PEACE IS NOTFor the children of our world.

PEACE IS NOTFor the children of our world.

written by Shelia K. Diaz, Wilmington, CA.

Migrant Publications, Los Angeles, CA

Peace is Not page i

PEACE IS NOT© 2010 Shelia K. Diaz, Wilmington, CA

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission from the author.

.

Peace is Not

Table of Contents Page(s)

Table of Contents

Chapter One – The United States

Peace is Not Page 5

We Tell Them Page 6

Mijito Page 8

Teacher Page 9

Welcome to Language Arts Page 10

When Will America Be America Again Page 11

Dieciocho Page 12

Who Can Stop A Sunset

Farmworkers Page 14

Her Father’s Other Daughter Page 15

Chapter 2 – Colombia

La Casa en el Aire Page 16

Los Desechables – In the Street Page 17

Los Desechables – In the Plaza Page 18

Book Title page i

List of Illustrations Page(s)

List of Illustrations

Jason Roger Lewis, Age 7 Cover Page

Peace is Not ii

This book began as a need to say goodbye to my youngest son, Jason, who was murdered as a result of the gang warfare in South Los Angeles. I wrote this for him and for all of the children who suffer because of violence.

I would also like to thank Helen Dunn, and Deirdre Lashgari who were my mentors early on in my writing career and who continue to be my muses as strong independent women who value good writing.

Special thanks go to my husband Carlos Mauricio, for his patience and support, and to my friend Elizabeth Scher who always has time to read my new work and give honest feedback.

Thank you to UCLA’s Writer’s Anonymous for their support in the process of writing and publishing this book. The Writing Project and the Reading and Literature Project at UCLA have also been an invaluable support for my writing.

Peace is Not iii

Peace Is Not

Peace is notLives measured togetherLike words in a poemAnd placedBloodlessOn a page.

It is not Calle Quince at nightIn Bucaramanga, ColombiaOr childrenWhose mothers Cannot tuck them in.

It is not an empty bedOr an open doorWaiting for loved lovesWho will neverCome home.

It is not 69th and Main St.In Los AngelesOn Saturday nightOr anywhereWhere childrenAre familiar with The machineGun sound ofBullets in flesh.

It is notChildren killing each otherOr a cross burningIn Georgia,Or a bomb explodingChildren like flowers In a park in MedellinOr Afghanistan,Or New York.

Peace is notAs lifeless As the mothers of IraqWhen their childrenAre gone.

Or the governmentsOf the worldPlaying chessWith the fingersOf our deadAs easily as they eatTheir morning toast.It is not,God,PeaceIs not.

Peace is Not 4

Chapter 1 – The U. S.

We Tell Them

We tell them theirStandardized test scoresAre important But we don’t Know the scoresThey keep quietlyTo themselvesAs they pretend to readOr write About placesThey’ve never beenAnd things they’ve Never imagined.

We don’t knowWho died yesterdayLast week,Or last year,Or whose motherOr father isMissing, yet,We ask them toRaise their handsIf they know the answers To our questions.How many answers Do we haveFor the questions They need answered?

We tell themThey can be anythingThey want to beIf they work hard,But they don’t \Tell usThat they were upUntil midnightMaking tamalesTo sellIn order toHelp their families,Or that they worked All weekendOr all week After school.They don’t tell usThe real reasonsThat they didn’t doTheir homeworkOr that last weekTheir uncle was murderedBringing milk homeFrom the corner tienda,That their mother Was deported ten years Ago and they liveWith an auntie

Peace is Not 5

Who has seven children of her own to feed.

We pretend weKnown the answersTo the important Questions, soWe give them testsAbout things theyHave never learned,And when they scoreLower than allOf the other children,We tell them They must do better, evenWhen weDon’t even know howTo pronounceTheir namesAnd we have never driven down the streetWhere they liveAnd sometimes die.

Even though weTeach them whatIs important to usWe don’t take the timeTo learnWhat is importantTo them.

Peace is Not 6

Mijito

Jorge:

All he ever wanted

Was writtenInto the lines of his firstFour line poem-A room of his ownBreakfast in the morningA yard with a white

picket fence and a dog in it –All he has is a torn pageAt the back of my desk drawerNext to Maria, Jose, Eddie, AlbertoAlma, Mauricio, Jason, and me.He is scrawled in between The two linesOf a South Central crosswalkNext to where he first learned To write his nameIn my eighth grade classroom.And his letters are like the bulletsAt 54th and BroadwaySo terrifying and so sad.

Peace is Not 7

Teacher

I am a teacherOf children buriedDeep in the heartOf a nationIn a mass graveOf racism And indifference.

I am a teacherOf lost hopes;Of treasuresHidden upIn the brown dirtOf our South CentralPlantations

I am a teacherWhose children

weepAt the soundOf Langston Hughes’“Dreams,”And the soundOf an ice cream truckThat passes by Slowly selling lies.

I am a teacherTorn between BoundariesOf supposedFreewaysThat take me homeOut of the darknessBut put my childrenTo bed and sleepSo deepIn this nationThat doesn’t see.

Peace is Not 8

Welcome to Language Arts

L.A. styleWhere the first lessonIs boundariesBorders, barrios,And the vocabularyIs Florencia trece,Dieciocho,69 East Coast, CuzAnd Moonlight Cats.

PoetryIs a night without bulletsOr sirens, or dead students.Here, the only grammarThat countsIs the presentTense.

Joy is foundIn a moment of peace,And the enemy Is lulled to sleepBy Shakespeare,And Blake, and DonneBefore the bellBreaks the dayInto all its differences.

Peace is Not 9

When Will America Be America Again?

This is America,The U.S. of APeople who are notPart of the dream.The U.S. of APlace where it is not newsThat the sun risesOver three hundredNew gravesEach day,All children,Unknown,Unnamed,And unreported.

It is one nationUnder a GodWho sees thereIs a libertyAnd a justiceThat is not For all.

This no longerSweet landOf libertyI ask myself“to theeWho sings?”

Land where ourChildren dieLand of our dying PrideFrom everyMountainside,It’s timeWe change.

Peace is Not 10

Dieciocho

It is written into his obituary.

It means he belonged,

Disgraced

Feared.

It is slashed intoThe minds of his enemiesAnd divides his family and his heartMarks his boundaries.It is who he is-It is who he was.It means he belongs.He is someone.Observed.Scrutinized.

Sometimes afraid.

It is ripped into his fleshBullet by bulletAnd marks the placeWhere he wasWho he wasIn bloodSpilledDisgracedAnd still Loved.

Peace is Not 11

Who Can Stop a Sunset?For Jason, March 13, 2004, 7:15 pm, Harbor UCLA Hospital

A bullet pierces

The heart of day and

Bright red pumps out

In slow motion

Across the deep cobalt

Edges of the hours

Before it makes long streaks

In the darkness.

I sit here watching

As the ocean

Becomes another dark memory

And my beloved son

Is buried

Somewhere

In the west.

Peace is Not 12

Farmworkers

There are no clouds in ArizonaTo hide the loneliness.Heat reflects everything,Even the freckles on a child’s faceBecome yellow sagebrushBeneath the glass desert sky.

Cement canals dissect the melting sandAs they rise up to the Indian mesasCoiling around the distant cities andWait for the childrenTo return from twelve hours of laborIn the cotton fieldsSink their cracked feet and burned skinInto the muddy waterLower their heads under the coolnessTo wash away the day’s work from their eyesUntil they resemble cool pink clouds

And they blossom up out of the waterMaking the desert bloomBefore they run back to their square cement housesLeaving thin wet linesOver the taut faceOf the mesa vieja.

Peace is Not 13

Her Father’s Other Daughter

From the distant riverShe is lifted upTo her father’s Waiting lap.Her arms are crushedAgainst hisSweat-stained chest.

A fog arises likeA giant grey mothAgainst the yellowHer Old ceramic bowl

Covers her careful lapAs she husks words/hoursWatches and waitsUntil bedtime

When she washes/dries her wrinkled hands

and like the other daughter sleeps.And she under her cold quiltIs left to dream

Of his darkened skin

Lamont SkyAnd in the front yardThere are sometimes rosesAmong the poverty stricken limbs but there are always blackberries and Mom’s jamsIn the kitchen

While in the other roomThe other sister sleepsAnd dreamsBut her fingers busyAnd at ease Mother sings “Amazing Grace,”

At the table culling peas again.

Her old ceramic bowl

Covers her careful lap

His uneven hands His uneven hands

A distant riverCovering herInstead of him.

Peace is Not 14

Chapter 2 – Colombia

“La Casa en el Aire”*

Memories curveover the distant mountainsinto the gentle smokeof Bougainvillea burstinginto fuchsia cloudsoutside my window.

The sun filters a soft mango lightthrough this morning’s darkness,illuminates the palm leavesas they touch the earth.

The fluted melody of wind becomes a mother’s voice,flowing gently over the Cordillera Orientalas the Papaya branches become her armsresting against the horizon.

Street vendors’ cries of, “Limones, Mangos,” Memories echo the rainas the day becomes a soft Vallenato.

* A Vallenato (typical music of the Colombian Caribbean coast)

Peace is Not 15

Peace is Not 16

Los Desechables –In the Street

Los desechables,As young as six,Sleep on the streetsBecause, a mother,Knowing her family Will go hungry,Sacrifices one child,Sends them outIn the hopeThat even a few pesosWill make the differenceAt that night’s supper table.

In Cinco Huecos,In La Ratonera, and Calle el Cartucho,1

The children becomeSmall hungry thievesStraight from the pages Of Charles DickensAs they forage in the garbageAlong with the city’s stray dogsAnd live on the ledgesOf the city’s sewersOrphaned by the violenceOf life’s roughest streets

With bars, brothels, And drugs for companyThey become sad

InevitabilitiesHuddled togetherIn a short storyThat chillsMy blood.

Peace is Not 17

1 Neighborhoods in Bogota, Colombia known for violence and poverty.

-In the Plaza

We sit comfortablyAt a clean tableIn the Café de la LunaOrder hamburgers & fries,Sip our sodas,And talk About the colorOf today’s sky,Laughing.

I try to take inLife outside the windows,Watching a cartPiled high with avocadosA womanCarrying mangos In a tin pan on topOf her head,And her child in herRight arm.

Peace is Not 18

I listen to a trio singing “O Que Sera, Sera,somewhereIn the distanceOf a dayBright and pulsingWith music

Then a tiny handReaches in front of me,And I turn to seeA small dirty face,Blue eyes staring, and Five year old skinSmudged with mud.Her torn dressCauses me to reachInto my pocketsFor money.

But, she is eyeingMy French friesSo I give them to herInstead of the customary centavos.She quickly stuffs Peace is Not 19

A French fryInto her mouth Then takes the rest Eating as she leaves.

I watch her goOut the doorRunning To the other sideOf the plaza.As I return to

-In the Plaza continued

My soda,And my friendThere is a slap loud enoughTo be heardEverywhere in the room.We all look to seeFrench fries scatteredOn the groundNext to the little girlAnd a fat womanStanding over her.

I rise from my seatPeace is Not 20

Ready to defend herBut my friend pulls me downSays that it is bestFor the little girl,For everyone, if I don’tGet involved.Says the woman willOnly beat her more.

I listen and watchAs the girl is draggedBy her armFrom the square.The French fries areBeing eaten by stray dogs

But no one else Pays attention.

We call for the check,Walk out into the plazaAnd leave to the soundOf a foreign songPlaying in the distance.“O que sera sera.”

Peace is Not 21

Peace is Not 22