"El depa de Berkeley"
At the cusp where North Oakland meets Berkeley sat a pastel, peachy-pink shoe box of a building.
This whimsical Dingbat apartment was home during my stay in the Bay Area the summer of 2023. It's pink
stucco walls reminded me of the house that held my earliest memories in Mexico—the home where my father eventually retired.
That summer, I had just enough savings to experience a new reality: working for a nonprofit in a new city. I savored the sweet taste of flight— every
inner-city Chicagoan’s dream. While mucking around the internet, I found an affordable sublease
posted on Craigslist and jumped at the opportunity. And so I packed my belongings into a single suitcase and headed west.
In the early daylight hours, I was woken up by the sound of early risers
pedaling down King Street. Sunlight shimmered through the east-facing windows of my third-floor
bedroom, weekends were spent tracing the residential streets of Berkeley and frequenting the Ashby
BART stop to move between Bay cities.
“What were you up to at 23?”
ese año,
la estrella más brillante en la constelación Canis Major fue apagandose
Trataba de absolverme de esa narrativa mártir,
a una identidad con la que fue infligida y nunca eleji identificarme.
para absolverme de esa cicatris, perfore un hoyo en la tierra,
Y escondiendo allí el diario de Berkeley.
Recargue las energías para salir del hoyo
soldando una escalera
escapando del abismo
La Loma
12/2023
Le pedi que me llevara hasta la sima,
donde se cosecha camote y vive el Pochote
Dejamos atrás las calles pavimentadas de cemento
para entrar a los pulmones de los cerros
Saludamos a los ejidos, a las cabañas de madera y casas moldeadas en adobe
El Jeep dio paso a senderos desconocidos
Al llegar a la loma, el sol mañanero se estiraba detrás de los cerros
