BIO
julie corrales is a first-generation Chicana, an autodidactic chola, political activist, teen-mother, hoochie, feminist, survivor, actively engaged in her own decolonization. Mexica by blood, American by her parents’ sweat and tears, she draws on her experiences to advocate for and write about Latinx issues. As a youth, julie wrote melodramatic rhyming love poems, many which are still in circulation among California inmates. Since then, her essays have been published in the San Diego Union Tribune and La Prensa San Diego; her poetry has been featured on La Bloga, a Chicanx literary blog, and included in Palabra, An Open Mic anthology. She performs spoken word at various venues in San Diego.
to the girl sitting on the ground
outside the office bathroom
her mother was cleaning on the night i was working late…
i see you, morita. i remember.
i too was subjected to boring nights
outside a bathroom
outside an office
in a hollow building my bone-set
loneliness echoing off of tile floors and white walls
while my mother knelt over a toilet
just on the other side of the door
i was also met in the hallway by lone
late workers a man in a plain button-up
sleeves rolled up as if he would ever
have his arms up to his elbows in anything
the tall thin white woman with features
i saw in every 80s music video
but never in my neighborhood --- her beauty
a jarring reminder i do not belong
the men would almost always stop
in the their tracks their jaws would fall
slightly they wouldn’t say anything
but if they had i’m certain they would have stuttered
their eyes would go from wide and round ---
who is this foreign girl jutting out
in my comfortable world?
to furrowed and fiery ---
why am i affronted with things i don’t want to see?
then they’d notice my mother’s cart and all my skin
would wince with their judgement ---
who would ever bring their child here?
the women wouldn’t miss a beat
their eyes would dart up and down my pubescent
body -- size me up in the 2.5 seconds
it takes them to size up any woman of any age
and quickly surmise that i was no threat
brown and round and dismal -- far, far removed
from anything that is them a half-glance telling
me all the things i already knew
their pace never slowing i’d just disappear
right in front of them my mother never even materialized
i remember shrinking further into myself
i remember wondering what normal
kids were doing, certain i was not normal
i remember humiliation pulling me down down
into hard brown carpeting ---
carpeting my mother would soon vacuum
while walking backwards out of the room
so as to leave no footprints
she: a ghost that empties trash cans
me: a ghost of a ghost
mija, i know you are angry at her for bringing you here
i know you wish to shed her like old skin leave her
and her cleaning cart and the hard carpet
in another life and walk into a new one --- a life
where you roll up your sleeves for no reason --- a life
where you do more than haunt hallways in places you don’t belong
you will ---
you will and your whole life when you see cleaning staff
in the hall you’ll offer them the warmest smile you can muster
your eyes will glimmer si se puede
and they’ll look right at you
and their eyes will beam back gracias
you'll take your lunch out back where they gather
you’ll find every opportunity to tell them
mi mamá también limpiaba oficinas
and bask in their pride they will see their daughters in you
as i see my mother in them as i see me in you
that night as my childhood poured
into the office foyer i pull myself to the present
i turned my whole body to face you reaching---
clumsily--- for something to give you i managed to say
i remember coming to work with my mom at night, just like this…
all the shame dropped from your brow we smiled at each other
I see you, mija. You are no ghost.