Un Sueño de la Noche

Vi  a Jesús en un sueño de la noche.  Tenía las manos puesto junto a su corazón, cuidando algo especial.

¿Señor, qué llevas allá junto a tu corazón?  Lo cuidas como tu tesoro más amado.  Déjame ver que es.

Jesús se paró y me sonrió.  Mira pues, mi hija.  Te quiero compartir. 

Él abrió sus manos heridas y me mostró el tesoro más precioso del mundo, la niña de sus ojos:  fue la gente desconocida.  La gente que no han escuchado las buenas noticias.   Jesús me miró y vi en sus ojos los profundos de su corazón.  Mi hija, dijiste que querías conocer mi corazón.  Si quieres escuchar el latir de mi corazón, vas a escuchar el clamor de mi pueblo, porque lo llevo siempre en mi corazón.  He estado pensando en ellos desde la creación del mundo  ¿lo puedes llevar a este pueblo?  ¿Sabes cuantas lágrimas he derramado por ellos?  ¿Sabes tanto me duele?  ¿Cómo me pueden conocer, si nadie los lleva en el oración?  Estoy luchando alcanzarlos porque ellos también son hijos perdidos en la oscuridad.  Hoy te doy el regalo sentir lo que siento por este pueblo.

Cuando vi el amor, el anhelo de su corazón, tomé un paso para atrás.  No, Señor, no puedo.  No merezco eso.  Te voy a fallar.

Mi hija, siempre fue mi anhelo compartir con mis hijos todo que yo haga.  Te los doy hoy.  Llévalos al trono de Dios, pelea en oración por ellos, y pide el padre que los obreros vayan al campo.  Y deja que fuye mi amor a ellos por medio de ti.

Se fue el Señor de mi visto.  Y me dejo con la cara ese pueblo guardado en mi corazon  ¡Señor!  ¡Escuche mi clamor!  Rompe las cadenas que están sobre sus corazones.  Oh, tanto les amas!  Puedo sentir tu amor para este pueblo y se está quebrantando mi corazón…

Llegaron mis amigos y me rodearon.  ¿Que llevas, amiga?  ¿Por qué lloras?

Les mostré el tesoro que yo llevaba junto a mi corazón, pero se rieron.  ¿Por qué te importa ese pequeño pueblo?  ¡Están lejos, amiga!  Deja esas locuras.  Ven con nosotros.  Ríete, sonríe y olvida ese pueblito desconocido.

Pero cerré mis ojos y otra vez vi la cara de mi Salvador, con los ojos llenos del amor que le llevó a la cruz.  Señor.  Los guardo en mi corazón.  Quiero sentir tu corazón por las almas perdidos.  Los pueblos del mundo no están lejos de ti, pues tú los llevas junto a tu corazón.

Mi Todo

Aqui esta una copia del poema "My Everything" en Español para los que lo quieren ver.

Como te puedo merecer, mi Rey?

Tu, mi Dios, mi todo

Me dicen "No fuiste tan mala

Tal vez mentiste, tal vez enganiaste

Un poco aqui, un poco alla

Por que vale?  Por que te importa?

No mataste a nadie, nunca fuiste rebelde

Solo, como todos cayiste

Pero tu mi Dios, me entiendes

Veias mi vida desde el primer hilo

(o mas bien principio? es dificil traducir "starting strand")

Veias el vacio que me pusó en sombra

Y la oscuridad que en mi luchó

Un rayo de luz, rompiste mi mundo

Tu mano alcanzó a esta niña

Esperanza tan brillante, tu esperanza tan verdadera

Esperanza que me llamó "Quiero a TI"

No eres demasiado joven, ni tonta, ni loca

Eres mia, te compre, Eres MI hija"

Tu veias mis lagrimas cuando estaba sola

Me llamaste "Ven!"

Con tu alegria tan grande me llenaste

Tu amor rebosa de mi copa

Amor que crezca, se rie, y se extende

Mi pregunta, O Dios, esta no mas

Como yo podia viver antes?

Como odia pensaar que eso fue vida?

Cuando nada valia y todo lucho

Pero me haces completo en cada esquina

En ti, encuentro alegria cuando te sirvo

No puedo merecerte, mi Rey

Tu, mi Dios, Tu eres mi todo

You Are in America Now

“Seven fifty is your change. Thank you, ma’am.” The cashier says in a slightly bored tone, dropping the change into my palm. I grab the pack of beef jerky and turn to leave the convenience store, but a sign catches my eye and I pause. You are in America now. Speak English it reads. Above the words is a picture of Old Glory waving proudly. For an instant I imagine my friend Elisabet reading the sign. She has been here for six years and still struggles to understand the simplest English. She tries -- she tries hard, but almost all of the people she knows are Salvadorian like her, so she has little chance to practice. I wish I could say in a near-quote of Charles Dickens: Man, if man you be in heart, not adamant, forbear that wicked cant until you know who the Hispanics are and where they are.

I’m not Hispanic. But sometimes I feel like I am. I work in a Hispanic restaurant, eat their food, and speak Spanish all day, four days a week. I don’t know how many times the people there have asked me in Spanish where I’m from; I guess they can’t pinpoint my accent. “I’m American.” I tell them in Spanish, “Born in Texas.”

They look at me in surprise, “But your parents are from Mexico or Honduras or something, right?”

“No, they are from here in Arkansas.”

“What? You mean they’re white?”

“Well… Yeah.” I say, not exactly sure of the term.

“How did you learn Spanish?”

“I studied it from books, from a teacher, and over the internet.”

It never fails to completely blow them away that I learned Spanish so well, even though I technically have no connection with anyone or anything south of the border. One question is always in their faces, though they rarely ask it: “Why did you care enough to learn good Spanish?”

In their minds white people in Arkansas are the ones who put up signs that say You are in America now. Speak English. White people are the policemen who don’t care enough to work bilingually, the nurse who has to communicate through the six year old, and the teacher who can’t tell them about their child’s education needs. But, the ones who have been to the restaurant several times and watched me, sometimes comment about something else. “You always start in Spanish, even if the person is very likely to know English as well as Spanish. If English is the language you are fluent in, why don’t you speak that?”

I usually just shrug and say, “I like Spanish.” But there is a whole lot more to my reason than that. I do it because I watch the people that come in. I see their homesickness for El Salvador or Mexico or Honduras or wherever. I watch them run a finger over the map of Central America, buy a calling card and call family back home, stare longingly at the Salvadorian Flag on the wall. I hear them talking quietly in Spanish about Abuelita back home who made wonderful Atol de Elote and Tio Carlos that raised the tallest Maiz. How could I mess that up by making them speak English to me? I’d rather struggle in Spanish than make them struggle in English in the one oasis they have of home. Everyone has a right to create a piece of home. I used to frequent American Restaurants overseas, now I watch the Salvadorians frequent their Salvadorian Restaurant here. It’s a piece of home that connects them with the family they left behind.

Besides, shouldn’t we be telling them You are in America now, so feel free to speak any language you want? After all, most of my ancestors were immigrants. We can’t turn around and say “Well, my great-grandparents were fine if they wanted to speak German, but you and your Spanish can take a hike back to Mexico.” That would be completely dumb.

I love the people who come into the restaurant. I love it when they think I’m one of them. I love it when they know I’m not Hispanic and still include me as part of the happy group. I love hearing tales of El Salvador and the life they hope to make here. I mourn with them when they tell me of family they left behind, friends that were deported, relatives caught in gang life, or neighbors who are mistreated at work. So, convenience store owner, try learning Spanish – then you’ll see America.

Bilingual

I wrote this for Faithwriters.com competition. The topic was "Face to Face Conversation". I place second in the intermediate division.

The windshield wipers flicked back and forth, back and forth in front of Justin’s eyes as he peered into small area illuminated by the headlights. Swaying branches caught the light and glistened for a moment, then swept by and faded back into the darkness. The raindrops appeared on the windshield, blurring his vision, then were scraped aside, just to reappear again immediately. “It wasn’t right. It just wasn’t right.” Justin muttered, breaking the drumming silence.

There was no one in the car to answer him. He thumped the heel of his palm against the steering wheel, irritation plain in his face. He was usually so mild mannered; but now, alone, his frustration boiled out. “Why do I have to be different?” An intersection loomed out of the rain and he braked at a red light and leaned his forehead against the back of his hand on the steering wheel. Glancing again at the light, he reached up and adjusted the rear-view mirror so he could see his own troubled eyes staring back at him. Straight, black hair hung down across his forehead. His facial features and coloring were completely Native Mexican – wide face, high cheekbones and large flat nose. The light turned green. He sighed and pulled forward, shoving the mirror back to its correct angle.

It had started in Political Science class at the university. A civil discussion of current topics had turned ugly. “Well, here is a fence jumper right here I guess.” A girl across the aisle said suddenly, gesturing at Justin.

“I am not. I was born in this country, same as you.” Justin answered quickly, “I just think we need to see things from their point of view.”

“Why don’t you sound like you’re from this country then?” She asked.

It was true that Justin had picked up the accent from his parents. He had lived in a Hispanic community where English was an exception rather than normal until he was twelve, and the Spanish Accent still haunted him. The girl laughed and nodded triumphantly, as he struggled for an answer. “Uh-huh. What? You grew up in migrant worker fields? Your parents were illegal? Now you’re mooching off our education system and you can’t even speak English right? Do you speak Spanish?”

“Yes, fluently.”

“So where is your fluent English? You aren’t American. In my book, anyone who speaks Spanish is unpatriotic. Our language is being threatened and you’re one of the people threatening it.”

It still made him nearly shake with anger. Why did he have to be so utterly Mexican in his looks? His family was of straight Chiapas stock – full blood native. And Bilingual in a completely white, rural area.

Suddenly into his headlights flashed a person, standing in the road. It was a boy, dressed in dark clothing, with a hood over his face, shoulders hunched against the rain, hands in his pockets. Justin barely had time to register the image in his brain before he had swerved around it and hit the brakes, skidding on the wet pavement. The car jerked to a final stop and he opened his door, “Hey! What are you trying to do, commit suicide? Get out of the road!”

The boy was standing there, motionless, his sweatshirt and jeans soaked through and clinging to his skin. Justin climbed out of the car and took a couple steps toward him, “Hey, are you ok?”

“Sick.” The voice was a hoarse rasp, thickly accented, and barely above a whisper. The boy reached a shaking hand up and pulled back his hood, rain ran down his face and dripped from his lips, chin, and hair. He touched his forehead, “Sick. Hot.”

Justin stepped closer, but the boy drew back, fearful. “¿Hablas Español?” Justin asked. “You speak Spanish?”

The boy jumped and looked at him again. “You’re Mexican?” He asked in Spanish.

“My family is originally of Chiapas.” Justin answered in the same language.

Relief flooded the boy’s face, “I should have known! How good to see an honest Mexican face again! I was working on a farm several miles away, but I got sick and they made me leave. But, God sent me someone who could understand.”

“I’m Justin,” He answered, giving the softer Spanish pronunciation of the name – the pronunciation he had dropped when he came to college. With it came a host of memories of home – the Spanglish jokes, the old Mexican love songs on the radio. “And I’m glad I found you.”