My Marianismo can fit like a cape that in one swipe of my arm and keeping perfectly silent can help me become invisible. Just. like. that!
My Marianismo has my crown replaced with a top hat which others have requested I pull out rabbits and doves for them to marvel at but when I look into it
I see the bottomless portal of endless expectations and illusions
My Marianismo has me pulling compromisios and consejos out of my sleeve like handkerchiefs embroidered and pressed by my tata abuela
My Marianismo has shown my cards to be a seer, a queen, an embodied version of Raquel and her gifts
My Marianismo has made me believe that I am the Magician, the one to perform for everyone and keep them happy and in awe of my many talents
I can move so fast with just a slight of my hand I have turned your tablecloth into a dinner spread
Not impressed? Let me make an ofrenda using only water, fire and my ancestors cellular memory
My Marianismo can wave a wand and just like that, POOF! I’m available, of service, humble af
My Marianismo tells me I must pull more rabbits, juggle more balls, and look exotic doing it
My Marianismo puts me on display everyday to be cut in half and dismembered at my core cells and jammed back together and spun around where my grandmothers womb trauma gets logged in my throat chakra.
And I say thank you,
thank you for allowing me to be cut in half for your applause.
My Marianismo tells me to bow and be humble when the lights go out.
Because I am the magician and the people are waiting
The thing is, I am not the magician. I am the magic. Somos la magica
I carry in my bones the star dust of a night sky that protects the cenotes where my people come from.
I am the wisdom of people who walked on el malecon in relaxation generations before me
I am the magic that can sense in my cells when my children wake up and can see them walking down the hall in my third eye
I am the magic that speaks to you through my visions
I am the magic that has astral-projected here and back to be in the magicians body to perform night after night.
Let me not forget that I am not the magician, but rather, I AM the magic.
I have traded my wand for a drum stick
My cape no longer poofs me invisible but sits on my shoulders like a velvet cloak embroidered with flowers reminding me that my magic is to be protected
My hands are an extension of my heart where humility is vanished into gratitude
My ancestors are the tools to conjure up sacred space for those called
But make no mistake, I am not a magician. I am the MAGIC.
Written by Cynthia Alonzo Perez, please do not use with out credit.