Reseña del Encuentro de Escritoras Fronterizas.

Les queremos compartir esta reseña del Encuentro de Escritoras Fronterizas, hecho por Francesca Gargallo. Lo encontramos en: http://lacalleesdequienlacamina.blogspot.mx/2012/09/encuentro-de-escritoras-fronterizas.html?m=1.

Pueden ir a la página y escuchar los audios.

Encuentro de Escritoras Fronterizas (2012)

Un encuentro de voces que a pesar del acartonado formato de los congresos académicos lograron hablarse.
Un día, una institución -el Colegio de la Frontera Norte, Colef- que le dio cobijo al Encuentro de Escritoras Fronterizas organizado por el Seminario Permanente de Estudios Fronterizos que dirige Roxana Rodríguez de la UACM, los poemas que son dibujos y ediciones de Amaranta Caballero, los estudios de de Socorro Tabuenca, la emotiva militancia en favor de vidas y derechos a la vida que contiene y desborda el teatro, los cuentos, la poesía, las investigaciones de Selba Chew, la fuerte sencillez de Rosario Sanmiguel… voces que resuenan.
Sin contar la vitalidad que los proyectos editoriales y de difusión de las más jóvenes imprimieron a la anquilosada red de publicaciones y difusión nacionales. Encantadoras Karla y Sidharta. Sin fronteras, desde todos los límites rebasado, sin rivales.
Y la frontera sur, toda la frontera del consigo mismo de un México que es Latinoamérica pero desde hace dos décadas desearía que así no fuera. Presencia de colombianas, mi 10% de identidad beliceña alborotado, guatemaltecas, brasileñas y una venezolana entre el público que igual devoraba galletas que caramelos con chile, dispuestos en una mesa, libre, liberísima frontera de la compostura.
Qué día. A pesar de la violencia que no puede omitirse. A pesar de la obligación de reverenciar a la narcoliteratura (al parecer el norte bárbaro -Pérez Reverte, onmipresente neocolonizador del gusto, dixit- no debería escribir otra cosa para ser publicado). A pesar de los feminicidios que se inscriben en la piel y las letras de las escritoras de Juárez, Tijuana, cualquier rincón de América. A pesar mismo de esa línea que se traga a la gente.

Francesca Gargallo

Dossier: Encuentro de Escritoras Fronterizas (2012)

Organizado por el Seminario Permanente de Estudios Fronterizos y la Academia de Creación Literaria y Difusión Cultural, ambos de la Universidad Autónoma de la Ciudad de México (UACM).

Se realizó el martes 18 de septiembre de 2012, con el apoyo del Colegio de la Frontera Norte, A.C. (COLEF), en la Casa COLEF, calle Francisco Sosa No. 254, Col. Barrio de Santa Catarina, Delegación Coyoacán, México, D. F.

Más abajo, recabamos textos e imágenes que se proyectaron en las mesas de trabajo durante el Encuentro.

Lista de reproducción de los audios

01. Rosina Conde, Francesca Gargallo – Inauguración del Encuentro de Escritoras Fronterizas
02. Amaranta Caballero – La mujer, la ciudad y la poesía en la frontera – Modera: Roxana Rodríguez
03. Socorro Tabuenca – La literatura fronteriza como literatura regional – Modera: Pilar Morales
04. Selfa Chew – La escritura chicana – Modera: Gabriela Valenzuela
05. Presentación de libros y proyectos: a) Graciela Silva Rodríguez, libro: Chican@s y mexican@snorteñ@s: Biborderlands dialogues on literary and cultural production; b) Sidharta Ochoa, libro: Estética de la emancipación; c)Karla Martínez: Proyecto Norestación; d) Ivonne Ramírez (Colectivo Palabras de Arena), libro: Sueño de palabras en la estepa. Experiencias lectoras contra la violencia en Ciudad Juárez (2001-2010). Modera: Teresa Dey
06. Rosario Sanmiguel – El Río Bravo, el fluir de la conciencia y la migración – Modera: Mariana Berlanga
07. Dialogando entre escritoras: Rosina Conde, Amaranta Caballero, Rosario Sanmiguel, Selfa Chew, Socorro Tabuenca, Francesca Gargallo – Modera: Roxana Rodríguez

Este reproductor contiene la lista con todos los audios, puedes moverte de uno a otro (inicia con la inauguración, pista 1), y haciendo clic en el icono de la derecha puedes compartirla en las redes sociales de Internet:

Mesas de trabajo

1.

9:30-9:50 hs

Inauguración del Encuentro de Escritoras Fronterizas.

Rosina Conde, Francesca Gargallo
Audio: 01_Gargallo_Conde, 11.6 MB (o clic aquí para ir a la página de los audios)
[Sitio web de Rosina Conde: http://www.rosinaconde.com.mx/]
[Sitio web de Francesca Gargallo: http://francescagargallo.wordpress.com/;
blog: http://lacalleesdequienlacamina.blogspot.mx/]

2.

10:00-10:50 hs

La mujer, la ciudad y la poesía en la frontera. Amaranta Caballero

Modera: Roxana Rodríguez

Audio: 02_Caballero, 35.4 MB (o clic aquí para ir a la página de los audios)

EL TÍMPANO: PÁJAROS OKUPAS REBELDES DE ÁRBOLES

Por Amaranta Caballero

Antier viví una Tromba. Ella cayó y yo me sumergí en ella. Se inundó el cuarto de pájaros. A mí me salieron alas.

Canto I

El Tímpano: oído: la audición Esta casa-cráneo. Este cuarto-tímpano. Los cinco sentidos. Aquí es el sitio donde se juega al equilibrista. Aquí justo se vibra y se transforma. Aquí justo ahora traduzco el sonido en el impulso nervioso. Traduzco luego los signos de un lenguaje: Fonemas.

Escribo para mi contemplación Ferdinand de Saussure: Yo sólo quiero tu tímpano roto. Y el veleidoso moroso mareo.

Canto II

La Vista: ojo: pupila No creas en mí. No me pienses. No me oigas. No me veas. Sal de este tímpano que provoca cantos justo detrás de tus ojos: Le courbe de tes yeux señaló Eluard.

Arde: pájaro lejano y turbio y distraído. Yo no te veo. Acuso a tu astucia: pupila.

Petit poem of my bad grammar book

The blue of that dress is too dark, the blue never lies. This is what surprises me most. I see this here and I recognize the blue’s words. It is still true: Hundreds of birds.

Canto III

El Tacto: mano: piel

Los pájaros abandonaron los nidos ¿te das cuenta? Los pájaros rebeldes de árboles.Vinieron a instalarse. A okupar todos y cada uno de tus sentidos. Buscan con el ojo avizor. Cantan desapercibidos. Los pájaros: esa premonición. Raspan sus alas y picotean todas las terminaciones nerviosas. Los receptores de tu dermis.
Canto IV

El Olfato: nariz: olor

Puedo oler perfectamente el vuelo de los pájaros. Deletrearlos. Avizorar. Ellos vienen en parvadas convulsas borroneando manchas oscuras en el aire. A lo lejos. Siseo.

Aromas aves: alcanfor, almizcle, flores, menta, éter, acre, podrido.

Investigaciones: sustancias: olores: moléculas.

Canto V

El Gusto: lengua: sema

Pájaros dulces, salados, ácidos y amargos. Todos y cada uno de ellos invadiendo la madriguera donde vive tu lengua. Mengua la lengua luna. Ése molusco. Cavidades nasales truqueando la tráquea. Ahí justo anida el ave en el centro de las diez mil papilas. Qué gusto. La lengua a veces un tinte rosado. Articula palabras y sonidos.

Epílogo

Canto VI

El Sexto Sentido: Plexo solar: pálpitos impulso espontáneo: presentimiento. Intuir. Adivinar.

Invocar: indicios, señales. Permanecer.

Ojo avizor: pájaro pausa sobre el nervio de tu carne. Todos los cantos se silencian cuando algo más -interno- parpadea.

[Referencia a una instalación de este poema publicada en Poéticas Transversales: Amaranta Caballero Prado (Texto y dibujos). El Tímpano: pájaros okupas rebeldes de árboles. Originales: Tinta sobre papel. 28 x 35 cm. Instalación: seis dibujos impresos sobre albanene. Tensados en aro de madera a manera de bordado. Con luz interna. Montados sobre la pared. Cuarto oscuro. Sonorización: Un loop 01¨00″ de sonidos de pájaros.]

Fuente del poema e imagen: Poéticas Transversales, http://enclaveglobal.wordpress.com/2012/01/24/los-enclave-2012-amaranta-caballero/

__________________

NEWSPAPERBIRDS ( Los Pájaros de Marzo)

______________

Tinta sobre papel periódico, 2011

Fuente: http://amarantacaballero.blogspot.mx/2011_03_01_archive.html#3092356887004643958
[Blog de Amaranta Caballero: http://amarantacaballero.blogspot.mx/]

3.

11:00-11:50 hs

La literatura fronteriza como literatura regional. Socorro Tabuenca

Modera: Pilar Morales

Audio: 03_Tabuenca.mp3, 60.1 MB (o clic aquí para ir a la página de los audios)
[Currículum de Socorro Tabuenca: http://aplicaciones.colef.mx/investigadores/CVU/cvu.aspx?idinv=14909]

4.

12:00-12:50 hs

La escritura chicana. Selfa Chew

Modera: Gabriela Valenzuela
Audio: 04_Chew, 41.3 MB (o clic aquí para ir a la página de los audios)

“Doctor Fujimoto”, fragmento de Mudas Las Garzas (Ediciones Eón, México, D.F., 2007) de Selfa Chew:

Doctor Fujimoto, no entiendo por qué entrego ahora un mito, cuando deseo rehacer la historia con el rigor de datos inequívocos que amparen mi verdad. Porque lo que yo tengo de usted son versiones fantásticas, relatos marcados por el amor de sus hijos, y notas oliendo a rabia y prejuicios. A pesar de que poseo todo un legajo de documentos oficiales, usted es la más esquiva entre miles de personas afectadas por la guerra. Podría decir que hasta hoy, usted es solo la suma de sus pasos desde que salió de Japón. Verdad es que hay tramos que la neblina cubre y no me deja ver qué punto del Norte llegó a conquistar con su sonrisa y sus hábiles manos de médico, de artista, de minero. Cierto es que me siento una bruja quitando telarañas de una esfera de cristal para ver su pasado y su futuro. O mi pasado y mi futuro, doctor Fujimoto. Porque ya entendí que yo soy usted y usted es todos los que tratamos de caminar sin pisar a los demás, comer sin quitarle el pan a nadie de la boca. Pasado y futuro. Pan y tierra y agua. La vida sigue siendo la misma en todas las historias, doctor. En la de sus compatriotas mineros en Coahuila, la del maderista japonés en Chihuahua, el científico humanista en Chiapas y el fotógrafo de la Ciudad de México. Y en la de todas las mujeres que caminaron los mismos tramos, el mismo destierro. Rabia y prejuicios. Mire que hace sesenta y tres años yo ni había nacido pero ya estaba allí con usted mi destino. Ya estaba contando mi historia de exilio en japonés y en español cortito a los soldados mexicanos que lo encontraron perdido en la Sierra. Pan y tierra y agua. Mi padre nunca habló mal de usted ni de nadie, ni en cantonés ni en español, pero dejó en su librero testimonios. Historias de sangre y fuego. Grabados de demonios amarillos hincando el diente en los cuellos de niñas chinas. Espadas atravesando los cuerpos de ancianos lánguidos. Terrible será tal vez para mi familia el que hoy me encuentre tratando de descifrar otra historia de horror a miles de kilómetros y muchos años de distancia de esas masacres en China. Increíble que hoy busque sanar las heridas de los japoneses mexicanos. Pero es que la vida es igual y es diferente. Y los japoneses en China son harina de otra historia. Y los japoneses en México pertenecen a este costal. Rabia y prejuicios. Como adolescente quedesobedece a sus padres, me siento triste por usted y por mis antepasados y esta tristeza me lleva a ver la similitud y la diferencia entre su historia y la de nosotros. Si he rescatado sus fotos de las celdas de Lecumberri creo que el premio ha sido enamorarme un poco de su mirada digna, recta. De los brazos que sostuvieron mil ahijados indígenas. Pan, tierra y agua. Y amor y vida y medicina compartidos con extraños. Milagros que le atribuyen desde Chihuahua hasta Morelos. No entiendo por qué en medio de los pensamientos más íntimos de otros personajes tejo y entretejo su vida, tal vez porque su historia es mi historia y la de muchos otros. Tal vez porque su esposa también supo lo que era ser mitad y mitad y cuando veo su fotografía recuerdo a mi hermana y su piel suave, clara. Los ojos de una mujer oriental pero también el cuerpo alto, ondulado y fuerte de mi madre mixteca. Verdad es que hay tramos que la neblina cubre pero trataré de contar la fantástica historia del Doctor Manuel Fujimoto y otros honorables Japoneses Mexicanos, a salud de usted, de mi familia china y de mi hermana la que es mitad y mitad y completamente hermosa.

Fuente: en Poesía, Baile y Canción: The Politics, Implications, and Future of Chicana/os’ Cultural Production.National Association for Chicana and Chicano Studies. Editorial Board: Mari Castañeda, Editor; Michael Calderón-Zaks, Associate Co-Editor; Gilberto Garcia, Associate Co-Editor. First Edition, 2010. ISBN: 0-9779513-8-3, 2010. http://www.naccs.org

5.

13:00-13:50 hs

Presentación de libros y proyectos:
Audio: 05_Libros_escritoras_fronterizas, 49.4 MB (o clic aquí para ir a la página de los audios)

· Graciela Silva Rodríguez

Título: Chican@s y mexican@snorteñ@s: Biborderlands dialogues on literary and cultural production

Autor@s: Graciela Silva Rodríguez y Manuel de Jesús Hernández-Gutiérrez (Editores)

ISBN: 978-6079-124-748

No. de Páginas: 472

Año de Publicación: 2012

Editorial: Ediciones Eón/Arizona State University

· Sidharta Ochoa

Título: Estética de la emancipación

Autora: Sidharta Ochoa

Año de publicación: 2012

Editorial: Casa Editorial Abismos

Ver nota en el blog de la autora: http://angelesidharta.blogspot.mx/2012/05/estetica-de-la-emancipacion.html

[Sid Ochoa comparte en línea su libro Los abismos de la filosofía: http://es.scribd.com/doc/80311003/Los-abismos-de-La-Filosofia]

· Karla Martínez

Proyecto Nortestación: Editorial Nortestación nace como una alternativa para publicar a escritores y escritoras que por su estructura narrativa quedan fuera del sistema de publicación convencional. También, apoyamos a escritores y escritoras jóvenes para impulsar su carrera en el campo de las literaturas. Narrativa, Poesía, Escritura experimental, Ensayo y Literatura Infantil.

Página web: http://www.nortestacion.com/

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/nortestacion

· Ivonne Ramírez:

Título: Sueño de palabras en la estepa. Experiencias lectoras contra la violencia en Ciudad Juárez (2001-2010)

Autoras: Susana Báez A., Ana Laura Ramírez V. e Ivonne Ramírez R. (Colectivo Palabras de Arena)

ISBN: 978-607-9124-17-5

No. de Páginas: 272

Año de Publicación: 2011

Editorial: Eón/UAM-Iztapalapa/Chicano Studies-The University of Texas at El Paso/Conacyt/Centro de Investigaciones y Estudios Superiores en Antropología Social

Blog del Colectivo Palabras de Arena: Espacio sobre Literatura Infantil y Juvenil,http://www.palabrasdearena.org/

· Moderadora: Teresa Dey

Receso

6.

15:00-15:50 hs

El Río Bravo, el fluir de la conciencia y la migración. Rosario Sanmiguel

Modera: Mariana Berlanga
Audio: 06_Sanmiguel, 52.2 MB (o clic aquí para ir a la página de los audios)

Lectura en español del relato Bajo el puente / Under de Bridge (ver, después del texto en inglés, la referencia del libro):

Texto en español: http://books.google.com.mx/books?id=kNfgOPJf5RAC&pg=PA149&lpg=PA149&dq#v=onepage&q&f=false

– Texto en inglés: http://books.google.com.mx/books?id=kNfgOPJf5RAC&pg=PA29&lpg=PA29&dq#v=onepage&q&f=false

I went to look for Martín even though he didn’t like for me to go all the way to the riverbank. Since it was Monday, there wasn’t anybody in the restaurant, and at seven, Mere let me leave. I took off my apron, changed my white blouse and put on a black T-shirt that had a Hard Rock café sign on it that Martín gave me when I turned seventeen, and since my high heels were killing me, I put on my red Converse. Martín didn’t wanna see me on the riverbank cuz the other pasamojados gave him hell, saying I was really hot. One time one of em told him that with a woman like me, there was no need to get in the river so much. He didn’t put up with any crap. He responded like he did when he felt threatened, with his fists and knives. If the people watching hadn’t pulled em apart in time, Martín would’ve left him cut up like a sieve. That was the reason why he spent those weeks in jail. With Mere’s help I managed to get all the paperwork done to get him out of there. He loaned me cash to pay the lawyer’s fees and, when he finally got out free, I asked him not to go back to the black bridge. I was freaked out that the other guy would wanna get revenge, but he told me that he got there first, that that was the best spot for crossing wetbacks, and if that other guy wanted shit, all the better, he’d just finish him off once and for all. Fortunately when Martín returned he didn’t run into him again, that day. Monday, the sidewalks that go from the restaurant to the riverbank were almost empty, no gringos or wetbacks. It was really hot, the stench of the puddles mixed with the smell of urine that came out of the cantinas. A man in the doorway of a cabaret was shouting to come see a show. He called out to me with a sick little voice. I didn’t pay no attention to him, but I was sure that the next day he was gonna be in the restaurant messing with me. I didn’t like that little man. He invited me to the movies, to get a beer, all over the place. He really was messed up, besides his teeth were all rotten, not like Martín who had nice little straight white ones. “Mónica!” he yelled at me, but I just walked faster, I didn’t find Martín and I asked the other pasamojados if they’d seen him. They told me he’d just crossed over. At that hour there were just a few people on the edge of the river, like they didn’t really wanna cross. I sat down under the bridge and to distract myself I started watching the clouds and the buildings of the city in front of me, really tall glass towers with tons of colors—green, blue, metallic, black—the buzzing of the cars was putting me to sleep. Suddenly I saw him appear in the train yard on the other side of the river, between the boxcars, Martín and a Migra. It looked like they were arguing. They lifted up their arms like they were gonna start whaling on each other. The Migra guy grabbed Martín by his shoulder and shook him. Me and all the people on this side were watching close to see what was gonna happen. I got real scared cuz I knew what Martín could do, but then Martín got free and squeezed out through a hole in the chain-link fence, ran down the cement slope, and got into the dirty river water that came up to his waist. Then I saw the sky was starting to get dark. “What’re you doing here?” he asked me, all pissed off when he got to where I was. I didn’t answer cuz I was waiting til he calmed down. We started walking along the riverbank through dust and debris. Martín had on his Chicago Bulls T-shirt, all soaked, not to mention his shorts. When his clothes aired out a little, we went back to Calle Acacias. It always stank like day-old grease over there, and the sidewalks were full of snot-nosed kids. We stopped at one corner to eat tortas. It struck me that the bologna tortas looked like open mouths with the tongue hanging out, cuz of the piece of meat that stuck out of the bread roll. Martín thought what I said was funny. He grabbed a torta, opened and closed the two sides of the roll like it was a mouth and he started talking with a gringo accent, “Cuidado, Martin, cuidado, better to be friends than enemies, okay?” He threw the torta into a puddle. It was about nine at night. You couldn’t buy alcohol in the stores anymore, so we went to Mere’s restaurant. I got two Coors in a paper bag. We walked a few blocks and went into the Hotel Sady, ten dollars for a room for the whole night, but we were just gonna use it for a few hours. On the way I asked him if the next day he’d take me across the river cuz I’d never been to the other side. Martín asked for a room on the third floor, the last one with a window on Calle Degollado. From there we heard the commotion in the street like a faraway hum. Catty-corner to the hotel there’s a bright sign with a rosy light, and Martín liked when its glow lit up the room. He said that he felt like he was in another place, that he even felt like a different person. I remember that night I felt his body real nice, hugged him real tight for a long time, till he pulled away from me. He drank two beers and got serious. I asked him what happened, why he imitated that Migra guy and made fun of him. He told me he had a beef with him cuz of some people that he’d tried to cross, money stuff. He said it just like that and closed his eyes. I waited till he fell asleep so I could watch him comfortably, big and strong. I felt happy with him. I liked my Martín from the very first time I saw him come into the restaurant with some other cholos, all of em really slick, with their hair pulled back, held tight in a net. When I asked what they were gonna drink, Martín answered for all of em. After I came back with their beers he asked me what time I was gonna get off work. Later he was waiting for me outside. Martín had eyelashes that curled up at the ends. He laughed with his eyes, and that made me trust him. I became his girl that same night. Afterward he told me he was a pasamojados. As time passed, as we were getting to know each other I realized that he liked weed. I didn’t like that. He made fun of me, said I was really square. I didn’t care for weed or wine, but he liked me like that. We were thinking about renting some rooms to live together, just till we went to Chicago, like wetbacks, like the poor people who cross the river with nothing but God, climb into freight train cars, hiding and waiting for hours, sometimes a whole day till finally the train moves, with them inside, suffocating hot and afraid. When Martín asked me if I wanted to leave with him, I didn’t answer. The truth is I didn’t want to travel hidden in a freight car like my dad must have done just a few days after we arrived here. My mom found a job quickly in a factory, but my dad complained that he wasn’t finding any work, till the day came that he lost hope and he told us he’d go further north. It was a Sunday when he got outta bed determined to leave. My mom and I went with him to downtown. Once we were there he wanted to go to the Cathedral first. Afterward we left him on the edge of the river with a small suitcase in his hand. It was the last time we saw him. Just remembering I got sad, made me wanna kiss Martín’s little tattooed tears next to his left eye, “one’s for the first time the police caught me, the other for when my mom died,” he told me one night when we were together. “The cobweb I’ve got on my left angel wing is from a bet I won off this real chingón friend of mine; the loser had to pay for a tattoo for the winner in the best tattoo shop in El Chuco.” When he opened his eyes, I had so many thoughts mixed up in my mind that I asked him again about the Migra guy. At first he said it wasn’t important, but I pressed him on it, and he ended up telling me. “That guy’s name is Harris,” he said. “I know him from a long ways back, almost since I’ve been in this. We started out workin real good, without no issues, but then later not no more, cuz he didn’t wanna pay me shit. He asked me for people to slave for him in El Chuco. I crossed over maids, gardeners, waiters, even a mariachi with instruments and everything. They were for his place and for his homies’ places. He paid me good, but the shit started when I took people across to go pick chile up in New Mexico, cuz I took em all the way up to the fields too, so since it was more risk for me, I asked him for more cash. He didn’t wanna pay and we got into it. Now he’s making deals with the fucker that I stabbed that time for being such a loudmouth, remember? All I want is to get my money.” He finished talking and hugged me. “Don’t freak out, Moni, it’s not the first time I’ve got issues with la Migra.” We kissed and then we felt each other again. We left the room in time for me to catch the last bus to Felipe Ángeles. That night it took a long time to fall asleep. It was always like that after sleeping with Martín. I kept thinking about him and I was worried. Finally I got to sleep after I decided that I didn’t want to go to the other side anymore. The next day I put on a necklace made of colored beads and grabbed a denim bag where I put some pants so Martín could change out of his wet shorts. I meant to invite him to the movies, but when I got to the riverbank I freaked out cuz I saw him between the boxcars arguing with the same guy. I thought Martín was gonna pull a knife on him, but after a few minutes the other guy disappeared and Martín crossed quickly to this side of the river. “Let’s get outta here, cuz I just might cut him open!” he ordered as soon as he saw me. We walked to Mere’s restaurant and had a Coke. Martín calmed down and I took advantage of the chance to tell him that I’d changed my mind. He didn’t like that, he said we’d go no matter what. It was a challenge for Martín. He told me the Migra guy was scared of him cuz he’d threatened to rat him out, besides his shift on patrol had already ended, he was sure he’d already taken off. Martín’s reasons didn’t convince me. I regretted having gone looking for him. The only thing I wanted was to disappear from there. Martín got mad at me, dragged me to the riverbank, and pushed and shoved me onto the tire tube he used as a raft. “Don’t move, it’s just a few minutes!” He pulled the tube slow so the water wouldn’t splash me. It must’ve been about three in the afternoon. The sun was still high, reflected in the muddy water. Under the bridge, women and men waited for their turn to cross over; up above, on the bridge, others with their fingers hooked on the chain-link fence looked all around. They watched me and Martín. Despite feeling scared I got excited thinking that we’d stay on the other side the rest of the day, that we were gonna walk the streets of a city unknown to me—all that thrilled me—I watched the blue sky, the Franklin Mountain, the colors of the buildings, an enormous billboard for Camel cigarettes, and below it the train boxcars. Right at that moment I heard a shot. We’d already gotten to the other bank. I could see a man was hiding between the boxcars. It was a man with the unmistakable green uniform. “What’s going on, Martín?” I asked him panicked. “Get down!” he screamed at the same time as he hid behind the tube. Another shot rang out. Martín doubled over, the dark water of the river covered him. Terrified, I screamed. I wanted to get off the tube, stand up, or do something, but my fear wouldn’t let me. I looked around for help. There wasn’t a soul under the bridge anymore, not even up above, not anywhere. I felt like everything was far away, the little kids that played in the dusty streets, my house, Mere’s restaurant, the Hotel Sady, the Cathedral, its staircase and its beggars. The last day I saw my father, I felt an intense heat in my eyes. The August sun I thought. I closed them hard and saw how much silence the river carries.

Referencia del libro:

Título: Under The Bridge/Bajo El Puente: Stories From The Border/Relatos Desde La Frontera

Autora: Rosario Sanmiguel

Traductor: John Pluecker

Editor: Arte Publico Press, 2008

ISBN: 1558855149, 9781558855144

N.º de páginas: 232 páginas

Vista y lectura en Google Books: http://books.google.com.mx/books?id=kNfgOPJf5RAC&printsec=frontcover&hl=es&source=gbs_ge_summary_r&cad=0#v=onepage&q&f=false

7.

16:00-16:50 hs

Dialogando entre escritoras: Rosina Conde, Amaranta Caballero, Rosario Sanmiguel, Selfa Chew, Socorro Tabuenca, Francesca Gargallo

Modera: Roxana Rodríguez
Audio: 07_Dialogando_entre_escritoras, 47.0 MB (o clic aquí para ir a la página de los audios)

_______________
♀ Presentación, por Francesca Gargallo – Dossier, por ciberfeminismo informativo – ght ♀
Septiembre 18-19 de 2012 ♀

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