Memory of R

None of the dead people have seen or that have spoken to me were bloody. When I go into a prison, an old hospital, or an old house like the ones I've lived in down in Boyle Heights - I sense them. I see them.

Ten years ago I met a Native American woman from Mexico who explained certain things to me. She became my mentor, and we spoke in her - our - indigenous tongue. I told her that the dead people I saw did not scare me. She said that it didn't matter. Dead people appear to those who can “see” them and to those that have chaos in their life. So among other lessons, she taught me how to get rid of the “gift”.

And so I prayed and meditated.

I began to understand the dead people; and then I began to recall what I saw in my childhood regarding this religion, and what I was taught when we'd go to the catechism on Saturday mornings.

Though my mother was not a religious person, she had religious beliefs that were never acknowledged. I didn't grow up thinking that the Native religion was part of me. I learned to understand this when I met my mentor.

But no one in the family liked to talk about the odd things.

At night, my mother always put a broom behind the front door. When I asked why, she said that it was to keep the bad people out. I said oh. Later I find out . . . this is how you keep evil spirits - the dead people - away from your home.

Then, in Texas, my cousin and I were sitting in a parked car waiting for my sister and mother to come out. We couldn't leave the car. We peeked out the back window of the car and could see a doorway with a green curtain that didn't go all the way down. Sis' ankles were tied to a wooden chair and there was a fire burning around her.

I don't know what for . . .