What Night Brings - Lingering Memories

Upon reading What Night Brings, written by Carla Trujillo, a lot of past experiences and lingering memories began to shed light once more. Through connecting the many themes within the novel to Gloria Anzaldua's book; Borderlands, La Frontera: The New Mestiza, I began to understand the importance of writing about our past traumas in order to rebel and combat our shadow beast. Through undergoing the process of eventually gaining that Mestiza Consciousness we so often seek, I've decided to write about the memories, the pain and the triggers that What Night Brings has sprouted. That being said, I share with you my lingering sentiments. I share the connections made with my mothers' agency and my own, living in an abusive household and the strength that has now been rooted in my existence. In addition, I connect this abuse to the capability of a mujer to regain her sexual agency regardless of the harm that was inflicted upon her due to abuse and violence. I stand in solidarity with those of you who have had similar experiences in an abusive household, one that is commonly rooted in the deeply entrenched machismo and patriarchy our parents may have been forced to deal with. Con amor y ternura.

I Moan Like My Mother

In the crevices of my soul, I find my mother. I find the womyn I aspire to become. My mother is one that has struggled through nearly every obstacle as a womyn; abuse, discrimination, sexism, pain and trauma. I am sorry for the pain he has caused you. I am sorry for the many times your father hit you, and I am most sorry that those hands that once caressed you, the hands of my father, have had the power to scar you.

I moan like my mother because her pain is mine. In the crevices of my soul, I feel her in me, because her strength is one I have learned to embody. I look back at my childhood and remember the way he hit us, and later asked for forgiveness. I look back at the times when she laid her body in front of us, to protect us from him and thus took his slaps and the bruises that were intended to be ours. The man he loves, the man he lives for.

I moan like my mother because just as she has taken ownership of her body, her worth and her existence, I will take ownership of mine. Through the bruises on her body and soul, she has enabled the healing of my own. I moan like my mother because I am a sexual being and will never let another man dictate my own worth, just as my mother moaned and groaned and cried to validate her own, I will do the same. I moan like my mother because I love foolishly, but no longer foolish enough to let another man hurt me.