La Negativa
| Hispanic Institute of Social Issues © 2006-2010 All rights reserved. webmaster@hisi.org |
Dr. Christine Marin Curator/Archivist and Historian of the
Chicano Research Collection, Department of Archives andd
Special Collections, Hayden Library, Arizona State University
E-mail: Christine.Marin@asu.edu
Chicano Research Collection, Department of Archives andd
Special Collections, Hayden Library, Arizona State University
E-mail: Christine.Marin@asu.edu
Published by the Hispanic Institute of Social Issues in Phoenix, Arizona
|
| HISTORY IS ABOUT TO CHANGE Grassroots Journalism |
“La Negativa,” they called her: “la mujer de las calles”, the streetwalker.
Men would buy her name for an hour, or a night, maybe two.
She lived up in our cañon. And when I was a little girl, I used to see her
as she walked to town. And when we were kids, out at night, playing
games like “kick the can,” or “hide-the-belt”, or “Johnny ride the white
horse,” we would see her walking back home from town.
Sometimes she wore her western clothes: levis, concho belt, boots. The
turquoise bracelets looked huge, as they wrapped themselves around
her long arms or wrist. She’d wear a scarf around the collar of her
western shirt, the scarf hiding the wrinkles of her neck. But she always
looked stylish, and neat, and most importantly, clean.
We used to think that she was La Llorona because she kept her long hair
down, and she looked very tall. Sometimes the light of her cigarette in
the night gave her an eerie and earthy look: her dark brown features
glowed behind white smoke.
“La Negativa”, la prieta, the dark one. Dark on the outside but beautiful
on the inside. Because she was the one who cared for her elderly and
ailing mother. Because she bathed her and fed her and groomed her, and
tenderly stroked her hair.
“La Negativa”, who looked foreign, and evil on the outside.
One day I asked her, “Why do they call you ‘Negativa’”? Because the
child in me couldn’t understand the meaning of the word, “negative”. I
wondered why people thought she was a negative person. But she was
“Negativa” because her dark, coffee-colored Yaqui-ness gave her the
name, “Negativa”.
She said to me: “They call me that because they are afraid of the night,
because I hide the real “Negativa” inside of me: the me they cannot see.
All they see is the outside of “Negativa”.”.
But I saw the real Negativa. The woman who loved her mother, even in
death, as much as in life.
“La Negativa” walks down my cañon, and when she sees me now, she
speaks not. Because “La Negativa” speaks to no one on the outside.
“La Negativa”: the real mother of my cousin Ramon.
Men would buy her name for an hour, or a night, maybe two.
She lived up in our cañon. And when I was a little girl, I used to see her
as she walked to town. And when we were kids, out at night, playing
games like “kick the can,” or “hide-the-belt”, or “Johnny ride the white
horse,” we would see her walking back home from town.
Sometimes she wore her western clothes: levis, concho belt, boots. The
turquoise bracelets looked huge, as they wrapped themselves around
her long arms or wrist. She’d wear a scarf around the collar of her
western shirt, the scarf hiding the wrinkles of her neck. But she always
looked stylish, and neat, and most importantly, clean.
We used to think that she was La Llorona because she kept her long hair
down, and she looked very tall. Sometimes the light of her cigarette in
the night gave her an eerie and earthy look: her dark brown features
glowed behind white smoke.
“La Negativa”, la prieta, the dark one. Dark on the outside but beautiful
on the inside. Because she was the one who cared for her elderly and
ailing mother. Because she bathed her and fed her and groomed her, and
tenderly stroked her hair.
“La Negativa”, who looked foreign, and evil on the outside.
One day I asked her, “Why do they call you ‘Negativa’”? Because the
child in me couldn’t understand the meaning of the word, “negative”. I
wondered why people thought she was a negative person. But she was
“Negativa” because her dark, coffee-colored Yaqui-ness gave her the
name, “Negativa”.
She said to me: “They call me that because they are afraid of the night,
because I hide the real “Negativa” inside of me: the me they cannot see.
All they see is the outside of “Negativa”.”.
But I saw the real Negativa. The woman who loved her mother, even in
death, as much as in life.
“La Negativa” walks down my cañon, and when she sees me now, she
speaks not. Because “La Negativa” speaks to no one on the outside.
“La Negativa”: the real mother of my cousin Ramon.
