I can still remember the day very well. The sunny clear sky welcomed us amidst the cool, crisp air. We walked toward the back of the procession line, collecting our crosses along the way. Simple, white wood, with black paint listing the name of a victim from a soldier of this school. Some were nameless, with just an age. We remember the fallen regardless of knowing them. I did not take a cross, for I was carrying my aunt's photo. She was my cross, her life was the one I carried with me.
When we found our place in line I was overtaken by the beauty of it all. Golden red hues of trees lined the path and converged deep ahead to flank the center point of it all, the United States flag, hanging high from a pole. I immediately admired the composition of it, thinking of my Advanced Storyboard class but had to laugh at myself and brush the distraction away. However, it was still interesting that the prominent flag would be the visual focal point, as if the crucifix for the gathered congregation in our outdoor prayer. The flag, striped red with the blood of the lives it had taken. It made me uncomfortable.
A chilling, haunting voice broke free to made its resonance felt among the thousands, "Oscar Romero..." A white sea arose in response, "Presente..." The procession had begun.
Cry and response, a victim remembered, the prayer continued. One step at a time, the procession slowly moved forward. The chant went on in great length. I remember noticing the neighbors houses as we inched along the path. The forest of people was too thick to really see much ahead. It wasn't until we were close to the stage and near the end that we could even catch the action. Bodies on the ground, in masks, covered with red paint, representing the dead. I didn't realize there was going to be anything else besides our procession. We continued along slowly, raising our crosses together in turn and I lifting the portrait.
Finally we reached the end of the line. I am still amazed how the gate was not visible until the very end. What greeted us was a wall of white, hiding the wire behind. An intricate web of crosses going every which way fully encompassed the span of the gate. Where would we leave ours? We moved together to a less congested patch and joined our crosses with the others, uniting them on the fence. I didn't want to fold and tuck my photo into gate. I left Nordia on the floor, facing out, supported by her neighboring crosses to be seen by those who approach this gate.
As I left her there I became deeply saddened. The symbolism of leaving her behind transformed into an emotional reality. The people surrounding me were happy and smiling, energized by exercising their civil rights of peaceful protest. They joyfully took pictures of themselves in action promoting justice and serving their faith. I felt broken and alone. I remember falling down in tears. Fortunately, my friend Jake saw my pain and came to comfort me. I don't think he realized what it meant to me to be able to cry in someone's arms. I will always be thankful.
The rest of the day was a bit of a blur. It took more of a touristy character as we visited the sights of Atlanta before flying home. And although we had to go back to California and return to college life, I wanted to continue to carry Nordia with me.
In honor of this memorable day I want to share the poem I wrote back then in 2003 as a reflection of my experience.
Nhordia,
Mi tía,
Nunca te conocí,
Nunca te pude ver,
Solo en los fotos de ayer.
Nunca te llamaré
Nunca te visitaré
Solo en el espíritu de Nicaragua.
Pero por un fin de semana,
Casi,
Te pude sentir
En el aire,
En la tierra,
Empezabas a vivir.
En mi cuerpo,
En mi mente,
Tu estabas allí
Resistiendo,
Protestando,
Nhordia en mí.
Y todavia,
No sé que pasó
Ese domingo triste
En la entrada
De la Escuela de las Americas,
Sangrienta,
Dolorosa,
Tú lo viste,
Las dos entramos
Pero salió sola una,
Erika.
Otra vez, caías
En los manos de la Guerra,
Otra vez, me fuí llorando,
Sin mi tía al salir.
Mi compañeros Zapatistas,
Y yo la única,
Sandinista.
De tu lado,
De tu alma,
Yo no quería partir.
Pensé que por segunda vez
Mi tía fue asesinada,
Pero El Señor me ensenó
Una Nhordia re-encontrada
Ese domingo memorable,
Buscando la gran liberación
Allí estaba mi tía
Continuando la revolución.
Por los siglos de los siglos,
Ya sé que va a pasar,
Mi Nhordia siempre viva
Nunca la volverán a matar.
¿Cómo puede ser esto?
¿Un cuerpo immortal?
Es el alma que se queda
Que yo la voy a llevar.
Translation:
Nhordia,
My
aunt
I
never met you,
I
never saw you,
Except
in photos from the past.
I
would never call you,
I
would never visit you,
Except
in the spirit of Nicaragua.
But
for one weekend,
Almost,
I
felt you
In
the air,
In
the earth,
You
started to live.
In
my body,
In
my mind,
You
were there
Resisting,
Protesting,
Nhordia
in me.
And
still,
I
don’t know what happened,
That
sad Sunday,
At
the entrance
Of
the School of the Americas,
Bloody,
Painful,
You
saw it,
We
both entered
But
only one returned,
Erika.
Once
again, you fell
In
the hands of the army,
Once
again I left crying,
Parting
without my aunt.
My
friends Zapatistas,
And
me the only,
Sandinista.
From
your side,
From
your spirit,
I
did not want to leave.
I
thought for a second time
My
aunt was murdered,
But
God showed me
A
Nhordia re-found
That
memorable Sunday,
Searching
the grand liberation,
There
was my aunt
Continuing
the revolution.
Forever
and ever,
I
already know what will happen,
My
Nhordia will always live
They’ll
never return to kill her.
How
is this possible?
An
immortal body?
It’s
the spirit that stays
That I will carry.
