Fleshing the Spirit: Spirituality and Activism in Chicana, Latina, and Indigenous Women’s Lives

Queeranderismo

76 I: I Was a Curandera Before Birth I was a curandera before birth Un maíz prieto swimming in my mother’s womb With warm liquid sabor a rebeldía Floating through la sangre de mi cuerpo I was a curandera before birth One of the first signs of love Manifesting in the middle of walls That were once raped and abused Consistently For an entire childhood I was a curandera before birth Recovering ancient dreams De historias sobrevividas Y sentimientos heridos Queriéndose curar I was a curandera before birth Healing layers of pain From generations within My mother My grandmother Queeranderismo Berenice Dimas Queeranderismo · 77 My great grandmother All victims of rape and, I know I carry Those memories In my skin Durante una ceremonia con Yemaya My mother’s womb walls spoke to me Me confesaron “Mija, I was not ready to let you go. Tenia tanto dolor Y tu calor me estaba curando. Cuando llego el tiempo dejarte ir tu empujabas y yo no me habría. Nuestros corazones ya no podían. That’s why nos tuvieron que abrir. Cortarme a mi Sacarte a ti Tu vida, comenzó como una lucha ganada Pero con heridas” I was a curandera before birth And I am a curandera now Channeling generational trauma Listening to its voice Feeling its pain Helping my mother heal Helping myself heal Remembering That our bodies are not disposable That our existence is hope That we are worth living That we have something valuable to share with the world That we need to heal For our next seven generations I am a curandera now 78 · Berenice Dimas And every time my mother smiles, I see generations of survival1 II: Curando Memoria Recuperando mi Alma She grabbed my legs and held me tight. Fucked me from behind. My fingers quickly gripped tight to the sheets holding on with all their strength. Tears dripped as I shut my eyes and waited for that moment to be over. At the time, everything that was happening felt right, painful but right. I thought I was exploring my sexuality. Pushing the boundaries of my comfort by allowing her to touch me in that way. When I got home I took off my clothes and looked in the mirror. I saw my legs bruised and my back scratched. Suddenly the aching burning sensation on my skin spoke to me. Asked to be heard. I ran in the shower and felt the warm water caress me while I cried. I touched my body, held myself, and apologized. I thought to myself, “How did I get here? Why would I let myself experience something that I knew did not feel good to me?” In those moments of confusion, I went back to childhood memories of my mother hitting me. Getting home from working two, sometimes three jobs, and releasing her frustration and anger at me. As the oldest of three in a single-parent home, there were a lot of expectations that I had around the house. So, in those moments where my niñez interrupted my responsibilities, I felt that leather press against my skin. For years those memories were repressed. I was always scared of telling someone because I felt nobody ever really understood the complexity of my family. I was afraid that my mother would be judged before being understood. She did so much more for me and those were rare occasions, but they were also a part of my experience growing up. As I became older, I understood where my mother’s pain and frustration came from and why I was a victim as much as she was. With time, we began talking about those experiences and expressing our pain to each other. However, it was not until I experienced similar physical pain with another woman that those memories came back. Sitting on the floor in my shower I realized that the experience was beyond exploring pleasure for me. It was about healing a “comfort” with physical pain from a woman that I had internalized, and recognizing a trauma from being hit as a kid. Now I am beginning to explore the pain and interrogate how those memories inform my sexual interactions. I am learning how to Queeranderismo · 79 openly communicate what is pleasurable and what is not with my partners. It is so rare to have open conversations about domestic violence and about...