Rainbowe Kilborn. “The Dragon Lady in The Borderlands/La Frontera.”

My son has always kept to himself a lot ever since his father and I divorced. But right now, I really don’t have time to look back. I have to keep looking forward and help those who still need me. Like my family. I am the nucleus. They are my center.

Before heading out, I look at myself in the mirror, one more time. I see nothing but the shell of her, she who was once the Dragon Lady. A name was given to me by the white men for being a woman who spoke up and negotiated things with them as nobody else would. I was labeled as such for being the voice of many innocent people who meant nothing to them. We were a bunch of nobodies under their eyes due to the color of our skin. They tried to put us away like yesterday’s trash. Yet today we are still standing here. We proved to them how strong our brown skin was. We are still here! We are strong! They called me all different types of names, such as la peleonera… ¡Sí, cómo no! But now, look at me…I see nothing but the shell of a used-up woman an old sack of bones. ¿Vieja y loca, yo?¡Jamás! Solo soy una mujer que pudo superarse.

As I wait outside for my Uber to stop by, I see a bunch of Chicanos and Chicanas around their 20’s listening to hip-hop music, wearing big baggy clothes. I wonder why they don’t listen to music from their country, such as that of Vicente Fernández or Paquita La del Barrio. Isn’t that what the white man wants? For us to forget our culture.? To fall into the idea of the melting pot so we can all forget our roots, our language, culture, and customs? ¡No Señor!

Generations are a reflection

Of those who were,

Of those who belonged,

A mirror of what we were,

And a sign of where we will go.

As I get inside the Uber car, I notice that there are napkins and a ketchup stain in the backseat where I am about to sit. They are probably there from the last passenger who sat there. And as I buckle up, I hear the Uber driver listening to Oldies on the radio. It surprises me that he is listening to oldies such as The Beatles, Donna Summer, and Phil Collins, and not Latin or Hispanic oldies like Leo Dan, Roberto Carlos, or Manuela Torres. It surprises me because he is around 60 years old, and he is as brown as me. He then turned to look at me and says, “Are you going to the hospital, down the corner?” Seeing that he was as brown as me, I say, “Sí, por favor. Me puedes dejar en la entrada de emergencia.” Then he said, “Sorry, I don’t speak Spanish.” Hearing him made me chuckle and I tell him, “Wow, you must have made your parents very proud.” Then he said, “Excuse me?” Noticing that he didn’t hear me, I just say, “Nothing. Just leave me in the front entrance of the Emergency building.”

As I arrive at the hospital, I see my son crying. He is by himself, and I hug him. To my surprise, he throws my arms away from him, and sobbing he says, “It’s all your fault! Because of you, my daughter is in the hospital!” I couldn’t believe what my son had just told me. I tried to calm him down, “Mijo, cálmate. ¿Por qué me dices esas cosas? ¿Qué le paso a mi nieta, Diana?” My words infuriate him even more, and he says, “Don’t talk to me in Spanish! Because of your stupid language and customs, my daughter is now in the Hospital. It’s all your fault! Everything is your fault! Because of you, my father left, and now my daughter is in the hospital! If you weren’t my mother I would slap you!” He picks up his arm to hit me, but that same blood that ran through both our bodies does not allow him to. Instead, he leaves for the cafeteria.

I decide to ask the nurse what had happened to my granddaughter, but before I can even ask her anything, she said to me in Spanish, “Doña Dolores Huerta.¡Es un gusto conocerla! Es una admiración para toda nuestra familia. Mis abuelos trabajaron en los campos, como usted, y están bien agradecidos por todo lo que hizo por nuestros campesinos.” It felt good to hear those words come out from a 20-year-old, brown-skinned nurse. Hearing her say those words made me feel as if all that effort I did in the past had been worth it. It makes me feel as if leaving my family and children to go and march for the Campesinos had been worth it. For now, young brown Chicanos can hold positions in fields other than those of a Campesinos. Now they count. Now they are somebody and I am proud to see them succeed.

            After her beautiful welcome, the young nurse directs me to my granddaughter’s room. As I enter, I see my granddaughter with a bruised eye and cut arm. I see that she has her unbruised eye open. She sees me and says “¡Abuela, qué bueno que viniste!” Seeing her happy I say, “Mija, ¿qué te paso? ¿Por qué estás así?” And she says, “Ay, abuela, unos gringos y morenos me brincaron y me pegaron porque estaba hablando español con mis amigas en el cine. Me dijeron que esto es Estados Unidos, que hablara inglés o me fuera del país. Y pues, yo me acordé de lo que tú me dijiste, que nunca me dejara pisotear por el hombre blanco ni por nadie, y pues les dije, ‘Antes, esta tierra pertenecía a México. Mejor, ustedes lárguense, rateros convenencieros!’ Y pues me golpearon. Claro ellos siendo hombres eran mas fuertes que nosotras.”

 I can´t believe what my granddaughter is telling me. I can´t believe that after I had fought so much for equality and rights of the brown people, today we still experience racism and discrimination. Then I ask her, “Mija, me da gusto que no bajaste la cabeza. Pero tu papá está muy enojado por todo lo ocurrido.” Then, in a serious tone, she says, “Yes, grandma. He is mad because I spoke Spanish in a public. He doesn’t like it. He says, that even if you tell me to speak Spanish, I shouldn’t listen to you. He says that you lack judgment, that it is all you fault that my grandfather left because you were always too busy in your protest rallies and marches, that you don’t know any better for being an old-timer.”

Cuando griten, levanta tu voz

Cuando los callen, habla por ellos

Cuando los tiren, levántalos

Cuando los olviden, búscalos

Hearing my granddaughter say those words, hurts my heart. I can´t believe that after all these years my son is still resentful over his father and me separating. That happened over more than 50 years ago. I can´t believe that instead of my son being proud of me for creating a change for the farmers and their families, he hates me. Still, in disbelief, I try to grab my breath and say, “I didn’t know all this about your father.” Seeing me speechless, Diana says, “Don’t feel bad, grandma, I am proud of who you are. You are a ‘Dragon Lady, just don’t take my dad too serious. He says you are a racist who will never change because you are an old-timer.”

I can´t believe what Diana is telling me. Here I am thinking I am a role model when my own son doesn´t look up to me.  So, I tell her, “Diana, is that what you really think about me too? I want you to understand that I am not a racist. I only have every reason to dislike the white men. First, I was unjustly accused of cheating out of the paper of my white classmate, only because I was Mexican. Second, the white men beat my brother up only for wearing a Zoot Suit. And worse, I saw how the white men left many farmer’s children hungry and without an education. Those were farmers like me and your grandparents, who were living under the worst conditions you can imagine while trying to survive. I hated seeing my own mother feed my younger brothers and me with only water and tortillas. Seeing all these injustices made me want to get up and stand up to the white men. I am not a racist, I was and am, only raising my voice to all of the injustices I saw. I had to raise my voice or no one else was going to do it.”

Cuando te pregunten de dónde vienes,

Mira a tu madre o a tu padre

Mírales las manos,

Mírales las llagas,

Mírales el sudor en la frente,

Mírales las arrugas,

Mira lo prieto que los dejo el sol, 

Míralos con orgullo,

Mira su esfuerzo,  

Y no te avergüences de decir

Que eres hijo/a de un campesino/a

Y que por ellos estas aquí

Hearing me say those words, my granddaughter closes her good eye and says, “Yes, grandma. You stood up for what you believed in. Kind of like what I did today.” Then I say, “Yes, just like you, I too couldn’t just sit at home and raise your dad, while seeing all of these injustices going on. I just wish your father can see that I had to organize groups, protests, rallies, and marches to protect and give him a better future. I did it so brown people could be nurses or U.S. Representatives of California’s 21st District. You know Diana, I think I really need to have a serious talk with your father.” And she says, “Why don’t you do it today, Abuela? Why don’t you talk to my dad right now?”  She then opens both her eyes and smiles. Her smile, crooked due to her saggy bruised eye, warms my heart, so I say, “Yes, I need to talk to him. I am going to that right now.” As I get up to leave, my granddaughter turns to me and says, “Abuela…¡Sí se puede!” I turn to look at her and smile. I know she is going to be okay. I mean, it isn´t her fault she has her grandmother’s outspoken genes.

At the cafeteria, I see my son. He is sitting down with his back turned drinking coffee. He doesn’t see me. From behind he looks like his father. Seeing him reminded me of all those arguments I had with his father before I would leave for the marches with the Campesinos. I decide to leave. What’s the use? Besides, no matter what I do, I can never please men. I mean, all men in general.