So I disappeared into this tropical planet where everyone is awake. And no one is there to be sad and scared to live.
And it hit me.. what I was searching for.
Every time I create a collection, a new doll.
I go into a peaceful retreat.
Leave my mother and family set. Pay all my bills. Make sure all orders are being handled and shipped.
And venture into eating all day, drinking juices, coffee and smoothies.
Listening to music that inspires me
Such as oldies in this situation I am in.
I been rambling inside my head for the past month of December. What would be the next great idea.
And as I laid in bed making love to my 6 foot tall tanned skin, strong muscular us lover.
It hits me... I have not acknowledged my teen age years being raised in the gangster streets of east Los Angeles.
Full of Mexican food, cultural murals that speak of the Latin struggle and our beliefs and ancestral ways of survival.
Where low rider cars, OG veteranos and veteranas walk around with a good life.. or walk around strung out lost in the abysm of what the 80's and 90's where.
I forgot or chose to forget all the thing I saw hanging out in different garages and living rooms, while 90's gangster rap and oldies played. As we all went on with our kick backs and imagined being 21.
All the hardcore boys I grew up with wearing flannels , white shirts, Locs glasses, Nike Cortez shoes, long socks holding on to the 90's that were now the 2000's.
Keeping the culture that our elders created as a rebellious was of freedom.
My first boyfriend was fully tattooed from his neck chest to his arms. My mother hated seeing him on us bicycle picking me up. The tamal lady that would sell tamales outside of KMart in the commerce center would always warm my mother about that cholo that was definitely going to get me pregnant.
Her daughter margarita beat me to it. I still haven't created children. I don't long for children. I long to open doors with my art and inspired other undercover cholas.
I always remember giving one of my acquaintances $20 dollars and he never gave me what I had ordered. At 13 I understood what being ripped off was. Never forgot.
As I sit here in this island, I'm listening to oldies. Songs me and all my friends would sing to, songs that were not from our time. Yet we felt them in our little east la hearts.
My cousin is doing life in jail. He would always write to me. When he was released from jubinal jail we talked about doing awesome things with out life.
He joined a gang. My aunt said he was working.. she never brought him a 5 th time again.
He told me she was ashamed because the tattooed his gang abbreviation followed number number 13.
Then proceeded to his face and body. So he did his first assignment to gain recognition and honor with his new family.
Dishonoring his mother who has lost everything sold her home in Pomona. In order to pay for all the lawyers she could find.
He's in jail now , there's many yellow paper letters I never opened and threw away.
I had no interest in him anymore. The streets were calling him. So he can write to the streets. That's my way of coping with knowing my cousin is inside a box forever. Love letters that I had nothing to say to. Broken writing.. I hope when this letter reaches you it finds you in the best of health. ... really?? Really??
So I changed my mentality and decided to be the most amazing artist I could be.
And forgot all About letters , the Onky form of commutation you have with a loved one when they are inside a box. Inspired by verses from oldies, with drawings made with pencils and if lucky pens.
Pachucas, Aztec women and cholas with huge hair and bandanas.
I'm inspired, mad, inspired, and nostalgic
My feelings are in a box. All I feel is how so many women, daughters, lovers, moms, children and so on... have to communicate via paper to their loved ones.
Because as humans we make mistakes.
Here's to all the love letters we have received, all the yellow papers and sometimes white. Full of promises, consolation and words to keep you going if you have someone you cannot touch, kiss at night.
To the love letters that are written with oldies in mind..
Smile now cry later... sitting in the park... always and forever ...
Sand from a tropical town