By Ana Castillo
Black Dove: Mamá, Mi'jo, and Me looks at what it capability to be a unmarried, brown, feminist mum or dad in an international of mass incarceration, racial profiling, and police brutality. via startling humor and love, Castillo weaves intergenerational tales touring from Mexico urban to Chicago. And in doing so, she narrates a few of America's so much heated political debates and pressing social injustices in the course of the oft-neglected lens of motherhood and family.
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Additional info for Black Dove: Mamá, Mi’jo, and Me
This was the México from which my mother spared me. In that Mexico City in the 1930s, Mamá was a street urchin with one ragged dress—but not an orphan, not yet. Because of an unnamed skin disease that covered her whole tiny body with scabs, her head was shaved. At seven years old, or maybe eight, she scurried, quick and invisible as a Mayan messenger, through the throngs of that ancient metropolis in the area known as “La Villita,” where the goddess Guadalupe Tonantzin had made her four divine appearances and ordered el indio Juan Diego four times to tell the Catholic officials to build her a church.
The Immigration and Naturalization Service (INS) was determined to “repatriate” Mexicans and their American-born children. Sometimes they did it with a train ticket, others were pressured and threatened. Sixty percent of those deported were American citizens. Undergoing its own economic crisis, the Mexican government was unable to accommodate or provide for these repatriated families, so recently part of the American Dream. It has been estimated by historians and acknowledged by US Citizenship and Immigration Services that in the two years after the crash, at least two hundred thousand Mexicans left the United States.
What we children wished for, I don’t recall. A reasonable guess would be for a bike or something along those lines. What my lovely young aunt wished for, however, I can only speculate. Throughout the years on special occasions there were embroidered napkins at the dining-room table where Tía Flora served up exquisite meals in her tiny flat in a one-hundred-or-so-year-old brick tenement that she and her husband eventually mortgaged. The bedroom was tiny-tiny, and the back hallway ended up serving as a clothes closet and storage space.