Tell Them Not To Take Me
Tú, mijo.
Your English is better than mine. They will listen to you.
Tell them not to take me.
Tell them that in the pueblo I was accustomed to living with hunger as my most intimate companion, my closest friend, my only inheritance. That my neighbors, too, were poor but happy, content to live a simple life where we tended to one another with generosity, nourished only by a few cold, hard tortillas. Tell them that we lived without vanity or pretense, faithful to God and humble in spirit. That our familial bonds were, are, will always be inseverable and we have lived and died on the same soil for generations.
Tell them that we dreamed within our means until the glowing metal raindrops released from the bellies of their war planes blanketed the campo. Tell them that those of us who survived were mutilated by the sight of our universe being extinguished on the whims of a faraway stranger. That the screams taunt us in our sleep, when there is sleep to be found. Tell them that the fathers and brothers and sons who didn’t disappear in the flames and bullets later drowned, one by one in bottles of pulque. That those of us who persisted were blown by the winds of desperation in the direction of whatever salvation we could find.
Tell them, mijo.
Tell them that when you were born, I stood in the cool shade of your black coffee eyes and my heart shattered, hurling its pieces across two lands. That I fled into the unknown with only you strapped across my back. That I carried you as you clung to me like the small red tuna clings to the nopal. That I fed our bodies with only love and quenched our thirst with visions that propelled me across hostile terrain for miles and days and years until we landed here.
Tell them that my legs, short and strong, ached from the journey, scarred by scrapes and stumbles, but that I continued the long march forward. That these legs have become roots buried deep in the soil upon which we stand, reclaiming land where we once belonged, now dissected with lines drawn by men whose names and faces I do not know. Tell them that while they see us as weeds needing to be plucked from the soil, we are in fact a field of golden flowers thriving in an abandoned roadside lot: beautiful, strong, resilient as we brace against the torment, smiling as we gaze toward the sun.
Tell them that I’ve worked until my back curved in the heat, until the bones in my fingers twisted like the vines of a bougainvillea tree. That I’ve grown thin while watching them grow fat from the abundant harvest I have produced. That I have allowed them to make me invisible, my existence a constant reminder that their feast is paid for by my famine. That I lowered my voice so that I would not inconvenience their ears. That I dress modestly, so as not to draw their disapproval or worse, their attention. That I’ve given more than I could have ever taken, and that I have taken far less than I am owed.
Tell them, mijo.
Tell them that I walk with warriors. Warriors who over the centuries have sent armies and occupiers back to their continents, back to their gods. Tell them we are those who, when deprived of water and forced to march in the burning sun, have grown stronger and flourished like fields of nopal: astonishing, imposing, victorious.
Tell them that I will push away from this table for I’ve had my fill of indignities. That I will no longer be small. That there are more like me who sprout in innumerable dry crevices, who toil in the shadows. Who are like forgotten memories waiting in corners until the moment they are recalled. That my back is no longer curved, but straight like the mighty saguaro, towering in righteousness. Tell them that I will summon ancient spirits who will be reborn to collect on the overdue bill of justice.
Tell them, mijo.
That my eyes breathe the fire of millions ardently dreaming of liberation.
That the earth trembles at the resounding cry for freedom.
That in every child we have been given a soldier, and we are all children of God.
Tell them, mijo.
Tell them not to take me.
About the Author
Victoria Ballesteros is the daughter and sister of Mexican immigrants to the U.S. Her writing reflects her bicultural experiences and has appeared in several anthologies and journals, including Best Small Fictions 2024, trampset, Cutleaf Journal, Your Impossible Voice, and more. She currently lives in Spain. For more visit www.victoriaballesteros.com.