This is a song I wrote when I was taking a Chicano Literature class with Benjamin Alire Saenz. It's supposed to be sung as a Spanish waltz (3/4 time.) It speaks of La Llorona.
I heard it from my comadre
Who heard it from her tia Menchu (Carmen)
Of Pepitos youngest daughter
The tragedy that she went through
When her gringo husband left her
For one of his social status
She cried him a big ol’ river
We thought she would die of sadness
She went un pocito loca
Her children she drowned in madness
By that river she created
She wails all noche y dia
For her children to return
Que hisiste mamita mia
And as if it weren’t enough
You killed yourself todavia
When the gringo heard what happened
Le remordio la conciencia
But realized he was tarde
Quiso truncar su exsistencia
But Cupido, too, felt guilty
And beat gringo to his game
For meddling and joining couples
Cupido has found his fame
And fearing his mother, Venus
He tried to defend his name
As gringo cried by the river
Cupid turned him into a tree
To guard and protect his children
And keep mom from running free
So now he’s a Weeping Willow
All tragedies come in three’s
Monday, April 5, 2010
Sunday, April 4, 2010
From the Mouths of Babes
It was January 2003, two weeks before I gave birth to my first born, John Giovanni, I went to Wal-Mart. The cashier noticed I was pregnant. Leaning forward and reaching to touch my right shoulder, he said, “When your baby is born, look behind his right shoulder, and there you will find a birth mark.” Thinking he was nuts, and a little freaky, I smiled and disregarded his request.
Three months later I returned to Wal-Mart and I soon as I saw this man, I remembered what he had told me. My jaw dropped because...my son has a birth mark behind his right shoulder. I reminded him who I was, what he had told me, and that my son, in fact, had that birth mark. I asked him how he knew about this and what it meant; very nonchalantly, he told me he could just see it and that it didn't really mean anything. He did however tell my mom on a later date that it meant he was going to be very special...spiritual.
Everyone thinks their kid is special and smart, but Giovanni is different. One summer evening when he was three I felt an unusual need to connection with him. We were watching Disney’s Lady and the Tramp. I wanted to strike up a conversation with him as the movie began, but wasn’t quite sure what to say to him. It was an strange feeling, not knowing what to say to my own son; like being on a first date. I considered asking him if he had ever seen this movie before, but I thought to myself, “How stupid, of course he hasn’t, he’s three and this movie must about 50 years old.” Just then he said, "No. No mommy, I've never seen this movie." I stayed still and silent for a few seconds as my eyes looked around for something to say as if they were going to find a response in thin air. "Oh, you haven't my love?" I replied as my eyes watered and I fought to hold back tears.
Later, I laid out two 'San Marcos' blankets out on the concrete drive way so we could lay out there and count stars. We counted up to one hundred then we laid there...silent. Again, I thought perhaps I should say or ask him something, but I didn't. Instead, I asked myself why it was so hard for me to be myself around my own son. What I did know was that that moment would not last forever. I wanted to tell him that I loved; and just as I was opening my mouth to utter the words, he said, "I love you, too, mommy." Immediately, I felt a knot building up in my throat. "I love you, too, mommy," he said again. I just smiled, gave him a hug and a kiss and told him I loved him.
I decided to let go of my inhibitions and ask him anything, no matter how stupid it might sound to me. So my question to him was, "Mijo, what do you want to be when you grow up?" "A grown up." he said.
Three months later I returned to Wal-Mart and I soon as I saw this man, I remembered what he had told me. My jaw dropped because...my son has a birth mark behind his right shoulder. I reminded him who I was, what he had told me, and that my son, in fact, had that birth mark. I asked him how he knew about this and what it meant; very nonchalantly, he told me he could just see it and that it didn't really mean anything. He did however tell my mom on a later date that it meant he was going to be very special...spiritual.
Everyone thinks their kid is special and smart, but Giovanni is different. One summer evening when he was three I felt an unusual need to connection with him. We were watching Disney’s Lady and the Tramp. I wanted to strike up a conversation with him as the movie began, but wasn’t quite sure what to say to him. It was an strange feeling, not knowing what to say to my own son; like being on a first date. I considered asking him if he had ever seen this movie before, but I thought to myself, “How stupid, of course he hasn’t, he’s three and this movie must about 50 years old.” Just then he said, "No. No mommy, I've never seen this movie." I stayed still and silent for a few seconds as my eyes looked around for something to say as if they were going to find a response in thin air. "Oh, you haven't my love?" I replied as my eyes watered and I fought to hold back tears.
Later, I laid out two 'San Marcos' blankets out on the concrete drive way so we could lay out there and count stars. We counted up to one hundred then we laid there...silent. Again, I thought perhaps I should say or ask him something, but I didn't. Instead, I asked myself why it was so hard for me to be myself around my own son. What I did know was that that moment would not last forever. I wanted to tell him that I loved; and just as I was opening my mouth to utter the words, he said, "I love you, too, mommy." Immediately, I felt a knot building up in my throat. "I love you, too, mommy," he said again. I just smiled, gave him a hug and a kiss and told him I loved him.
I decided to let go of my inhibitions and ask him anything, no matter how stupid it might sound to me. So my question to him was, "Mijo, what do you want to be when you grow up?" "A grown up." he said.
A Mazing
Having children is the most beautiful thing I have experienced...next to being stoned at a Pink Floyd concert.
There are times cuando pega cacho la depre (when depression hits bad) and my oldest runs to the restroom, runs back toward me holding the end of the toilet paper and the rest rolling behind him and wipes the tears from my eyes telling me, "It's okay mommy, don't cry" and kisses my cheek.
Then, there are times when he's playing under my desk while I'm writing a 10 page paper for school and he decides to disconnect the computer while he's down there...just 'cause.
Just recently, I was showing him how to do a puzzle...no, a maze. I said, this little character needs to get from here, the starting point, to here, the finish mark. I was showing him how to trace inside the lines of the maze and on purpose I would go take the wrong route and go back and say, "oops, that's not the way...let's go back." Then after we got to the finish mark, I said, "okay, now you try it, help 'Bunny' get from here to here." So he takes the pencil and he draws a line straight through the maze from start to finish, he puts the pencil down and says, "there."
This is the same child who changes underwear about three times a day and tells me he NEEDS to change his underwear because the other ones "got wet." The same one who yells at me from the bath room "Mommy, cacíta ready!" meaning he's ready for me to wipe his butt. He's the same one who when I tell him he can't eat chocolate powder by the spoon full says, "Sure I can, look."
This story is to be continued...as I have to tend to my motherly doodies.
There are times cuando pega cacho la depre (when depression hits bad) and my oldest runs to the restroom, runs back toward me holding the end of the toilet paper and the rest rolling behind him and wipes the tears from my eyes telling me, "It's okay mommy, don't cry" and kisses my cheek.
Then, there are times when he's playing under my desk while I'm writing a 10 page paper for school and he decides to disconnect the computer while he's down there...just 'cause.
Just recently, I was showing him how to do a puzzle...no, a maze. I said, this little character needs to get from here, the starting point, to here, the finish mark. I was showing him how to trace inside the lines of the maze and on purpose I would go take the wrong route and go back and say, "oops, that's not the way...let's go back." Then after we got to the finish mark, I said, "okay, now you try it, help 'Bunny' get from here to here." So he takes the pencil and he draws a line straight through the maze from start to finish, he puts the pencil down and says, "there."
This is the same child who changes underwear about three times a day and tells me he NEEDS to change his underwear because the other ones "got wet." The same one who yells at me from the bath room "Mommy, cacíta ready!" meaning he's ready for me to wipe his butt. He's the same one who when I tell him he can't eat chocolate powder by the spoon full says, "Sure I can, look."
This story is to be continued...as I have to tend to my motherly doodies.
Monday, March 15, 2010
The Man Who Gave Me $20
It was the summer of 2007. I was living in my apartment on the west side of El Paso; I had received my BA from UTEP in Theatre that December. I had bombed the interview for the only dance teaching gig available in what seemed like ages. I was an unemployed, single mom, with rent due, no child-support, and so "po" I could not afford the other two letters.
I woke up early one morning that summer, frantically looking for a pen to fill out an application for Medicaid for my kids and for food stamps as the application was due that morning. I, for the life of me, could not find one. That same day after my appointment at the DHS, I went to Wal-Mart to purchase a few essentials. As I was looking over the composition notebooks, pondering whether I had enough cash to buy one so I could write my stories, a weird old man with hands that trembled and words that stumbled asked me, "If you could write a book, what would you write about?" "Love," I thought to myself, "...and the loss of love due to time and distance." But leery of this man and the motive for his question, I turned it right back around. And he said, "Love, time, the loss of love and time..." I kinda smiled and said, "Yeah, that's kind of what I was thinkin'." He gave me $20 dollars and told me to write. I told him I couldn't accept it, but he insisted and said I could repay him by writing. I asked him for his name, but he said that was of no importance. I replied I needed to know who to dedicate my first book to, to which he said, "Anonymous. Besides, I'll be dead soon."
He turned the corner of the display, but then he came back around to where I was still standing. He handed me a package of pens and said, "Here, you need these."
I woke up early one morning that summer, frantically looking for a pen to fill out an application for Medicaid for my kids and for food stamps as the application was due that morning. I, for the life of me, could not find one. That same day after my appointment at the DHS, I went to Wal-Mart to purchase a few essentials. As I was looking over the composition notebooks, pondering whether I had enough cash to buy one so I could write my stories, a weird old man with hands that trembled and words that stumbled asked me, "If you could write a book, what would you write about?" "Love," I thought to myself, "...and the loss of love due to time and distance." But leery of this man and the motive for his question, I turned it right back around. And he said, "Love, time, the loss of love and time..." I kinda smiled and said, "Yeah, that's kind of what I was thinkin'." He gave me $20 dollars and told me to write. I told him I couldn't accept it, but he insisted and said I could repay him by writing. I asked him for his name, but he said that was of no importance. I replied I needed to know who to dedicate my first book to, to which he said, "Anonymous. Besides, I'll be dead soon."
He turned the corner of the display, but then he came back around to where I was still standing. He handed me a package of pens and said, "Here, you need these."
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Culture and Heritage of Indigenous Classic Artisans of National Orientation
Culture and Heritage of Indigenous Classic Artisans of National Orientation
Growing up and while in high school, I never considered my roots or my label. I never stopped to ask if I was Hispanic, Latin American, Mexican-American, or Chicana. I was born in Ciudad Juarez. My parents crossed me over on Christmas Eve of 1975 in their vehicle and declared me as "American". My mom had had a miscarriage while under the care a doctor in El Paso. Her situation could have been prevented if her doctor would have detected her illness. After that, she vowed never to deliver her children in the United States. Besides, my mom was born in Juarez, was raised in the U.S., graduated high school, and became a U.S. citizen; she figured I could do the same. And I did.
In the summer of 1994, I followed my Navy boyfriend to Idaho Falls, Idaho. Talk about a major culture shock. I had never felt so brown. While at the mall, I wondered in to a place called The Boot Ranch, the owner, Jack, happened to be the only one in the shop. I don't remember if I went in looking for a job, but I came out with one. I do recall Jack telling me he needed someone who spoke Spanish to communicate with the farm workers, someone who would be able to ask them what size boots they wore, how the boot felt, and how much the total would come out to. One day, while Jack was in Boise at the other store, the manager told me my services were no longer needed. No reasons, no explanations. The reason I tell this story is because this event lead me to question whether I was Hispanic, Latin American, Mexican-American, or Chicana. I didn't feel I was an American, because I was not like them, and I was so far away from Mexico, too far to call myself a Mexican.
I had heard the term Chicano, but wasn't sure what it meant. Upon returning to Oceanside, California to live with my dad, I began to watch Univision, and heard the word Hispano, "El Orgullo Hispano". I thought that sounded good, so I began calling myself a Hispanic. Then I heard the word Chicano tossed around by all these cool, good looking people I identified with on Univision, and without a second thought, hesitation or questioning the meaning, I began calling myself a Chicana.
In looking for the meaning of the word Chicana or Chicano, I consulted with the American Heritage Dictionary, I used the dictionary on my computer (which by the way, did not recognize the word Chicana, only Chicano. I had to add it onto my spellchecker.) I even "asked Jeeves". I tried going about it the academic way, doing a brainstorming 'web', an outline, but neither of these were a solution to my dilemma. So, what does being a Chicano mean to me, an American of Mexican descent? What is an American? I was born in Mexico and became a Naturalized U.S. citizen; am I a "real" American? I tried breaking it down into two words "chic" and "ano" and defining each word. "Chic" I found out means stylish and elegant, and "ano" in Spanish means anus. I guess this makes me a "cula elegante" and elegant asshole. Finally, I made an acronym of the word, and came up with the beginning of the answer to my question.
"C" is for Culture. The word culture has many different meanings and all of them seem to define who I am. I am a collection of the arts. I am art, music, dance, literature, and any other intellectual activity that can be defined as art. I am knowledge and sophistication. As a student, I am being enlightened through education and exposure to the arts and by participating in them. I share beliefs and values that my family shares, such as customs, practices and social behaviors that help identify the particular place, class, or time to which I belong, just as I was identifying with the brown people like me on Univision. But what I found most interesting is that I am also "growing biological material in special conditions" (American Heritage). Like cottage cheese, we were taken out of our element to grow in a foreign land, in specially controlled conditions and still be categorized with the rest of the dairy products; we're not milk and we're not cheese, we're something in between. We are a cultivation of the land. My grandfather was a brazero and if he were alive today, he would probably agree that he was the epiphany of tillage. Especially since without this occupation, Mexicanos wouldn't have stayed here long enough to become Chicanos.
"H" is for Heritage, something we are born into, the riches of our past, something that is passed on to us from generation to generation. My last name is the only inheritance my grandfather left us because it was the only thing his father left him. Perhaps my abuelito Chava was not at all concerned with leaving a legacy for his children, or with putting food on the table, as much as he was concerned with sleeping around with Juana, the neighbor. No wonder my abuelita hates my first name. Thanks to both my abuelito and abuelita, we were born into a family of singers, poets, drunks and locos. These are the riches of my past. This is my heritage.
"I" is for Indigenous, belonging to a place: originating in and typical of a region or country. It sounds great, but where do we belong to? I personally claim both countries as my own. I've lived in the San Francisco Bay Area and San Diego's North County. While I California, I liked telling people I was born in Mexico. I was born in a foreign country. People would ask, "Where are you from?" I guess I wanted to belong and say, I was from California, or even Tijuana, but I would end up saying from El Paso, Texas; only to find out that they were from El Paso, as well. Then we'd begin asking what school each of us was from and that's where the territorial rivalry would begin. Indigenous also means natural or inborn, presented at birth. Once again, I was born in Mexico; therefore, I feel I have an equal claim to both sides of dirt that separates us between man-made lines of severance. Where ever you go, there you are. And wherever I go, I am an indigenous person; that's the place I belong to.
"C" is also for Classic, meaning top quality and generally considered to be of the highest quality or lasting value; this term also refers to something created or made, such as a work of art. Classic can also be defined as definitive, "authoritative and perfect as a standard of its kind" (American Heritage). I would love to truthfully be able to say that what I do is of the highest quality. Pero los dichos no se inventaron por nada. The term "jale Chicano" had to come from somewhere and as the name states, I'm afraid it came from us…Chicanos. If there is a short cut to doing things, we will find it. That's not to say that although something is done a la carrera or con nuestras nalgas, it isn't perfect, as perfect as it can be. Classic was also defined as "generally accepted: conforming to generally accepted principles or methods" (American Heritage). This is true because no matter where we go, we manage to establish ourselves, plant roots and call that area "home." The fifth definition was "extremely and usually comically apropos: apropos to an extreme degree, usually with a comical or ironic twist" (American Heritage). With all of the drama in our lives, it is necessary to be comical, maybe even sarcastic. In Spanish there is a term I don't think exists in English: albur. It is so much more than witty banter; it's a play-on-words that is lost in translation. It takes a crafty individual with a great sense of timing to master the albur, sometimes called el doble sentido. As a Chicana, I pride myself in being able to carry on a conversation involving albur with the finest.
"A" is for Artisan a skilled craftsperson: somebody who is skilled at a craft. When our ancestors came from Mexico, they more than likely brought with them a trade of some sort. I come from a family of panaderos, bakers. My mom's family are all pintores de brocha gorda, construction painters. And if people that work at Subway can be called "Sandwich Artists," why can't we be "Tamal Artists," or "Burrito Artists." We have also brought with us the art of tejer (croche), cocer (sew) something I don't see to many women my age in the United States learning from their ancestors. The truth is, if we can make it, we will sell it and call it art.
"N" is for National meaning characteristics of people of a particular nation. Our physical characteristics are what sets us apart. When I was living in Alameda, people would ask me if I was Pilipino, Polynesian, or Hawaiian. When I would reveal my ethnicity, I would hear with disappointment, "Mexican?" Language is another characteristic I thought all Chicanos shared, but the mere fact that I sometimes can't even communicate with my father tells me language is not a characteristic all Chicanos have in common. This much is true regardless of your citizenship; all Chicano ancestry comes from the same nation, Mexico.
"O" is for Orientation: our location, our path in life and our position on different issues. Chicanos all have a path in life that we're following, some of us aimlessly, pero con ganas. We have our opinions and a position regarding issues that affect our daily lives: religion, politics, money and love, to name a few. Our location is the border, the southwest, Midwest, east coast, west coast, it is all the United States.
So now if anyone asks what or who I am, I can proudly say, "Chicana." I now have a clear definition of what it means and can inform others that a Chicano is a Culture and Heritage of Indigenous Classic Artisans of National Orientation.
Growing up and while in high school, I never considered my roots or my label. I never stopped to ask if I was Hispanic, Latin American, Mexican-American, or Chicana. I was born in Ciudad Juarez. My parents crossed me over on Christmas Eve of 1975 in their vehicle and declared me as "American". My mom had had a miscarriage while under the care a doctor in El Paso. Her situation could have been prevented if her doctor would have detected her illness. After that, she vowed never to deliver her children in the United States. Besides, my mom was born in Juarez, was raised in the U.S., graduated high school, and became a U.S. citizen; she figured I could do the same. And I did.
In the summer of 1994, I followed my Navy boyfriend to Idaho Falls, Idaho. Talk about a major culture shock. I had never felt so brown. While at the mall, I wondered in to a place called The Boot Ranch, the owner, Jack, happened to be the only one in the shop. I don't remember if I went in looking for a job, but I came out with one. I do recall Jack telling me he needed someone who spoke Spanish to communicate with the farm workers, someone who would be able to ask them what size boots they wore, how the boot felt, and how much the total would come out to. One day, while Jack was in Boise at the other store, the manager told me my services were no longer needed. No reasons, no explanations. The reason I tell this story is because this event lead me to question whether I was Hispanic, Latin American, Mexican-American, or Chicana. I didn't feel I was an American, because I was not like them, and I was so far away from Mexico, too far to call myself a Mexican.
I had heard the term Chicano, but wasn't sure what it meant. Upon returning to Oceanside, California to live with my dad, I began to watch Univision, and heard the word Hispano, "El Orgullo Hispano". I thought that sounded good, so I began calling myself a Hispanic. Then I heard the word Chicano tossed around by all these cool, good looking people I identified with on Univision, and without a second thought, hesitation or questioning the meaning, I began calling myself a Chicana.
In looking for the meaning of the word Chicana or Chicano, I consulted with the American Heritage Dictionary, I used the dictionary on my computer (which by the way, did not recognize the word Chicana, only Chicano. I had to add it onto my spellchecker.) I even "asked Jeeves". I tried going about it the academic way, doing a brainstorming 'web', an outline, but neither of these were a solution to my dilemma. So, what does being a Chicano mean to me, an American of Mexican descent? What is an American? I was born in Mexico and became a Naturalized U.S. citizen; am I a "real" American? I tried breaking it down into two words "chic" and "ano" and defining each word. "Chic" I found out means stylish and elegant, and "ano" in Spanish means anus. I guess this makes me a "cula elegante" and elegant asshole. Finally, I made an acronym of the word, and came up with the beginning of the answer to my question.
"C" is for Culture. The word culture has many different meanings and all of them seem to define who I am. I am a collection of the arts. I am art, music, dance, literature, and any other intellectual activity that can be defined as art. I am knowledge and sophistication. As a student, I am being enlightened through education and exposure to the arts and by participating in them. I share beliefs and values that my family shares, such as customs, practices and social behaviors that help identify the particular place, class, or time to which I belong, just as I was identifying with the brown people like me on Univision. But what I found most interesting is that I am also "growing biological material in special conditions" (American Heritage). Like cottage cheese, we were taken out of our element to grow in a foreign land, in specially controlled conditions and still be categorized with the rest of the dairy products; we're not milk and we're not cheese, we're something in between. We are a cultivation of the land. My grandfather was a brazero and if he were alive today, he would probably agree that he was the epiphany of tillage. Especially since without this occupation, Mexicanos wouldn't have stayed here long enough to become Chicanos.
"H" is for Heritage, something we are born into, the riches of our past, something that is passed on to us from generation to generation. My last name is the only inheritance my grandfather left us because it was the only thing his father left him. Perhaps my abuelito Chava was not at all concerned with leaving a legacy for his children, or with putting food on the table, as much as he was concerned with sleeping around with Juana, the neighbor. No wonder my abuelita hates my first name. Thanks to both my abuelito and abuelita, we were born into a family of singers, poets, drunks and locos. These are the riches of my past. This is my heritage.
"I" is for Indigenous, belonging to a place: originating in and typical of a region or country. It sounds great, but where do we belong to? I personally claim both countries as my own. I've lived in the San Francisco Bay Area and San Diego's North County. While I California, I liked telling people I was born in Mexico. I was born in a foreign country. People would ask, "Where are you from?" I guess I wanted to belong and say, I was from California, or even Tijuana, but I would end up saying from El Paso, Texas; only to find out that they were from El Paso, as well. Then we'd begin asking what school each of us was from and that's where the territorial rivalry would begin. Indigenous also means natural or inborn, presented at birth. Once again, I was born in Mexico; therefore, I feel I have an equal claim to both sides of dirt that separates us between man-made lines of severance. Where ever you go, there you are. And wherever I go, I am an indigenous person; that's the place I belong to.
"C" is also for Classic, meaning top quality and generally considered to be of the highest quality or lasting value; this term also refers to something created or made, such as a work of art. Classic can also be defined as definitive, "authoritative and perfect as a standard of its kind" (American Heritage). I would love to truthfully be able to say that what I do is of the highest quality. Pero los dichos no se inventaron por nada. The term "jale Chicano" had to come from somewhere and as the name states, I'm afraid it came from us…Chicanos. If there is a short cut to doing things, we will find it. That's not to say that although something is done a la carrera or con nuestras nalgas, it isn't perfect, as perfect as it can be. Classic was also defined as "generally accepted: conforming to generally accepted principles or methods" (American Heritage). This is true because no matter where we go, we manage to establish ourselves, plant roots and call that area "home." The fifth definition was "extremely and usually comically apropos: apropos to an extreme degree, usually with a comical or ironic twist" (American Heritage). With all of the drama in our lives, it is necessary to be comical, maybe even sarcastic. In Spanish there is a term I don't think exists in English: albur. It is so much more than witty banter; it's a play-on-words that is lost in translation. It takes a crafty individual with a great sense of timing to master the albur, sometimes called el doble sentido. As a Chicana, I pride myself in being able to carry on a conversation involving albur with the finest.
"A" is for Artisan a skilled craftsperson: somebody who is skilled at a craft. When our ancestors came from Mexico, they more than likely brought with them a trade of some sort. I come from a family of panaderos, bakers. My mom's family are all pintores de brocha gorda, construction painters. And if people that work at Subway can be called "Sandwich Artists," why can't we be "Tamal Artists," or "Burrito Artists." We have also brought with us the art of tejer (croche), cocer (sew) something I don't see to many women my age in the United States learning from their ancestors. The truth is, if we can make it, we will sell it and call it art.
"N" is for National meaning characteristics of people of a particular nation. Our physical characteristics are what sets us apart. When I was living in Alameda, people would ask me if I was Pilipino, Polynesian, or Hawaiian. When I would reveal my ethnicity, I would hear with disappointment, "Mexican?" Language is another characteristic I thought all Chicanos shared, but the mere fact that I sometimes can't even communicate with my father tells me language is not a characteristic all Chicanos have in common. This much is true regardless of your citizenship; all Chicano ancestry comes from the same nation, Mexico.
"O" is for Orientation: our location, our path in life and our position on different issues. Chicanos all have a path in life that we're following, some of us aimlessly, pero con ganas. We have our opinions and a position regarding issues that affect our daily lives: religion, politics, money and love, to name a few. Our location is the border, the southwest, Midwest, east coast, west coast, it is all the United States.
So now if anyone asks what or who I am, I can proudly say, "Chicana." I now have a clear definition of what it means and can inform others that a Chicano is a Culture and Heritage of Indigenous Classic Artisans of National Orientation.
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