Transcript for the Piece Audio version of El Ciclo (The Cycle)

READER: VERSES DRAWN FROM WORDS OF THE TRUE PEOPLE, POEM #7, JUAN GREGORIO REGINO.

THE TIME HAS COME.
THE DAY HAS COME.
THUS THE DAY IS BORN.
THUS THE LIGHT IS BORN.

Ambient sound from a farm in Chicahuaxtla fades up behind a monologue heard in the Triqui language.

Don Ramón: (Translating his own monologue from Triqui). Ah. Well, my name is Rmaón González Pérez. Born and raised here in San Andrés Chicahuaxtla. I’m 70 years old, all of which I’ve spent here in my native land.

I grow corn. I harvest what little I can. Nothing more—that’s my job. I really like being a farmer because, well, when you’ve got a government job, or a factory job, or whatever, well, it’s not the same as being a farmer. Because, well, a farmer harvests something. He stores his corn. And then he has it to eat. He doesn’t have to move along, anxious from having to go from one place to another looking for work, no?

Ambient sound from the farm fades up, a turkey clucks, and then it fades under.

DR: I learned all of this from my dad. Because at the young age of 10 or 12 years old well, a kid tends to trail his parents, learning how to plough, or how to, to prune a tree. And in the end, to harvest the crop, and all, no?

In line with nature, we’re waiting for the period, the rainy period—the heavy rainy period so we can harvest the plants. Normally we do a sweep of the hillside to prepare also for the burning. We begin to fell what’s dry with a machete. We also, we make sure that the arc of the fire doesn’t pass over the hillside. And then we burn. And when the rainy period begins, well, then we’re ready to plant.

The sound of Don Ramón shucking the ears of corn from the plants fades up and under.

DR: We have this stick, with a sharp point, we insert that into the ear, not very deeply, calculating that it’s not too deep, and then we shuck out the cob. Four or five little ears come from one stalk.

We hear him shucking the corn from its stalk.

DR: Well, if we plant in March or April, more or less, then we’re awaiting the crop until November or October. Yea. That’s about how long it takes.

THE CHICAL IS NOW READY.
THE MACHETE IS NOW READY.
IT IS TIME TO THINK ABOUT
THE PLACE OF OUR WORK,
THE PLACE OF OUR STRENGTH.
IT IS TIME TO DEPART.
IT IS TIME TO BEGIN.
THE RAIN IS COOL.
FATHER SON IS WITH US.

DR: Well, once some of the corn is developing to a meter-and-a-half in height, we do a cleaning. These little weeds start to grow in between the rows, and kill the crop; we have to kill all of the weeds so that the corn can develop and flourish well. And once the corn starts to sprout, we do a second cleaning. That’s it.

Then in the months of October or November, that’s when we see that the cobs begin to dry out. So, that’s when we start to “piscar” (husk), that’s what we call it here.

Ambi of piscar-ing fades up and under

DR: It’s difficult, really, because one gets out there to work—and these blisters pop up, or you get a crack in your hand. I guess you just get used to it. Because you’re constantly in this situation, where through strength one keeps working. Because if not, if not, there’s nothing with which to feed your children, to feed the family. And so you just find cracks in your hand, little calluses. They tell the story of the farm, really.

I AM A FARMER.
ON MY HANDS THERE ARE CALLUSES.
BENEATH MY NAILS THERE IS DUST.
LET ME TOUCH THE EARTH
THAT OUR GREAT GOD BEQUEATHED US.

DR: So, from this we get 30, or 50 sacks. We move it all using horses and donkeys, up to the village. And all this makes for what we consume for 8 or 9 months. You grind it, and from that comes the dough from which you prepare tortillas, more than anything else. Yep. It’s really tasty in comparison to the tortillas that come from a factory. The tortillas that my family makes are distinct.

FROM THERE SHALL EMERGE MY SUSTENANCE.
FROM THERE SHALL EMERGE MY SEED.
FROM THERE SHALL EMERGE MY FLOWERS,
MY TREES, MY ROOTS.

DR: My grandfather, my great grandfather—all of them were farmers. The only inheritance that we received is, is this land that was their’s. Nothing more. Houses, or riches, no, no, never. We’ve never been been accustomed to that here. And well, with respect to that, when I’m at the age, I will pass on the land, I will give it to my son, and my other children. Each one will get an equal part. Then they’ll have, they have a place to live and work. They already know how it’s done.

I think that this will never cease. (laughs) With the inheritance that one leaves behind…well, it’ll, the land’ll remain because they will form their own families, too. Their children will be born, and they’ll hand it down to them, generation after generation.

THAT IS HOW WE GROW.
THAT IS HOW WE MULTIPLY.

DR: It’s the same as a corn crop, really. It’s the same as how you produce it, how it cylces, you know. And that’s the same with the family, too, no? You pass your inheritance from one, and then to the other. It keeps going like that.

I AM A FARMER.

DR: Now it’s time to go to the fields, you say to yourself. Sometimes just through force of will you have to pick yourself up in the early morning, even when it’s cold, or when it’s pouring rain—you have to pick yourself up. You have to work.

MY FACE IS SOAKED IN SWEAT.
MY FEET ARE COVERED IN MUD.
LOOK WHAT I HOLD IN MY HANDS.
I HOLD MY HEART IN THE PALM OF MY HANDS.

DR: The place where we sit now was the ancestral home of my grandparents. And through them, they have left me this inheritance…

His Triqui translation of what he is saying fades up and then under the Spanish version.

DR: Well, I am in reality a neighbor and famer here in San Andres Chicahuaxtla. I’ve always been a neighbor here. ‘Cause, you know, we should never forget the land where we were born.

We hear the end of the Triqui translation. We hear the ambi of the farm. It fades to silence.

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