hundreds of faces stare back at me watching their lips move and feeling self-conscious of my blond curls and yearning not to hear guerra or gringa because my mind feels too tired from the hours of defense in cantina court, and I just want to be able to move in the wave of energy flowing underneath the flag of red, white, and green, the music, silhouettes of Che and Zapata, students, grandmothers, valorous women selling corn, and kids running after balloons, not worried with the stress of getting there, realizing we all got there long ago and we’ve simply been confused by the hedges in the maze…


then it hit me like lightning from a storm I don’t remember experiencing, but there I am, dripping wet and knowing we can create our own safety net (working underneath the temples of the gods who tell me that if I don’t fit into their box I’m too big and I need to cut off a limb, or at least it’s going to cost more to paint it), because of course they’d want me amputated or indebted, rather than allowing me to use my own box… anarchy? je ne sais pas, pero prefiero Underarchy, mining below the commanding forces in the metro of amour and communidad that circumnavigates oceans and generations, and has been creating since destruction began.


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