shared with Martin about her beliefs in the family.
grandmother had come from mictlan- the place where our ancestors go to dwell after they meet la muerte..grandmother smiled with so much pride.
i could see my grandmother although nobody else could..she had died in 1932.
my mama was so glad to have Mr. Martin Luther King in our home,and she talked about it for many years.
it was my dream, and my mothers and my dead grandmother's, and it was my fathers pride that night when he shared of his life with a man like Martin L. King.
A humble man that shared the same feelings for freedom and human rights.
it was right there in my barrio and in all of the barrios.
Martin would have been ashamed to know that his own kind would act shallow and tell other humans to go away that America now belongs only to the children of slaves.
D.L.J
writes for rights
i couldn't believe my eyes, when Martin Luther King came to dinner at our house in the barrio.
i was the youngest so i got to sit at the table on a regular chair tied with a birdseye cloth diaper.. so if i was to wiggle i would not embarrass me or my family..the stacks of phone books underneath me placed me right about where i needed to be.
next to Martin L. how keen....
mi abuela had come back from mictlan to prepare the mole.
she had hand-ground the spices
very carefully,and the cakahuates exploded with oils mmm..
the entire house smelled like a revolution.
there were black people all around me, and i loved the fact that they loved me.
there was mole and arroz and tortillas homemade and there was different chiles and salsas'
ancient recipes.
Mr. King said he loved chilis and that it reminded him of his own way spiced and down homeway.
he talked to my father about World War 2,and my father recounted his stories of buddies getting blown up by enemy fire before his eyes.
Martin looked honored to have met my father,and my mother shared with Martin about her beliefs in the family.
grandmother had come from mictlan- the place where our ancestors go to dwell after they meet la muerte..grandmother smiled with so much pride.
i could see my grandmother although nobody else could..she had died in 1932.
my mama was so glad to have Mr. Martin Luther King in our home,and she talked about it for many years.
it was my dream, and my mothers and my dead grandmother's, and it was my fathers pride that night when he shared of his life with a man like Martin L. King.
A humble man that shared the same feelings for freedom and human rights.
it was right there in my barrio and in all of the barrios.
Martin would have been ashamed to know that his own kind would act shallow and tell other humans to go away that America now belongs only to the children of slaves.
D.L.J
writes for rights
