El Mojado(Tribute to Arjona & the people)

“Empacó un par de camisas, un sombrero Su vocación de aventurero, seis consejos, siete fotos Mil recuerdos” Growing up Mami used to always be there for me but that stopped around the same time Papa disappeared. "Mija,no te preocupes que Dios Proveera" Yet, even at our best there were tears in her eyes Mixed with the sweat on her brow. On those rare instances in which it was her I saw I tried so hard to help out but it felt like my hands were tied. Five years spent like that Proving myself to feel as worthy as everyone else And failing to do so despite my desperate efforts. Striving to be the top of the class but getting knocked down simply because I was –different-. (Si la luna…) And it seems different is always better (right?)But I guess Indiana lost the memo Cuz now it’s worse than ever The white kids didn’t like me cuz I was “different” The black kids didn’t like me cuz I was “stuck up” And my own people hurt the worst, Because I just wanted to excel and become something in life While everyone else and they momma preferred the comfort of strife No I had never been called out by them but their stares cut me deeper than any word ever could. NO I never lived in the projects and no I never had to duck behind a shattered window never had to hustle or be on the streets but I felt as though they held these things against me And that made me inferior All I am is what my parents, God, and words made me. Because If there’s one thing I learned these past 18 yrs Is that nobody can take this God given words from me The same ones that have given a voice A voice that has blossomed into the sweetest infection of body and mind Sweetest infection of any kind, I tell you allowing for this poetree to flourish (Si la luna…) Thrive and bloom Practicing the Art of laconism, indulging in the sweetest of solitudes letting these spaces be filled by the silence that always follows the stillness before a storm. A storm brought by the voice I have given to the struggle of mi gente, the struggle of Immigrants, poverty, politics, war que tenemos de frente Grinding parents, single mothers, dead soldiers, and hustling children. Children because that’s what they are, Despite the fact that society has deprived them of their childhood. Kids I grew up with are no longer kids they’ve become parents Maturing before they should just to run errands Grinding to pay bills Babysitting children of neighbors Because love and family are what we cherish. And at first it was hard, being the foreigner The outsider The invader But I guess sooner or later It’s got to get better So I hang on, to the handful of people that have placed their faith in me The few one’s that’ve made me real That’ve introduced me to this amazing power called Writing A power that has pushed me past the hardships and into the world of empathy Giving me eloquence to allow for the sharing of this beautiful elixir that pours out like a waterfall once I open my mouth That same wonderful power That’ll earn my fam and I a better life (Inshallah) "Si la luna suave se desliza por cualquier cornisa Sin permiso alguno, por qué el mojado precisa Comprobar con visas que no es de neptuno. Si la visa universal se extiende el día en que nacemos Y caduca en la muerte, por qué te persiguen mojado Si el cónsul de los cielos ya te dio permiso."