Memories of a recent past pumps the heart faster through the night

I hear poetry in the distance

Far away beyond my ability to make sense

I close my eyes and wait for my limbic brain to settle.

My temporal lobe teams with activity of what was.

Memories of a recent past pumps the heart faster through the night.

Flashes of her features still make occasional appearances in and out of focus.

Not just hers but occasionally all the women I ever loved.

Why do we forget the things that mean nothing to us?

And remember the things we long to forget.

The sound of my heartbeat keeps me up at night

Forget her she’s gone, they’ve all gone away.

Just empty my mind here as I lay.

Focus on the sound of nothing at all.

Stop clinging to my desires can’t you just forget?

Empty the mind of what was or could have been.

Just sleep and rest and soon the memories will subside.

Why do we forget the things that mean nothing to us?

And remember the things we long to forget.

The darkness is filled with the lights in my head.

Sounds and memories in and out of existence

Quantum workings of the mind gone wrong

Concentrate on nothing don’t think at all.

Sleep don’t think, sleep don’t think

The brightness overwhelms me deep in the night

The hours go by, I toss and turn

No end in sight no sleep at all.

Why do we forget the things that mean nothing to us?

And remember the things we long to forget.

I hear poetry in the distance...

Don’t think... Don’t think...

Closer and closer...There’s poetry in my mind...

Don’t think... Don’t think...

Don’t think of her...

David Yanez

6-27-09

Eventually every artist has to decide whether they want to succeed in the "Artworld," or contribute to the real world. Only one of these worlds exist.

 - David Yanez -

"ART"

  

When the artist can be the flower,

When the artist can be the bird,

When the artist can be the insect,

And display their artwork as if it was born of their body;

When the artist truly understands how nature creates,

How nature communicates with creative intent,

When they understand the history of intent

In a world full of kill or be killed,

Then they will know what is:

The art of survival.

Creative communication,

Creative expression,

Creative thinking,

Not art, but the art of survival.

By what measure do we call the ready made art,

While what nature has already made goes unnoticed?

Creativity existed long before the birth of art.

Art is but the human extension of a creative evolutionary process.

Art is the child of creativity, born through the blood

Of every living creature that has ever existed.

It is the creative arm of Natural selection,

Creative selection to be more precise.

Human art is but a child,

Evolving and learning, while trying to impress its mother.

Creative communication,

Creative expression,

Creative thinking,

Not art, but the art of survival.

When humans understood their environment,

When we understood the culture of the animals,

When we understood 'why' the beauty of the flowers,

Reflecting critically upon the world around us,

When we decided that we also needed this culture

That gives animals identity and binds their groups and species,

When we decided to sing, dance and be colorful,

A spiritual awakening and bonds of culture,

When we finally understood how nature survives,

This is when art was born.

This is when Humans were born.

David Yanez

12-12-16

Look To The Past

Acrylic and Graphite on Paper

40" x 52"

2014

Dear Marguerite,

     Please forgive me for making this letter part of my art.

I know no other way of showing you how much you meant

to me. You 've always been a part of me. My art is my mind,

my heart, my pain, my memories, it's what I smell, hear,

think and cry about. To exclude you from my art would be

like ripping out a piece of my brain or heart. Your part of

me Marguerite, you've been so for half my life. I can’t let

you go with out trying for the last time. I promise you this

will be the last time I try. I don‘t want you to hate me.

I'm not insane, nor am I ashamed of asking you for your

friendship one last time.

     I don't have many friends and the ones I do have know me

as a good, kind, emotional man, who would always be there

for them. You were my first true friend Marguerite, and I let

you slip away from me, because I was too young to realize

my faults. My shyness and insecurities didn’t know how to tell

you how important you were to me, and when I last saw you I

was devastated. I hated myself for being such a coward. I told

you that I would keep in touch, but my insecurity was too

overwhelming. You meant so much to me, that I thought I

wasn’t good enough to be your friend. Could you ever forgive

me my dear old friend, for not taking your hand in friendship

when it was offered to me again eleven years ago?

     I've been torn apart for the past seventeen years, since we

first said goodbye. You have no idea how hard I tried to forget

you, to rid your memories from my mind, but no matter how

much I tried, I always remembered a little promise I made to

myself seventeen years ago, that there would always be a small

space in my heart, reserved especially for you, until the day I

die. And in that tiny little space is seventeen years of hope, and

waiting, and fear, and loneliness, and pain, that keeps me from

reaching in and ripping it out. Over the years that tiny little

space began to take over the rest of my body. First my heart,

then my mind, and now my body. My body is sick now, my mind

is weak, and my heart has given up hope, and as more and

more blood leaves my body, I feel that small little promise

leaving with it, and it's hard Marguerite, it's hard to hold on

to it, because it means the world to me, and no amount of pain

or illness can ever take it away from me. It’ll be with me till

the day I die.

     My heart has taken over my mind. My mind is fading away.

and all I can see is black, and red, my wrists, my mother

crying, my wife Alba in pain, and my Linda begging for my

forgiveness, but before my eyes close. I want to hear the voice

that kept me alive all these years, and I want her to say.

"Dave, It’s alright I'm here, thanks for loving me, remember

my secret language. I 'II see you in the next life," but then 

I awake, into the nightmare of reality, were pain runs

through my veins, and my veins cry out for relief. But my love

for life is strong, because there is no other; no Gods, no Souls

no ever after, just the universe, with all it's wonders and

injustices, and everyday is a struggle, between pain and no

pain. Between love and insanity, between a seventeen year old

boy, and the man he would become, between a husband and his

wife. Between a friend and his best friend, between you and I.

     I 'm sorry for writing you this letter Marguerite. If I didn’t

my mind would have lost, and my body would have slowly

faded away. I loved you Marguerite. I've loved you for half my

life. You 'II be with me always. Have a beautiful life.

I’ll always be there for you,

David Yanez 

3-11-96  (This letter was never actually mailed for obvious reasons)

Magic

Magic is chaos in the void,

A ripple in the void,

The vibrating void magically appears,

And transforms itself into everything that exists.

An evolutionary process.

That which comes together

Keeps on vibrating.

                  

That which vibrates exists.

Energy is vibrations or movement of the void,

No longer a void but a vibrating void.

No longer a void but existence.

Imagine spinning energy into a string,

Then spinning that string into a ball

A ball of energy.

A Quantum knot.

This is what matter is.

The universe spins this string

And weaves the web of existence.

The dictionaries have it all wrong.

Magic is not supernatural or the manipulating of reality.

It is natural and the transformation of reality.

It is nature unfolding.

It's happening all around us.

Magicians are not humans that pull rabbits out of a hat,

Nature itself is the magician.

Science is not the antonym of magic,

But the study of and investigation of that which is not understood.

It is, the study of the magician.

"Nature"…

David Yanez

2-17-13

Magic

Archival Pigment Print on Canvas

26" x 37"

2014

The Tango of Yin and Yang: A Dance Between Two Lovers

The Universe is beyond reason

Beyond a unified theory of everything

It defies scientific certainty

It eludes string theory, M-theory

And most certainly eluded Einstein

The Universe is beyond faith

Beyond religion

It defies the certainty of a God creator

It eludes the Bible, the Torah and the Koran

And most certainly eluded the Buddha

It is unpredictable yet self-organizing

Unintelligent yet gives rise to intelligence

It evolved from that which was not

Into that which is and will be

To experience is the goal

Coming together is its means

Complexity is the key

Unification is its strength

It lives through every atom

It lives through every star

It lives through every conceivable form and mind

It lives to experience what you take for granted

It lives, through you and it lives through me

It is a battle of the opposites

Between existence and non-existence

Born of one another

In a dance of being and non-being

Destruction and creation

It is the tango of Yin and Yang

A dance between two lovers

A dance of love and passion

The eternal infinite primordial couple

Moving they are the Tao

Together give birth to ten thousand beings

To live, to love, to be loved

To dance in the face of destruction

To create in the face of hopelessness

To come together in the face of insurmountable odds

To experience the Tango of Yin and Yang

This thing you call existence

David Yanez

8-28-2011

"The Tango Of Yin and Yang: A Dance Between Two Lovers" 

Acrylic on Canvas  

54" x 72"

2014

"We Are The Universe"

I am the light and the dark.

Creation and destruction.

Both being and nonbeing.

Both life and death.

Both the good and the evil.

Some call me the void

While others call me the cosmos.

I am the Yin and the Yang

The Tao or the Way

I am Brahman, Yahweh, Allah and the Christ.

I am the light of the world

Both Nirvana and Samsara

I am the fear one feels when the darkness it befalls.

Or the rise of the dawn when new hope takes hold.

I am both enlightenment and ignorance.

You can see me in the mirror

When you look into your eyes.

I am the universe.

It is what you are.

We are the universe

How you perceive both the light and the dark,

Determines how you define and express them.

In the end, the dark can never consume the light,

Nor the light the dark.

We are the primordial opposites.

We are the universe.

David Yanez

12-17-13

We Are The Universe

Archival Pigment Print on Canvas

18" x 36" 

2014

"Bleeding Hearts"

I am a bleeding heart,
From the lands of bleeding hearts,

From the heart that bleeds,

From the lands Columbus bled.

I am from the lands where the Incas, the Mayas and the Aztecs bled.

The lands that Reagan bled,

The lands that bleed still,

In memory of the blood that was shed.

I am from the lands south of the Navajo, the Cherokee, and the Sioux.

The lands that Jackson bled,

The lands that bleed still,

In memory of the blood that was shed.

I am a bleeding heart liberal,

From the lands of bleeding hearts.

I am Mestizo.

I am Latin American. 

David Yanez

7-15-16

Corazones Sangrantes / Bleeding Hearts

Archival Pigment Print on Canvas

40" x 36"

2015

Tales Of An American Spic: "I Was A Three Year Old Spic."

It was the summer of 1964 a couple of weeks before my third birthday. I was sitting outside on the stoop, day dreaming about my upcoming birthday, and wishing for a toy rifle. I was so young and innocent, oblivious to the struggle that life was. Oblivious to the hatred that surrounded me in Queens New York. Not fully aware of myself nor of my role in this world. Not fully conscious. My genetically inherited personality traits were showing by now. I was extremely shy, and attached to my mother. I was afraid of being alone, scared of the dark, and would cry uncontrollably for my mother in her absence. I was too young to know the difference between black and white, them versus us, we from them. The only thing I cared about was my family and my upcoming birthday.

We immigrated to the U.S. from Ecuador, just two months earlier. In the company of my Mother, two brothers and my sister. We left behind our beloved Grandparents and all the aunts, uncles and cousins we adored. My Mother had never been separated from her family before, but knew that she had to be strong and do what was best for her children. 

My Father had already made the sacrifice of leaving his wife and kids behind a year earlier while he searched for a new life for us in a foreign land, the United States of America. It was a time long before I can remember. 

As the whole family gathered in the airport to bid us farewell, my mother recalls the tears running down their faces. My Grandfather stood strong as always, as we flew away to a land beyond the clouds, a land where dreams do come true. It was such a sad and painful goodbye for everyone, but as traumatic as this separation was, it wasn't enough to be my first memory. I had forgotten the life I left behind, my Grandparents, the mountains, and the happiness. I didn't even remember the airplane ride. Nothing, not even a memory before that day on the stoop. Not even the days in-between the stoop and my birthday. It was my third birthday that would be the beginning of time for me. The day I would come into this world. The day I always believed I was born. The day I became aware. 

I looked so happy sitting there. Thinking about the one thing that would make me the happiest kid on earth, a toy rifle. I didn't even realize I was in a new country, America. I was in The American Dream. That's what my parents wanted. My father immigrated upon my mothers request, after she wrote a letter to my Uncle who was already in America. Asking him to claim my father, so that he could find a good job, and take his family out of poverty. 

In only a year, he saved enough money to claim his wife and four kids. Eventually he would save enough money to claim his two sisters as well. The sacrifice my parents made in order to give me a better life would not be understood until my third birthday. My birthday was a great success. All the people I loved were there for me, along with some new people. I blew out the candles and got my wish. My eyes lit up as I pulled away the wrapping paper. I was indeed in a land where dreams come true, America. It wasn't the blowing out of the candles, nor the unwrapping of my beautiful rifle, but what follows is the moment I entered this world, my first memory, the instant I became aware, no memories before, except for that moment on the stoop. Space, time, and consciousness came into being for me. Soon it would all make sense. This is how I remember it: 

"Pow Pow, Pow Pow" I shouted, as I chased my adorable three year old neighbor across the yard. We were so young and innocent. She was the Indian and I was the Cowboy. "Pow Pow, Pow Pow." Running and laughing, smiling and giggling. Oblivious to everything but our game. Run little Indian run... I was so happy. It was my birthday and I finally got my toy rifle. I also had a beautiful new friend, actually she was my first friend. What more could a three year old boy want. I was on cloud nine, the American Dream. I can still hear her laughter. It drowned out all other sounds, the birds, the cars, the people. Her laughter filled me with such joy. "Pow Pow, Pow Pow." Run little Indian, run little neighbor, run my little friend, laugh my little friend. 

As we ran across the yard I noticed an angry looking figure rushing towards us. As he got closer and closer I began to tremble. My heartbeat doubled, my body began to freeze, as his eyes locked on to mine. I could not move. I was so scared, everything was moving in slow motion. Tears running down my face, my body unable to move, unable to hear myself cry, shivering with fear. What’s happening? Powerless to stop this force of nature, my destiny, my future. Suddenly I was alone. Stuck in a realm meant only for me. Stuck with a monster, or was it a man. Surrounded by this black void of nothingness with only the sound of my heartbeat pounding against this darkness, this evil, as it ripped the rifle from my hands and said: 

“Don’t you ever point a gun at my sister again you Fucking Spic!" As he bashed my toy rifle over the swing set. My toy rifle, he's breaking my rifle into pieces. 

“I don’t ever want you playing with those Fucking Spics again!” He said, as he dragged his little sister home, my friend, my beautiful little Indian. Goodbye my friend.

David Yanez

5-13-15

Archival Pigment Print

32" x  46"

Copyright David Yanez 2015

Tales Of An American Spic: "The American Dream."

 

Let me take you back to a time when Latinos, and Hispanics officially did not exist in the United States. While many of you identify with being Latino or Hispanic, and feel a cultural connection with most people of Latin American descent, this broader feeling of unity between Latin Americans, is a fairly new phenomenon. The word Hispanic wasn't officially adopted by the United States until 1970, and the word Latino not until 1997. Before that, for most New Yorkers of the time, we were either Spanish, Porto Ricans, Mexicans, or my favorite "Fucking Spic's."

 

It was a time when Elmhurst, Jackson Heights, and Ridgewood Queens were mostly white neighborhoods. A time when Spanish Harlem was heading for decay, and Bushwick soon to follow. In 1964 my family and I, were one of the first groups of Ecuadorians to immigrate into New York. Before 1965, national quotas on immigrants favored European immigration rather than Latin American immigration. After 1965, with changes to immigration law, it became easier for Latin Americans to emigrate to the United States, but for us there were no Ecuadorian neighborhoods to live in. It was either live in the ghetto, or live in a nice white New York neighborhood.

 

We were the first wave of South American immigrants in New York and the United States. The first wave to go into the trenches. The first wave to be cut down, again and again. The first wave to move into the nicer white neighborhoods. My parents, and your parents wanted the American Dream, and they wanted it for there children. They didn't want to live in a ghetto. They were just as poor as most Latin Americans at the time, but that didn’t scare my parents. They wanted the American Dream, even if it meant working twice as hard, and enduring the pain of watching their children suffer the humiliation of discrimination, hatred and physical abuse, at the hands of the many racist New Yorkers of the time. They would push their limits and the limits of their children, in order to give their children a better life.

 

Believe it or not, there was a time when I only spoke Spanish. A time when I learned English strictly from watching TV. A time when I didn't even know that I knew English. Until a day in Kindergarten, after not saying a word for weeks, I asked the boy next to me to please pass me the crayon. He yelled out for the whole class to hear: "He spoke, he spoke." Until that day, I only spoke Spanish to my family. You see, I was afraid of speaking English and going to school, afraid of going outside to play. It was a time when we would go out shopping, and all the people would stare at us. I can still hear their whispers: “Look at the Spics. Make sure they don’t steal anything.” It didn’t matter that my mother was a beautiful Caucasian woman, or that we were innocent and harmless children, because as soon as my parents spoke, they knew, they always knew, they knew that we were spics.

We were the Latin Americans that were singled out, cursed at, spat upon, beat up, and humiliated. And the worst part of it was, that we couldn’t turn back, we couldn’t show fear, we couldn’t let them see us cry. It was our dignity that was at stake. It was your dignity that was at stake. We held back our tears and forced ourselves upon White Americans so that one day your children could live anywhere they want, and not have the word spic branded on their foreheads and burned into their hearts.

 

Which brings me to my point. How dare you? My fellow Latin Americans, and North Americans of Latin American descent. Accuse me of not being Latino or Hispanic enough. Of neglecting my Latino or Ecuadorian culture. You teased me as a child and called me a white boy behind my back, and over the years this has hurt me a great deal.

 

How dare you assume that I didn’t suffer racism as much as you. We had to survive in the white mans territory. It was a time when Elementary School was a war zone, and most of the Latin American and Black students were bused in from neighboring Bushwick. Most of these kids did of course experience discrimination while they were in school and in the white neighborhoods of Ridgewood and Glendale Queens, but when the three o’clock bell rang they went back to their neighborhoods, back to play with their friends. They didn’t have to deal with discrimination until the next school day. Some of you may remember the rocks they used to throw at your school buses when they would arrive at school. Scary, wasn’t it? Now imagine having to go through that everyday and all day as a child.

 

My brothers, sisters and I, had to constantly endure the stares, the name calling, the whispering behind our backs, and yes, the bloody noses. Everyone wanted to beat up a fucking spic. We were the little soldiers of the civil rights era. We experienced the front line. We have the scars from the battleground. The bloody noses from the enemy. We have the flashbacks that only war can leave. And in our minds the enemies were not the whites, but the bigots and their children. And when the three o’clock bell rang, I knew what to expect. I was a six year old child and I knew that it was time to get beat up.

We suffered the humiliation, the fear, the emotional scaring and the pain of not belonging. We had to humble ourselves, excuse ourselves, avoid eye contact. We had to be smarter in school to gain their respect. We had to push ourselves physically harder in order to defend ourselves. We could never lose a fight because it would show weakness. We had to endure more pain, be more humble, be more forgiving, because once we fought them we had to live with them, and eventually forgive them. That’s what my mother taught us, to forgive those who make us cry. We were just children and unaware that we were paving the future, so that you and your children wouldn't have to go through what we went through.

We fought the battle, so that you may prosper here today. We are the reason you can walk into a white neighborhood today and not be attacked instantly. We are the reason you can buy a house in almost any neighborhood today. We are the reason your children don't come home with bloody noses and mental scars of abuse. We're the ones. We were first contact with the whites in these neighborhoods. We forced ourselves upon them, showed them our ways, made them see us as ordinary people. We educated white Americans, by befriending them, by playing with their children, by gaining their trust. That is why I must apologize to my white American friends for using the word: White. Not all white Americans were bigots. I've made dear and lasting friends with many.

I am, Ecuadorian and Latin American I've always been so. Don't ever accuse me of not being Latino enough. I can't dance Salsa, because most of my friends listened to rock and roll. And when more and more of my own kind moved into the neighborhood, I tried to befriend you, but we were as different as night and day. You embraced your Latin American heritage, or the country of your origin. You were sure of your identity, proud of your culture and traditions. You danced like a true Latin American and spoke Spanish fluently. But what was I? What had I become? I had been assimilated. I had been accepted. I was one of them, yet I wasn't. I was one of you, yet I wasn’t. I had no identity. I had spent all my childhood fighting and defending myself, in order to gain white Americans respect, and when I finally got it, my own people mocked me.

 

I still speak Spanish, not as fluent as you, but I haven't forgotten. I don't dance as well

as you, but I sure do try. I'm the one who had the word 'Spic' branded on my forehead and burnt into my heart when I was only three years old. I was a spic long before they started calling us Latino or Hispanic. I am Mestizo, meaning mixed. I am Ecuadorian and Latin American. I am also a United States citizen and proud to be. But most of all, I am someone that believes in the American Dream. Not just for Americans, but a dream that can be realized all across the World.

 

 

David Yanez

5-12-2015

 

 

 

Tales Of An American Spic: "Life Exists In Between The Pain."

Tales Of An American Spic: "Life Exists In Between The Pain." 

I remember this day in 1967. It was my first grade class photo shoot. I was six years old and was too shy to ask for permission to use the bathroom, and on this day I remember nervously trying to cover up the fact that I peed myself during the photo shoot. You see humiliation by then was nothing new for me. Humiliation was something I lived with everyday. And on that day, life was working overtime to humiliate me, because when the three o'clock bell rang, I knew what to expect. I knew that it was time to get beat up. Three American white boys would wait for me in the school yard. Waiting to humiliate me and beat me up, and there was no way that I would let them see me with my wet pants. So I snuck out of school early that day to avoid seeing them. To avoid a bloody nose, the name calling and the humiliation. 

 

You see, what I left out so far is the reason that I was getting beat up and humiliated throughout my childhood. For some reason of which, I did not understand, my family and I were different. We even spoke a different language and I didn't even know why. Even our last name was different from all the other kids. Why didn't my parents speak English? That was so embarrassing, but what was more embarrassing was how our white neighbors used to throw bottles at us from their windows as we walked by. They used to spit on us and flip us the middle finger, and when we walked into a store they used to watch us from the corner of their eyes and whisper: "Make sure they don't steal anything." So yeah, I would say that we were different.

 

Later that afternoon, my teacher came to our apartment and knocked on the door. My mom barely understood English, but my ten year old sister translated for her. My teacher told her that, I had left school early that day without her permission. As far as I was concerned the world was basically over for me. When my father got home I knew what the punishment would be. My father was famous for handing out our punishments by taking off his leather belt and whipping us across our behinds until we cried and apologized. Sure enough, when he got home that day, he asked me why I cut school. And so I told him. I told him the truth. Maybe he'll have pity on me. I could see by the expression on his face that he was bothered. As he proceeded to hit me, I noticed something was wrong. It was like the wind was knocked out of him for a second or so, and yes something was definitely wrong. My father wasn't his usual self. Why was he crying? I'm the only one that should be crying. I'm the one that cut school. And above the sound of my crying I heard him yell out: 

 

"Would you rather those boys hit you, or I hit you? I want you to fight back from now on! Don't ever let anyone call you a spic ever again!"  

 

As his tears ran down his face, I knew that I had to fight back for my father’s sake. So that he wouldn’t feel so bad. From that day on, no one, no matter how big they were, would ever call me spic without tasting my knuckles.  

Three years earlier in 1964, my family and I immigrated to New York from Ecuador. The year of the New York Worlds Fair. The year the Beatles invaded America. The year color television made its day view, and the model for the future World Trade Centers was unrolled. The year the civil rights movement gained momentum, and the Harlem race riots broke out. The year three civil rights workers were murdered by the Ku Klux Klan. The year Malcolm X proclaimed that time has run out, “It's either the ballet or the bullet.” The year Martin Luther King was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize. It was the year Cesar Chavez gave voice to the National Farm Workers Association. The year racial discrimination was supposed to be outlawed in the Civil Rights Act. This was the year war was declared against North Vietnam, but the war was not in Vietnam, the war was here, in Jackson Heights, Elmhurst, and Ridgewood Queens. Weapons of mass discrimination were used against me, eating away my mind like Napalm burning through skin. At three years old I was deep in the trenches of an identity war. A war that would last all my life, and would leave its battle scars, flashbacks and post traumatic stress disorder, forever engrained upon my mind. I was a three year old spick, living the American Dream, and what a nightmare it was. Who was I? What was I?

In 1964 Gentrification worked in the opposite way. The well to do didn't force us out of the ghettos to redevelop it for themselves, they moved out of their own nice neighborhoods, of their own accord. They moved out because they hated us, and they were afraid of us, but most of all, because they didn't want their daughters falling in love with us. We were only the first wave of many waves that would inherit these white neighborhoods that they abandoned and left for lost. We were spics, dark skin, light skin, it didn't matter. It didn’t matter that my mother was a beautiful Caucasian woman, because when they heard us speak, they knew, they always knew, they knew that we were Spics. It was a time when Latinos and Hispanics did not exist. Latino identity is a fairly recent phenomenon. I was a spic long before anyone ever realized that they were Latino. There were no Ecuadorian, or Cuban Americans, no Dominicans or Colombians. In the white mans eyes we where either, Spanish, Mexicans, or Porto Ricans.  

 

Goodbye self esteem, hello extreme shyness, forget about ever feeling good about myself. Forget about self confidence, I had no identity, who was I? What was I? Forget about me ever being able to ask out a white girl after them giving me the finger and calling me spic every time we moved into their neighborhoods. I can still remember her face, but I don't remember her name, beautiful, blond and she lived across the street. I was seven years old, and I remember her mom yelling at our landlord in front of the whole neighborhood, for renting an apartment to the spics; that was us. I remember him yelling back at her with his heavy Italian accent, giving her the middle finger and calling her unrepeatable sexual insults, which to this day I remember word for word. And when her daughter, who was in my second grade class started giving me the middle finger, I gave it right back at her. But unlike her Mom, I knew that she liked me, and I liked her, but we couldn't show it. It was understood, and we made it a game. She never called me a spic though. Every time we saw one another we would flip each other off and laugh. We managed to exist in between the name calling, the insults and the pain. A few months later her Mom moved out of the neighborhood and took her with her. I wish I remembered her name.

 

You see, by the age of nine, I was already numb, numb to the pain. Immune to any pain that life could throw my way. For me, life existed in between the pain, in between the loneliness and confusion, in between the bloody noses and the name calling, in between the sexual abuse and the shame. At nine years old, all I could do was just, get back on that horse and shake it off, because I was not a quitter. There was a war going on in my head, for control of my identity, and my sanity, and it was a war that I could not afford to lose. It was a war I've been fighting from the day of my very first memory. The day I always believed I was born. The day I had became aware. My very first memory in life. At three years old, and on my birthday, life would begin, and take on meaning for me. It was the day I was called a "Fucking Spic" for the very first time. I was born on my third birthday, on July 9th 1964. 

 

I am a byproduct of racism and discrimination. I am living proof of the harm that it does to people and especially children. I was a three year old spic and have remained so emotionally and mentally all my life. It is only now that I try to make sense of it all, express it, and get it all out, in order to get beyond it. To be able to live life, in-between the pain. 

 

David Yanez

4-15-14