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LA REINA AMORFA

Divagando En Clave De No Votante

As soon as I was born, my parents named me Kitailo, and for a few weeks everything was perfect, I babbled some notes and even had enough time to emerge from my eyesight. A while later, in front of the baptism pile and after colliding against the insurmountable bureaucratic walls, the attitude of my parents changed and today, my name is María Concepción in honor of the Virgin Mary, as well as diminutives Concha or Conchita, for more guts.


Apparently, in those days the tribal names were not accepted in the new world, I think our names did not honor the saints with pale and rosy cheeks. I understand that Kitailo had to die right there, in the baptismal font, and after receiving the forgiveness of God the new Conchita was cleansed of sins, but I know today that it was not like that. Kitailo’s original sin remained there, maintaining the lowest profile allowed by the latency and she resisted like a desert seed. She endured one and a thousand indescribable solitudes almost reaching the edge of nonexistence, but she resisted, and, although not without scars, she grew in her way, like the bandaged foot of a Geisha, half twisted, amorphous but unstoppable.

Now, when I look at myself, I discover that she never intended to die, she just pretended. I could feel how little by little she has been conquering more spaces within, more territories out there. I know that after occupying all my insides, she seeks to be reborn in the hearts of my loved ones and to reconquer all the places I have gone through, to end up marching triumphantly because that is what she came for, to march triumphantly…

Who talks to us when we listen? … Who do we try to convince when we think? … Whoever listens to me when I talk, at times, can hear her, my amorphous queen.

I got scared and tried to negotiate by using big words like blackness, femininity, and rights; I ended up reminding her of our duties, to which she answered in a natural and forceful, but subtle and elegant way … “I’m sorry dear, my time of sadness was exhausted and I’m not old enough to be just black … Tell me the way to the stage and please retreat. “

I sing and my amorphous queen recognizes herself in all eyes. Now I know that we are much more than the little that they tell about us. For a long time I believed in the greed and endless hunger of some men, I believed with devotion in all those oppressed that in front of the focus they conspired to look like faithful adversaries who fight for freedom and behind the scenes conspire to become the next oppressor. I believed because they made me believe and I ended up feeling like that too, that in front of an act of betrayal, he ducks his head while he keeps silent and keeps sweeping ants in slow motion with hope in the future, or like the cow that, while it is penetrated, chews grass and looks to the train that does not go anywhere .. And chews more grass … Yes … At moments I feel like the ants that are almost crushed by the mound of poop that the cow released when the bull goes … And I wonder if it is the most prepared elite that makes the decisions that cause thousands of deaths, to whom we turn to get rid of the pain that reigns in our societies at times?

I put my hope in the architects of the present future …

My amorphous queen has been weaving a bridal dress with a cloth in which all the flags of the planet shine vigorously and now she directs me to the altar. I’m going to marry me and the world…

“I Kitailo, promise to love you, honor you and respect you, in health and sickness, in wealth and poverty, in the savor and the insipidity, from always and even the end of my ability to remember… “

After tattooing the ring, I will be ready for battle. Now I know I am a bit of every- one, my voice has a passport to all the worlds, I am black white, black oriental, black Indian, black Asian … We will sing and listen to understand our feelings, to finally discover what in itself is the feeling of almost everyone, that’s why almost all our songs are nearly the same.

Throughout history holding everything that weighs, rebuilding the landslides, returning the bread to the tables, regaining joy in our homes, lighting one more night in theaters, crowding the movie theaters, it was always us. We and our weapons of massive construction, much more powerful and misunderstood moments than those that shoot real bullets. And if we were the ones who went to the wars? … I would take my mother and as a weapon of total impact a couple of her best stews. I am convinced that we would reach an agreement, let us go and our parents … and they, those who by force of heart held hold cities and towns, someone who pays a mortgage, or an income, does not want to see their building fall, and our children who stay here, to work and learn to pay taxes.

I put my hope in the architects of the present future …

With love and respect … Kitailo


ConchaMuikaMusic.com/
photography by Ariel Feldman

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