By Felipe H. Lopez / Translation by Felipe H. Lopez and Brook Danielle Lillehaugen
Rla dizh
Rla dizh
Bzilo xtada,
rinylua naa.
Nani laëb,
Nyeru reiny naën.
Rgweën dizh,
queity rinydyagdyën saën.
Laëb xtizh zeiny lo nyia,
naa xtizh unibersida.
Laëb xtixh lo gueizh,
naa xtizh ra zhinya re.
Nuguecyëb lo gueizh,
Nuguecya lad re.
Lo sa dizh queity rzhagdi,
rla lo sari.
Las palabras se divergen
En los ojos de mi padre
me veo.
Soy él,
pero somos diferentes.
Hablamos
sin escucharnos.
Él habla sobre el trabajo del campo;
yo, de la universidad.
Él habla de nuestro pueblo;
yo, de mis hijos.
En su mente está San Lucas,
yo, este lugar.
No se unen las palabras,
se divergen.
Words fracture
In my father’s eyes
I see me.
It is me who is him
but we are not the same.
We talk,
and we don’t understand each other.
Him, words of field work,
me, words of the university.
Him, words of the pueblo,
me, words of my sons.
He thinks about San Lucas,
I think about this side.
Our words don’t fit together,
they are shattered.
Xjaa
Xjaa
Tseiny abteiby iaz,
guca tyop.
Bria xjaa.
Garad,
ra saa,
zeiny lo nya,
tyem ryian,
Dizhsa,
lo gueizh,
Duzhga byanri zyet.
Camyuny pasajer,
Meijy,
Tijwan,
fronter,
miegr,
Ryiengw,
gal rguiby plad,
Santa Mony,
cabez naa.
Ruala byan,
ruala ze.
Na buny ropta lad,
ne nyec teiby lad naa.
Buny rza naca.
Canzaa,
ruzhia,
rzaa steiby.
Nua zyet,
ricya,
buny canza naa.
Wings
At age 16,
I became two.
My wings appeared.
The plow,
my relatives,
the work in the field,
the rhythms of planting and harvest,
Zapotec language,
my pueblo,
little by little, behind me.
The bus,
Mexico City,
Tijuana,
the border,
la migra,
gringos,
washing dishes,
Santa Monica,
ahead of me.
Half of me stayed,
half of me went.
Now, on both sides
I am not on either.
Unsettled,
I wander around.
I pause
and move again.
I am far away,
I keep coming back,
a migrant.
Alas
A los 16 años,
Me volví dos.
Me salieron mis alas.
El arado,
mi familia,
el trabajo del campo,
tiempo de cultivo,
el zapoteco,
mi pueblo,
poco a poco se alejan.
El camión pasajero
Ciudad de México,
Tijuana,
la frontera,
la migra,
los americanos,
el trabajo de lavaplatos,
Santa Mónica,
me esperan.
Una mitad se queda,
otra mitad se va.
Ahora de ambos lados,
y de ningún lado soy.
Soy andariego.
Vagando,
me detengo.
Me muevo de nuevo.
Ando lejos.
Continúo regresando,
soy migrante.
Lo nez Santa Mony
Lo nez Santa Mony
Pelican’s Nest, lo zeiny wdiaa,
guel wdiaa,
zhi lo nezi.
Bas wlez rzai,
nia zyiaa.
Ruzhia nyisdo,
Rinydyaga nyisdo.
Ncai la Pacific, parar rzaa.
Guax rdiaa,
Bcyia bel,
Bcyia bel.
Bda rinylua, parar rzaa.
Nezdetsa rubi.
Rzyual ladcai, parar rzaa.
Rdeidya cai
Rcairu ladcai.
Nirzuaz ni queity liazni rinylua,
Rdilyri.
Xyecwri rdily.
Lua rnab teibyi muly, parar rzaa.
Venice, lo Abbot Kinney.
Abzeinyga liaza
Rrilua chol rinylua,
Laztua rtyen, parar rzaa.
Ru wrraly bzeinya,
byua, bseua ru wrraly.
Binyi guecya.
The streets of Santa Monica
I finished my shift at the Pelican’s Nest,
I left at midnight,
the streets quiet.
Too late for the bus,
I walk home.
I smell the ocean,
I hear the waves.
Pacific Street is dark, I hurry.
I smell of smoke,
I was grilling fish,
I was grilling steak.
I see shadows, I hurry.
Behind me, there are noises.
My path gets longer, I hurry.
I cross the street,
the sidewalk is darker.
I see the drunks, the homeless,
arguing with each other.
Their dogs fighting.
One of them asks me for money, I hurry.
In Venice now, on Abbott Kinney.
Almost home.
Are those cholos I see?
My heart speeds up, I hurry.
I arrive home,
I close the gate behind me.
My head clears.
Las calles de Santa Monica
Salí de trabajar del Pelican’s Nest,
salí a media noche,
la calle silenciosa.
Los autobuses ya no circulaban.
A pie me fui a casa.
Olía el mar,
escuchaba al mar.
La calle Pacific poca iluminada, camino a prisa.
Huelo a humo,
asé pescado,
asé carne.
Silueta veo, camino a prisa.
Ruido a mis espaldas.
Se alarga la acera, camino a prisa.
Cruzo la calle,
se opaca más.
Veo borrachos sin hogar,
discuten entre sí.
Pelean sus perros.
Uno me exije dinero, camino a prisa.
Llego a Venice, en la Abbot Kinney.
Casi a casa llego.
Cholos veo?
Mi corazón palpita, camino a prisa.
Llego a casa,
la entrada cierro detrás de mí.
Mi mente despeja.
Felipe H. Lopez. I was born in San Lucas Quiaviní, Oaxaca, my first language was Zapotec. At the age of 16 I came to Los Angeles, California, speaking no English and little Spanish. There I began documenting my language and in 1999 we published a trilingual Zapotec-Spanish-English dictionary (Munro & Lopez, et al. 1999). Meanwhile I continued my education and in 2007 I completed my Ph.D. in Urban Planning at UCLA. Since then, I have taught Valley Zapotec language classes at the University of California San Diego, UCLA, Haverford College, and Universidad del Pueblo. I am currently a Visiting Assistant Professor at Seton Hall University in the Department of Political Science & Public Policy with a joint appointment in Latin American & Latino/Latina Studies. My Zapotec language poems have appeared in the Latin American Literary Review, The Acentos Review, and Latin American Literature Today. My short story “Liaza chaa” / “I am going home” won the 2017 Premios CaSa award for the creation of Zapotec literature.
Brook Danielle Lillehaugen (Haverford College) is a linguist who specializes in Indigenous languages of Mexico. Lillehaugen’s research profile includes technical grammatical description, collaborative language documentation projects, and literary translations. Her work has been supported by the National Science Foundation, the National Endowment for the Humanities, and the American Council for Learned Societies. Her translations have appeared in Latin American Literature Review, The Acentos Review, and Latin American Literature Today. More information can be found at her website: http://brooklillehaugen.weebly.com/.