BIO
Norma E. Cantú received her Ph.D. in English from the University of Nebraska – Lincoln and has taught at Texas A&M International University and the University of Texas – San Antonio with brief stints at Georgetown University and the University of California, Santa Barbara. She is founder and director of the Society for the Study of Gloria Anzaldúa and co-founder of the group of Latina/o poets, CantoMundo, as well as a member of the Macondo Writers Workshop. As editor of two book series-- Rio Grande/Rio Bravo: Borderlands Culture and Tradition, at Texas A&M University Press, and Literatures of the AmericasCanícula Snapshots of a Girlhood en la Frontera at Palgrave--she promotes the publication of research on borderlands culture. As a scholar her areas of study include Border Studies, Latina feminisms, literary criticism, and folklore. As a creative writer she has published fiction, poetry and personal essays in a number of venues. Her book chronicles her growing up in Laredo, Texas and her most recent work is Transcendental Train Yards,Entre Guadalupe y Malinche: Tejanas in Literature and Art. a collaboration with Marta Sanchez, a visual artist and print maker. She has also edited or co-edited a number of works including
Norma E. Cantú, daughter of the borderlands, is the founder and director of the Society for the Study of Gloria Anzaldúa and co-founder of the group of Latina/o poets, CantoMundo, as well as a member of the Macondo Writers Workshop. She has published fiction, poetry and personal essays in a number of venues. Her book Canícula Snapshots of a Girlhood en la FronteraTranscendental Train Yard chronicles her growing up in Laredo, Texas and her most recent work is , a collaboration with Marta Sánchez, a visual artist and print maker.
Meditación Fronteriza I (2000)
Esta realidad fronteriza que nos penetra hasta por los poros, con el polvo, el calor, los humos, olor a petróleo y a gardenia, sí, esta realidad nos forja y nos hace lo que somos. El diario luchar por el pan de cada vida, de cada día, de cada vida, de cada día.
En esta frontera estoy atrapada. No, situada. No, desplegada. No, estacionada. No, aparcada. No, parqueada. No‑nada de atrapada o parqueada‑estoy como el río, siempre y nunca el mismo. Porque estoy haciendo cola para cruzar‑calmadamente, tranquila-- con el calor sofocante, comiendo una raspa--o raspado-- de mango que Pili me vendió hace dos cuadras-‑tranquila y legal‑‑ no como los que se arriesgan con coyotes o a solas, no como los que vuelan como pájaros sin fronteras. Y sigo en mi Camry a vuelta de rueda como en el freeway en Houston during rush hour o en LA o en Monterrey pero mucho más lentamente, como en cámara lenta.
“Dame un dólar. ¿Sí?” Con sonsonete inocente la niña de seis o menos años con mano extendida susurra como mantra sagrada‑ “Dame un dólar. ¿Sí?” Sus ojos café claro bajo cejas y pestañas negras color de chapapote clavados en los míos‑se llama América ‑ tigerstone eyes en piel tostada por el vivir a la intemperie.
Y le doy una peseta y me da un chicle de la cajita que guarda como tesoro bajo el brazo. El olor a orines ‑ hostigamiento sin perdón‑hits me like a sudden migraine headache as we approach la iglesia donde hace más de 50 años me bautizo el padre Lozano‑si el famoso padre Tomás Lozano que casó a mis padres y que todo mundo conoció y admiró y lloró cuando murió. La iglesia del Santo Niño--pero no el de Atocha. The churchyard is quiet under the hot sun. And we creep como hormigas bajo el sol que quema.
Un policía ‑ ¿sera municipal? ‑de camisa blanca, European cut y pantalón azul‑‑pot bellied as all good cops are wont to be‑‑cobra su quota en la cantina el tal Ladies Bar Capricornio por Calle Ocampo ‑ As I read the street name hand printed on the bluegreen wall of the bar, Ocampo‑I wonder si es del Irlandes, O'Campo?
Sigo con paso lento y compro una imagen grandísima de la virgen de Guadalupe del vendedor‑‑ Epifanio de bigote grueso y negro como tenía mi padre hace 40 años. Según Epifanio que lleva camiseta verde oscuro su padre las confecciona “Allá por Toluca.” La imagen de la morenita copia laser fotostática a color con florecitas de tela blanca sobre azul enmarcada en madera sobredorada‑con spray paint que los chicos usan para ponerse locos ‑‑yo y la Lupe seguimos nuestro paso de tortuga-‑seguro aunque lento.
Las aguas del Río Bravo Río Grande del oeste vienen acarreando pedacitos de Nuevo México y de Colorado y de El Paso y de Eagle Pass-- cachitos de tierras lejanas revueltos con cachos de mi corazón.
Del
sur al norte cruzan turistas who return to their charter buses drunk and happy‑‑cargados
de plaster bulls ‑ portando gigantescos sombreros de charros. También
mujeres, jóvenes y viejas que cruzan este domingo por la tarde de regreso a sus
trabajos limpiando casas cuidando niños y ancianos. Negociantes con briefcases. Chiveras con
redes repletas de chucherías. Un grupo de Chicanos de más al norte con sus
pedacitos de México that they will display in dorm rooms, on visors, banderitas
mexicanas para la fiesta del Cinco de Mayo.
Y del norte al sur vienen los mexicanos regresando a su tierra cargados de comestibles y necesidades de la vida, y gringos y otros que vienen a cenar cabrito al Rincón del Viejo o si no saben a cualquier restaurante por la Avenida Guerrero. Y Chicanos buscando a piece of their soul who may end up en los brazos de una chica tan perdida tan joven como ellos en la Zona.
Y el río sigue su curso mágico hacia el mar donde se pierden las aguas de las roscosas de Colorado y los llanos de Nuevo México y los desperdicios de las maquiladoras de Cd. Juárez‑las aguas de los ríos que corren y que llevan su verdad hasta el mar. Y yo? Yo sigo mi paso, una más entre la multitud, pacientemente esperando el destino del rio, de la frontera, de esta cola en que me encuentro, el destino de mis países, de mi ser.
Meditación Fronteriza II (2005)
Cruzando de un lado a otro siempre me lleva al pasado a tantos cruces, a tantos viajes a Monterrey a visitar familiares, Mamagrande, Papagrande, mis tíos y tías, primos y primas. Amigos y familiares algunos tan lejanos que no se ni sus nombres. Al principio en tren – nicknamed La Marrana-- que salía de Nuevo Laredo y pasaba por Vialdama y otros pueblos, hacia el sur. My maternal grandmother, Celia would pack taquitos for our lunch, fruit and pan dulce for snacks. I learned to love trains, the lull of the wheels on the tracks. Since those early trips, I’ve traveled by train many times, in Europe and even in the US, especially in the northeast.
Y luego en carro, cuando Papi compro su primer carro. Y hasta ya de joven en high school cuando se nos descompuso el carro en Sabinas y tuvimos que venirnos en autobús. Ya de adulto íbamos a Nuevo Laredo a bailar en los clubs, Tony’s y otros, y también in the 80s a un gay bar donde nunca me sentí a gusto, the thrill of being in a space that was dangerous. Bailando con mis amigos y regresando a Laredo a cenar en el Denny’s a las 2 o 3 de la mañana, platicando de filosofía o de lo que nos había contado algún chavo de Méjico.
The border towns post-NAFTA changed, are still changing. Walmart and HEB on the Mexican side are as crowded as the ones on the US side. The small retailers closing shop and relocating to Laredo to try to salvage their businesses. Cuando? When will it end? The violence? The fear? It stifles life. It stifles art.
La violencia se acuesta a dormir con la cotidianidad y se levanta tempranito. No sabemos de dónde viene ni a donde va, pero sabemos que está siempre ahí, in our midst. En este mundo donde se encuentran muchos otros, solo los ángeles que andan desesperados y acongojados saben lo que yace en el corazón de quienes matan por matar. Y a los mismos ángeles se les cierra el mundo y no saben cómo responder. Y se ponen a llorar.
Meditacion Fronteriza III (2015)
Living far from the border, I yearn for the smell of diesel gasoline, of carne asada and of gardenias. I yearn to hear the accordion, the radio stations with the distinctive Spanish of Nuevo Laredo and the Laredo Tejano Spanglish. The smells and sounds of that in between space that is la frontera, my borderlands. I yearn to once again cross over to have dinner at La Victoria or El Rincon del Viejo, yet I know that even if I still lived there, I would not be crossing back and forth as we used to. I know that now, I would not be stalled in a long line waiting to cross back to Laredo after dinner or after an afternoon of shopping at la Frutería González and the Farmacia Benavides. Nowadays, my favorite restaurants from Nuevo Laredo can be found in Laredo, relocated because of the violence—La Unica, for example is now selling their delicious tostadas and flautas on the US side. Others have closed altogether.
The people who need to still come and go, but most of us who crossed to have some fun, or for a meal or simply to visit friends, have stopped going. Too violent! Too Risky. There’s Joe, a salesman, who was held at knife point – they took his Tahoe. In plain daylight. Then there’s David, the high school math teacher, who got caught in a barricade, the cars all stopped and the thieves came car to car, scaring children and adults alike, stole wallets, watches, purses, and jewelry. No one was killed that time; he was lucky. Now, his wife refuses to cross. Only funerals or weddings will draw Laredo families to cross.
I attend a gathering of writers; we read our work, discuss our creative process, en la Casa de la Cultura—the old railroad station where I spent many hours waiting for La Marrana, to take us to Monterrey some 40 years ago. The young people who come to pick me up in Laredo, Texas are confident and feel secure, but don’t take chances. They are poets and writers and a visual artist. The space has been transformed. A beautiful art exhibit graces its walls. The literary gathering on one end. Art can save us. We believe it and trust that it is so. But still the shootings and beheadings continue. Poetry reigns but the poetry of dead bodies suffocates. The young poets bring me back. I felt safe while in Nuevo Laredo but once back in Laredo a group of about 10 young men roam the downtown streets, and I feel a lump in my throat, my stomach contracts. I recognize this fear. I drive home and wonder how those who live with this feeling of fear can survive it. Day in and day out. Constant.
The waters flow as they must. The river witnesses death and pain. The flora and fauna has changed, once again. The river reed cane that the matachines harvest for their nagüillas almost gone. They use plastic drinking straws now to adorn their ceremonial dress. But more serious still are the ways the children come in droves from Honduras, San Salvador, all of Central America hoping to be let in and allowed to stay. They flee the cartels, they flee the poverty, they flee the illnesses. So much to fear. But they come to worse places: the detention centers unprepared to care for them. The rumor is that the cartels are using the occasion to send killers to the US, that they are recruiting and they are the ones spreading the misinformation. Who knows? Could be. The truth is that the kids are often sick and malnourished and need medical attention. But all need to be processed. Not just sent back. Yet, they do send them back without even processing them or asking the right questions to determine if they qualify for asylum. Such tragedy.
My border is no longer the tourist destination it was. The tourist money has dried up. The plazas lie deserted by sundown. Not many venture out after dark. It is too dangerous. Too risky. Too scary. The border has become a battleground. We are under siege.