Photo of Valois J. Vera
I was born at the intersection of Broken Street and Brown Avenue. These are not literal roadways nor locations that can be found on Google Maps. Instead, these are the identities gifted to me at birth; the characteristics that define my existence.
On Broken Street, I stroll through the dark alleys of stairs, stares and stereotypes; medical appointments, medical devices, and medical mishaps. I shed tears and absorb endless pain on Broken Street. As a matter of fact, Broken Street can be a long and lonely road.
However, there is a beauty that breathes beneath the bowels of Broken Street. A tangible underground of resiliency, pride, and community. I can be my full and complete self there. I am seen and celebrated there. I am respected there. I Am, there. More often than not, this is where I hang my hat. This is where I’m from; the hidden part of Broken Street that can be hard to find, but worthy of the time and effort to get there.
There’s also the other half of the intersection, Brown Avenue. Brown Ave. is ancestral. It is the foundation rooted in resilience, pride, and community.
Brown Avenue once looked like abuela’s house filled with aroma, laughter, and faith. It was iglesia six days a week and birthday parties filled with familia, friends, and random stragglers who found their way. Holidays were welcomed with early morning spices wafting through the traditions passed down from our ancestors.
Things look a little different on Brown Avenue these days. Many of the elders who laid the foundation for my generation have passed on. They left behind the art of storytelling, the rhythms and recipes that feed our souls, and the footprints that lead us back to the beginning.
Brown Ave. feels more like memory lane these days. Recollections and reminders of the magical qualities that come with living on Brown Avenue. I speak Spanish and Spanglish there. I vibe to salsa, merengue, bachata, and cumbia there. I discovered my indigenous roots there. It is home to me. Yet, I rarely feel at home there.
Brown Avenue tends to treat those of us who also reside on Broken Street somewhat differently. I am coddled there. I am infantilized there. I am not seen there. I bleed and breathe Brown Avenue. It is my skin, my hair, my eyes, and my tongue that speaks of its beauty in two languages. Yet, it doesn’t recognize me.
I am from the streets of Broken and Brown; the beauty and richness, the pride and defiance, the passion that propels the pen to pour pulse onto page. It is also the dark and isolation, the infantilizing and indifference, the passion that propels the pen to pour pulse onto page.
I live at the intersection of Broken Street and Brown Avenue. I will die there too. I wouldn’t want it any other way.
Valois J. Vera is an award-winning Poet, Author, and Cultural Worker out of Denton, TX. As a Disabled Puerto Rican, Valois’ work centers on uplifting and amplifying both of his cultural identities.