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Jacqueline Loweree —Mexico—






Jacqueline Loweree (Ciudad Juárez, Mexico, 1989) is an anthropologist and sociologist who works as an evaluator and strategist in the field of philanthropy in New York City. For more than a decade, she has been involved with multimillion-dollar investment portfolios for several NGOs, corporations, and institutions such as: Habitat for Humanity International, National Alliance on Mental Illness, ViiV Healthcare, National Institutes of Health, and the Association of American Medical Colleges. When she is not wearing her social impact warrior hat, she dedicates her time to literature. She is the author of three books of poetry, El tiempo de la mariposa (2019), Canciones de una urraca (2022), and El suicidio del escorpión (2023). In her verses she shares personal problems, such as bipolar disorder and suicide, or of a social nature, such as the femicides in Mexico. Her poetry explores the everyday life of her environment and conveys the emotional instability of what she calls a "captive mind".


Escéptica

Me gusta la gente creyente,

de fe, quienes de rodillas

en una capilla, se hincan

a pedir el milagro del día y

a jurar que serán dignos

para aún recibirlo, al menos

hasta que el agua bendita,

en forma de cruz,

se evapore de sus frentes.

De ilusiones huecas

se arrullan al dormir en silencio

ya que el ruido de una escéptica

no lo escuchan los devotos,

sordos de la bulla del desamparo.

De la mano van, extendida,

juntos con Dios, sin ningún fingir

a pasear por la tarde

aunque la escéptica los vea

caminar siempre solos.


Skeptic

I like people who believe,

of faith, who kneel in a chapel,

to solicit their daily miracle

and claim their worthiness

upon its receipt, at least

until the holy water,

in the form of a cross,

evaporates from their foreheads.

They lull themselves to sleep,

with hollow illusions, in silence

because people who believe

cannot hear the skeptic,

deaf to desolation.

Hand in hand they go

confidently with God

for an afternoon stroll,

even if at a distance the skeptic

sees them walking alone.



No te calles

(para mis feministas)


No te quedes paralizada

al borde de la injusticia

no pierdas las ganas

no quieras momentáneamente

no te calles ahora

ni nunca, mujer

no te calles

no te llenes de apatía

no reserves tus protestas

sólo a espacios sin juicio

no dejes caer tus ánimos

pesados tras lo impune

no te quedes sin voz

no te duermas sin luchar

no te pienses sin valor

no te juzgues como

no los juzgan a ellos.


pero si

pese a todo

no puedes evitarlo

y pierdes las ganas

y quieres momentáneamente

y te callas ahora

y te llenas de apatía

y reservas tus protestas

sólo a espacios sin juicio

y dejas caer tus ánimos

pesados tras lo impune

y te consuelas sin voz

y te duermes sin luchar

y te piensas sin valor

y te juzgas como

no los juzgan a ellos

y te quedas paralizada

al borde de la injusticia

y te callas

entonces

no cuentes conmigo.


*inspirado por el poema “No te Salves” de Mario Benedetti




Don't lower your voice

(to my feminists)


Don't become paralyzed

on the brink of injustice

don't lose your desire

don't want momentarily

don't lower your voice now

nor ever, woman

don't lower your voice

don't be filled with apathy

don't hold your protests

only to spaces without judgment

don't let your spirit wane

deflated from the impunity

don't lose your voice

don't fall asleep without fighting

don't think yourself worthless

don't judge yourself as

they don't judge them.


but if

despite all

you can't help it

and you lose the desire

and you want momentarily

and you lower your voice now

and you are filled with apathy

and you hold your protests

only to spaces without judgment

and you let your spirit wane

deflated after the impunity

and you seek solace without your voice

and you fall asleep without fighting

and you think you are worthless

and you judge yourself as

they don't judge them

and you freeze

on the brink of injustice

and you lower your voice

then

don't count on me.


*inspired by the poem "No te Salves" by Mario Benedetti


Trabajadores esenciales

Pasan las calandrias

al anochecer.

Al menos la ilusión

de caballos trotando,

dejando huellas sangrientas

de herraduras

que por el pavimento

de tardes en mayo,

se derriten.


Mis perras

les ladran a vagones

que van recogiendo escombros,

y poco a poco,

la ciudad limpiando.


Los caballos,

trabajadores esenciales,

andan de costillas descubiertas,

bajo sólo la piel de mil soles,

hincados

de rodillas.


Sacos de huesos,

pesan más de hambre

que de esperanzas.


Ellos van por las avenidas

cabalgando

para ganarse una propina,

así, acabando con sus ganas,

ellos mendigan.


De vez en cuando

se escucha el lejano gritar

de sus dueños

enfurecidos

y de los latigazos que tajan

sus muslos.

El buen trabajo

siempre se recompensa

con más trabajo.


Arre,

arre,

mi caballo.




Essential workers

The carriages pass

at dusk.

At least the mirage

of trotting horses,

leaving bloody footprints

of horseshoes

that melt on the pavements

of warm May afternoons.


My dogs

bark at the wagons

collecting trash,

cleaning bit by bit,

the city’s debris.


Horses,

the essential workers,

parade with their bare ribs,

under the skin of a thousand suns,

crouched slightly

on their bloody knees.


Sacs of bones,

that are weighed more by their hunger

than by their hope.


And they canter along

all to earn a tip,

and just as their will erodes,

they cannot help but

beg the pity of a pious soul.


From time to time

the distant screaming of their owners

reverberates

enraged

as well as the sounds of the whips

that penetrate their skins.

Good work

is always rewarded

with more work.


Giddyap,

giddyap,

my horse!




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