Chronicles of Brooklyn-born artist Yasmín Hernández rematriating the land of her ancestors/ Crónicas de una artista nacida en Brooklyn rematriando la tierra de sus ancestres.
I started this piece as a tribute to the luminescent brothers whose lives were stolen in Minnesota: Philando Castile and George Floyd. It has morphed into a reflection on the battle for black lives and black breaths, that I've witnessed since childhood, and on one's political formation within the colonized communities of the US empire... crumbling.
Pero si miras debajo de la superficie, hay unos cielos submarinos donde nuestros antepasados lucen resplandecientes. Brillan una luz eterna. Al igual que la nuestra cuando nos levantamos en protesta con el fuego de la justicia que arde brillante dentro de nuestros pulmones y corazones, respirando luz y amor de vuelta a la existencia./ But if you look beneath the dark surface, there is an underwater heaven with our ancestors aglow. Their light has long shined bright. As does ours each time we rise in protest with the fire of justice burning bright inside our lungs and hearts, breathing light and love back into existence.
May we release the need to measure ourselves by what we receive externally. May we become self-sufficient galaxies of love and nurturing before being allowed to reintegrate back into our communities for collective decolonizing and healing.
We all sit here numb, bewildered, isolated, wondering. Many infected. Too many dying. Many mourning. Only some are drawing concrete conclusions. Even fewer are generating plans of what kind of earth, what kind of humanity we want to bring into existence.
No matter the flags, the berets and formations, or the “red, black and green jumpsuits”, the revolution won’t be televised. And if too many of us forgot, even more of us never knew. It is my belief we are asking to much from a venue never designed to give it. We are wanting too much from people not equipped to offer it, but it is ok to hold them accountable, and ourselves accountable too.
I work to process the deep grief I hold for this Puerto Rico. The one that shakes every hour and waves, sways, pulses, taps, vibrates in between. I hold deep grief for the Puerto Rico of my mother’s dreams. The womb that held her when she was held in her own mother’s womb.
As she arrives a crescent moon, Venus and Jupiter anchor themselves in the sky, pulsing their light above the sunset. This is the hero’s welcome we receive when we uncross the journeys of ancestors.
As a liberation practitioner, making the impossible possible is my profession. I desire a sanctuary on red earth of lush greenery./ Como practicante de la liberación, hacer posible lo imposible es mi profesión. Deseo un santuario en suelo rojo de abundantes arboledas.
Vieques continues to be a portal to some other decolonial dimension, and I am ever grateful./ Vieques sigue siendo un portal a alguna otra dimensión decolonial, y vivo siempre agradecida.
Hurriquake= 1. the strange suspension of an altered state of consciousness to ascend/ escape from the superficial plane of outdated politics of injustice/ colonization/ climate destruction. 2. Sandwiched suspended or trapped between rumbling skies of tropical storms and the earth rumbling beneath your feet.
