My Feminist Parasite
By Keyla Limones
The feminist urge has to keep living inside me like a parasite. I attempt to keep my notion of “hate all men” while constantly educating myself on feminist Chicanas in a mix of Catholic feminists, Anzaldua, Dolores Huerta, and Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz. I carry their voices amongst many others like ghosts I’ve never met, whispering prayers and protest songs in the same breath. It’s complicated, this feminist urge; it asks me to question the very foundations that shaped my mother’s prayers and my grandmother’s obedience. Sometimes, I feel like I’m betraying them when I speak too loudly or say “no” when I reject the softness expected of me. But then I remember Sor Juana’s ink-stained fingers, Anzaldua’s border tongue, and Huerta’s clenched fist. I remember that this anger isn’t new; it’s inherited. So maybe the parasite isn’t a curse but a seed, and all I can do is water it with truth, even if that truth sometimes tastes like bitterness. Yet I remain sweet, educated, and illuminated, just for me.
It starts as a virus,
Education, reading, and then writing
Cultivated by defiance
Questioning the columns of machismo,
El patriarcado y sus limits.
Oh no, keep your women hidden
Silenced by the ‘male gaze’
And the systemic hierarchy
That tightens your pantalones
Holding power as a belt.
The parasite inhabits,
The brain is fueled by interrogations.
Driving them to hysteria,
Crazed at the thought of speaking
And actually being heard.
But this woman’s hysteria is holy,
A church of mujeres who refuse silencio.
Their prayers are protest signs,
Their communion is cafe shared at midnight,
Their altar: la mesa de la cocina
Where daughters learn to bite back.
My parasite hums in two languages,
Spitting out dichos like spells:
“Calladita, no me veo más bonita.”
“Obedience won’t save you.”
“Rebellion is an inheritance.”
It mutates into musica,
Corridos with no prince,
Boleros with no forgiveness,
A rhythm stitched into the veins,
Pum, pum, pum
La sangre calling for justicia.
So call it my feminist parasite if you wish,
But I call it sustento.
It feeds me, it feeds us,
Turning silence into fuego,
Turning miedo into palabras,
Turning me into nosotras.
The Trinity Review 