1999

My mother’s brushing my hair, pulling it and hurting me a little. She's nervous, shes getting me ready. It’s 3am and I can see the stars out of the window from the small motel room we’re staying in. It’ time...my parents tell me to be really quiet, that I can't make a noise. My father carries me on his shoulders, my arms wrapped around his head. I lay my head on top of his hair, finding comfort. I can see two men in uniform, their backs turned away from us. That’s when we run as fast as we can, my mom alongside us running too. We arrive at a gas station, waiting for a van to pick us up.                                                    

***

Richmond Hills apartment complex in Atlanta is our first home, my brothers join us the following years. I start at a school where I’m bullied for being the only brown girl. English comes to me like a song, I learned it very fast, by the time I am 6, I could sing anything. Memories rush to me in light speed, as fast as the change always comes, it feels hard to capture it all. We leave Atlanta and move to Smyrna, where we make a home for the next six years. Lawrenceville, Georgia, my first encounter with racism, classism, and queerness. My first encounter with my depression too, who wakes some time during those six years to taunt me for the rest of my life. Back to Smyrna/Marietta, shifting our home every two years. I had six different addresses, but none really felt like home. And now, I find myself across the country in Oakland, California. Home, for now. Will this finally be it?

NIÑA

SIN PAÍS

In diaspora as a child, you don’t know why your friends and teachers are treating you different than your white classmates, why men talk to you and tell you that you’re bonita. You didn't know yet but those remarks were predatory. I ask myself now why are children of color seen as “older” more “mature” and are treated as so by adults, justice system and many other “systems” (education, health, social skills, etc).

 Feeling out of place has always been a constant in my life. This print represents my disconnection to my “home country.“ I haven’t been there since I was four years old; the last thing I remember was seeing my grandma cry as we were leaving to cross the border. Ever since arriving in Atlanta, Georgia in 1999 I always felt out of place. I didn’t think this was home because I wasn’t born here, my family isn’t here, and what am I going to do? I learned English very fast and was a natural learner since the beginning. Back at home I still spoke Spanish with my parents so I was blessed with being bilingual, something that has helped me till now. I’m always going to feel disconnected here in the United States. As an undocumented queer woman, walking down the streets of Oakland is an act of war against this country.

America is never going to truly be my home and I’m OK with that, Mexico also is not truly ever going to be my home after being gone for 20 years. Going back now, being who I am, being from where I’m from, I wouldn’t be received in the same way because they would see me as an American. In that way, I feel I’ll always live in limbo.

*print was made before Kazayra identified as non binary.