Part I. Clubs
1. What was your childhood like? (One paragraph each: (1)baby, (2)child, (3) teenager.)
Mi madre was just a girl herself when she found herself pregnant with me. Even though I don't remember the softness of her arms or the lilt of her voice, I feel her sadness in me, even though I was never meant to be little Solita's innocent nino. Sad for me also, I don't really know how much of the story I heard is what really happened; porsupuesto I would love to know where I really came from, but not every man gets his wish, no? I do know I was born in a shroud of lagrimas y sangre, tears and blood. Once, when I was living with this lil hyna in Juarez, she took me to go see this old bandejo— called himself Diablo— said she heard he was from Zacualta, the pueblo in Guatemala where I thought my mother was from. Diablo was a hard old vato, but he had the Zacualta look, all Indian angles and eyes, not some ugly cross-breed carrying a conqueror's blood. Diablo told me he was there when mama gave me life, beneath a sky of bright estrellas and a chill wind. He said she was small, even for a girl of 12, with eyes of the blackest night, and that she was called Solita. Said he found her by accident, hiding in the weeds by some mountain road, teeth clamped round a dried shard of cactus. Diablo also told me that she bled out as soon as I arrived, soaking the coarse montana scrub with her vida pura and breathing the name "Esteban" as she stroked my forehead for the first and only time, leaving a trace of her love, and her death, on me like the Virgin's blessing. Said he took me to the Jesuit mission in Zaculata as soon as he knew she was dead. Have to hand it to the hombre, he didn't pretend he'd cared. Said he was late to meet with some Narcos when he found Solita, and showed me the price he paid for his small act of charity. The Narcos cut his right thumb and ear off, and carved the holy cross into his brow, just cause he told them he was late on account of a babe and a priest.
Anyway, that's how the Jesuit missionaries in Zacualta ended up raising me. Mas despues, they told me that mi Solita was a whore, once I was old enough to know what that meant. Said she brought me to them cause she was cursed with sin and revered the native devils. Now I guess I know the depth of their own sins, but en estos dias, I felt like a kicked dog birthed by La Serpienta herself.
When I was a boy, I prayed like the other orphans, worked at the parish and said mis deberes de dios, but it never touched my eyes or my soul. Each day was dreadful. En esta tiempo, Zacualta was torn between the mission and the Narcos, because they were the only hombres with cash. No man or child was safe from that guerra de espirito, and the men of cloth were just as ruthless as the blood red Narcos. Of course, us Nuahalinos knew about the war for our souls. Our tongue was the oldest Mayan dialect, and our thoughts were just as far reaching. I spent many nights pretending time didn’t exist, thinking myself back and forth across the gulfs of eternity. I saw that the Narcos were going to win, because they knew this place, were birthed in blood and sorrow into these montanas. They were not here to conquer, but to augment this place. Comprendes? And so I knew the Hijos de Jesus were damned. Can’t tell you how such hatred felt, no recuerdo, but I am thinking it was better than anything I’ve felt.
I can thank those priests for the lessons, however. Early, I found out I had a quick mind and a strong body. Learned Ingles, and insisted that they teach me the Scriptures in the native lingua, K’iche Nuhuala . I was headstrong, sure, and caused them problems. Once, when I was nearly a man, they asked me to care for the mission's flock of sheep. Again, sangre and lagrimas, blood and tears. Every animal lay dead by day's end. It was a cruel and meaningless joke, I now know that, but at that time I thought it a chance to show them that their language meant nada to the people of Zacualta, who suffered so. The friar cursed me, told me I was hellspawn, and confined me to quarters for 3 months. It was then that I left for El Salvador to seek mi fortuna.
I went to Santa Ana, just south of the Guatemalan border. For a time, I had nothing and no one, just another 13 year old orphan on the streets of a strange city, short, ugly and hungry. Then un dia I met Felicidades. He was arguing with a gringo in the barrio where I slept. The pale man pulled his piece. Feliz laughed, spit in the American's face and said, "Si no tienes dinero, no tengo ayuda parati." Hombre put the barrel to Feliz's head and screamed something I never heard. I was already running, right up behind the gringo, my small knife in mis manos. Sliced his tendons straight through, bathed in his blood, laughing like the starving pup I was. Felicidades laughed with me, grabbed up the gun in one hand and then snatched me up in the other, and gave me un abrazo I will never forget. For el primero tiempo en mi vida, I felt a brother's love, smeared in blood and delirious with joy. Feliz then told me, "Tengo trabajo parati, hermanito." That was how I joined Mara Salvatrucha Trienta, MS 13. We were diablos on golden wings, Narcos with righteous blood, killers with a true cause. I started as un cuidando for Feliz's crew, calling out dangers en los calles de Santa Ana and watching close the men who came for our wares. But I had a nimble mind, and a strong body, and it wasn't long before Felicidades asked me to come to Juarez with him. By the time I was 15, I was running across the border as a scout. I was blessed, porque I didn't look like a banger and I could speak the white devils' tongue like it was my own. From Los Angeles to Amarillo, mis hermanos knew I could keep a shipment safe better than any Salvatruch out there.
I was small and deadly, loved blades more than guns, and could hide under the rocks until my eyes or fangs found the enemy. I became Coralino, the Coral Snake.
2. If you were a weather pattern or meteoric phenomenon, what would you be? Why?
Ay, que malo, esta pregunta no tiene dientes. I suppose I would have to say I'm a tornado. Slight, focused, an unholy funnel of destruction. When the air is moving slowly, but with power, expect me. The heavens and earth cannot explain how I came to be, or what destruction I might bring conmigo. I am the inward turned wind. Fear me, should I ever touch ground near you.
3. What is(are) your most prized possession(s)? What makes it(them) so special?
Let me roll up my sleeve, gringo. Mira, you see the coral snakes, how they slither down my forearms? I suppose you see also that the red is not ink, but burns instead? Stripes of pain, when I failed to watch my back close enough. You know anything about the coralino, ese? As you Nortemericanos say, “Black and yellow, kill a fellow.” So you see, I got these stripes when a deal when wrong in Arizona. Got collared by a dead man who gave me these burns with red iron. Thought it was funny, too. I killed him un mes despues. That was when I learned I could kill anything, if I decided it was el tiempo por eso. I went to see mija Mercedes, she did real good ink in those days. She was the dragonlady of Juarez, didn’t fear nobody. Asked her to give me stripes of black and yellow between my burns, to show that I was Coralino, not just some pussy chicano with no venom, no bite. She gave me the snakeheads too, but until the day she died both me and Mercedes had no idea when she put those eyes and fangs on my wrists.
When they started to blot out pieces of my mind, those tattoos were the only thing that reminded me of myself. I am Coralino, because of them. Without them, I would be venom with no cause.
4. Do you know any songs? What kind? How did you learn them?
Santa Sangre plays music. No puedo eschuchame Black Sabbath. The Mother of Blood sings to me. She sounds like dozens of tones in the ear at the same time. Hornets of mortality. When you’re about to strike, the blood of killer and killed mingles, plays a symphony of anticipation and release that you can both hear.
I also know Chopin, Bach, Rachmaninov, Copeland.
Porque? No se. No recuerdo. Pienso que los gringos cambian el centro de mi mente.
5. Have you ever been in love? With who? What happened? If not, why not?
Claro que si. I never got to count the number of times I fell in love. I know the first one, and the last one. Primero, there was Gabriella, she was beautiful, dulce que leche, smooth as the moonlight. I met her when Feliz was my boss, and when I went up to Mexico I told her to stop waiting and wondering. She worried a lot, didn’t have family because none of them preoccupe nada and ended up dead one way or another. She Gabby, she worried a lot, cause she loved her life.
I am not sure, pero pienso que tengo un hijo by her. She sent me a message once, said that Gabriel was doing well, that he had my eyes. She might have been lying, but I don’t think so. That was what she always wanted, that and the ice we used together.
La Ultima? Mercedes. She gave me everything, and last I saw her, los gringos had turned her inside out because of me. I was up north, watching a big crossing, and la policia came. Mi cholo Gratis, he stayed in the same casa, told me he was out in las calles late, and when he got back to the house there were DEA trucks outside, pale men shouting and banging around our place. Gratis got out, told me what happened, and I came racing back to Juarez. I remember trying to hold her when I found her dead, hanging like a butchered pig, in our little spot. I grasped onto her shredded cuerpo and wept, I remember feeling so weak. She felt slimy, so many embraces from every side, so much stink. Las lagrimas sent me north, to seek the men who did this to my lady of ink. She gave me everything. I gave myself to revenge and murder after that day.
6. If you were going somewhere special that you wanted to look your best for, what would you do to prepare? What would you wear? How long would it take you to get ready?
I would get a new hat, pure yellow straw to reflect the sun. Maybe brush the tangles out of my moustache. I’d take a shower. Take a few spikes of La Pura, just to be safe. It wouldn’t take more than an hour or two. I would sharpen my kukri, por supesto, and that might make it tres horas. Of course, I’d try to get there early, so take a look around before going inside.
7. What will you do for next birthday?
No puedo recordar la fecha cuando tome vida. Since I don’t know when I took life into my hands, I cannot tell you about how I will celebrate los cumplianos. Years will pass, but until I know exactly what they did to me, it won’t mean much. But if I wanted to celebrate, I’d look up X and El Doctor. I like them, as much as I like anyone. Would see if I could get them to spike with me, or at least take a noseful or two. Claro que Etheridge would say no, but X is a bold hombre and I’d love to see him move mas rapido con La Pura.
8. What are your worst fears? Why? (Min. three paragraphs.)
Para empieza, I fear the Mother of Blood, mi Santa Sangre. She holds the keys to every door, but her bloody grin splits wider than mine ever could. The idea of failing her, of not comprehending the path she’s laid out for me, turns my heart to stone, my sweat to icy needles. To serve is to love, but to love is to fear, no?
I never want to be caged again. The lights were so bright, the pulsing pain behind my temples shot the flavor of blood into my throat. I remember waking up in that hole once. Mis ojos, nariz y dedos estaba cubierno con sangre. The gringos laughed when I cried out, voices echoing high above my head. I didn’t understand why they were laughing, until I realized the mistake my fingers had made, and tried to climb those smooth walls, spitting my own blood up at them, clawing against their cruelty rather than my own flesh. They kept shouting between barks of laughter, “He tried to take his face off!” I never got out of that hole on my own, though I stained it brown with mis esfuerzas. Nunca quiero revuelvo alli.
I also hate cops. No tengo miedo de esos, but hate and fear are almost the same thing, so it’s a good guess I suppose. They are men with guns, but no courage, and are just as evil as other men who wield pain.
9. Which historical figure do you look up to the most? Why?
James K. Polk. He was el jefe en los Estados when Mexico lost half of itself in a single year. The conquerors weren’t expecting to be overrun, and pretended that these Americanos had nothing. Zachary Taylor was un zorro tambien, a fox who thieved them of the land they had no right to defend. Together, they took apart the mystery of the Spaniards’ conquest, and set the stage for their own nation to be ravaged by the worst de las guerras civiles.
10. When would you decide to retire? Where would you settle down at? What would you do?
I will not stop. Mis duermas estan pintado con sangre. My nights are the hue of blood. Of course, if I were Solita’s Esteban, I would want no more than a small house in a smaller pueblo, some burros y gallinas. I’d have a woman with eyes like ripe corn, and with hair black as midnight. I’d have ninos y ninas, and grow stooped by the years. But it’s not so.
I will stop after I do what She wants me to do. Claro que no comprendo eso, but I will follow her either way.
11. If you had theme music, what would it sound like?
You know Antonio Banderas? Yes? Of course you do. It would be like his theme music, but with softer footsteps. Something that makes you think of the dry montanas of Mexico con guitarras rapidas. No Mariachi shit here, I’m no fat, lazy barbecue chicano.
12. Describe your ambition. What makes you want it so bad that you would risk your life for it? (Min. three paragraphs)
I exist because Madre Sangre came to me in that hole, showed me that even though the gringos damaged my mind, they didn’t destroy my soul. Now that soul belongs to Santa Mia, but I know not what she wants me to do in this world. I spill blood because it is the most natural thing to do, there are rivers of it everywhere I turn, and it gives me strength and vitality to kill men who do not deserve to live. I know the Mother has a plan for me, and I must discover how to serve her best. Cada tiempo que lucho con mis enemigos, she is standing over my shoulder, has guided me to the fight, and wants me to win because I am one of her champions. Someday, she wants me to be a leader of men, I believe. Today is not the right time, and I am not a man who wishes to take command, but every step of my life has put me at odds with powerful, corrupt enemies. Hombres who some would call evil. It’s strange that I might be evil, too, but I battle the dark more effectively than the priests of that whore-church in Rome. What Santa Sangre wishes, I think, is first for these men to bleed until the earth is red with the consequences of their sins. I will fight for this one thing until my breath stops, and after that if I need to. Men such as these almost destroyed me, took away the lives of those I used to be able to care for. After that, I cannot guess what the Madre has planned for the meek. No pienso que it’s going to end in sweet songs for them, because they would rather never bleed, and forget that they are alive. When the mighty fall, the small will not inherit the bloody earth. They must be led, or taught, or welded into new shapes. Or else destroyed. Someday, I hope the Mother prevails, and I can serve her in this new purpose.
13. Do the ends justify the means?
Claro que si. It’s important to remember though, that the means usually make the ends clear. There is little that the human mind can predict, and the boots we wear on the path usually decide where the journey ends, comprende? I simply perform the means to my Lady’s ends, and trust in her that those ends are right. Since I know they are, my actions are not eclipsed by doubt. This doesn’t mean I don’t think about them, give everything of myself to my actions. I simply do not worry that they will result in something other than exactly what is supposed to be.
