by Odelle Duffy, Poetry Editor
Albuquerque, New Mexico (Sacred Heart Catholic Church)
It's Throwback Thursday, you know what that means! This week we decided to go back in time to 2016 and feature one of the many amazing poets displayed in this issue. This poem comes from DiN Magazine's fourth issue, written by Melissa Mullinax, titled "Venezuela". Mullinax volunteered with AmeriCorps for the Offender Success Program in the Education Department of Southern New Mexico Correctional Facility and this personal experience can be seen within this piece. When this poem was published Mullinax's mission was to use "the tools of writing, reading, dialogue, and social justice education to facilitate the reclaiming of the voices of the marginalized, silenced, and oppressed". We believe she has done just that with this piece. This poem touches on a lot of social issues, especially ones that are commonly experienced in New Mexico. "Venezuela" is a piece about a Sureños gang member from California. Mullinax portrays gangs and gang violence, the effect gangs can have on families, repetitive incarceration including juvenile incarceration, and the struggles of leaving a gang and having a ‘normal’ life once your apart of one. Mullinax brings this piece close to home by discussing Albuquerque. This local representation is very important for the continuous growth in New Mexico and it is an honor to be represented within an incredible piece of work. Mullinax uses incredibly descriptive and intricate language to depict the life of a gang member; the struggles of incarceration, the fear of death and the want to get out of the gang. The form and rhythm of this poem make it an intriguing and smooth read. DiN is committed to publishing marginalized voices and stories. This piece is still relevant in our current social and political climate, especially in New Mexico and we highly recommend this Throwback Thursday read. Venezuela By Melissa Mullinax He represents the state of California with its likeness tattooed over his right eyebrow, stretching almost to his nose. Each cheek broadcasts a Gothic-looking “S”— an identifier to both his friends and his enemies. His mom grieves the insignia and his disfigured grill, the broken lateral incisor on the right side of his wide mouth. “Why’d you do this? You had such a beautiful smile.” “I don’t know, Mom. This is just who I am.” He won’t wear red, only blue. A Sureño can deal to a Crip as long as he sells in his own neighborhood. When he first cruised Albuquerque and a stranger waved at him, he waved back, awkward, unfamiliar, expecting a pointed gun. He earned a GED in February, the last month of his third incarceration—his ten-year-old self first castigated by justice. Four days to the door, he imagines Venezuela, growing tomatoes and chilies, building a house of hay. But no horse rides. First he’ll have to remove the pair of branded S’s else the cartel might kill him. He wants out. He wants a way forward without a band of brothers and their rivals ready to lien his life on loyalty; he never expected to live to twenty yet he’s creeps into a third decade, in need of a new face, rather, his old one, before he can meet thirty, the soil warm in the garden.
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Odelle Duffy is one of DiN's poetry editors. She is from a small town in Southern New Mexico and is currently a Senior studying Criminal Justice with minors in English, Psychology, and Forensic Science at New Mexico State University.
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