by Jose Hernandez Diaz | Contributing Writer

Songs of BrujerĂa
Amanda Galvan Huynh
Big Lucks Books, 2019
Songs of BrujerĂa opens with âBefore My Mother Was Born,” a poem in which Galvan Huynh describes the disappearance of her grandfather: âbefore she was born / her dad died in an / accident except it / wasnât an accident . . .â We are immediately drawn into the poem by the mystery surrounding her grandfatherâs disappearance. What happened to her abuelo? How did he disappear? Later, Galvan Huynh relays more information: âtheir dad was / shot in the fields / while working maybe / over drugs or / something . . .â The tension in the poem rises. Why was her abuelo shot? Who did this to him? Then we find out the horrific details: âthey / shot him then they / turned his tractor on / let it run over his / body . . .â This poem immediately announces that, in Galvan Huynhâs Songs of Brujeria, we are in a tough and vulnerable world. The poem ends the poem by explaining lineage, how the fields where her father was shot persist in her motherâs everyday workplace: âthere are / nights she dreams / those gashes feel / like the fields she / works in every day.” Unable to escape the harsh realities of the fields that took her father, Galvan Huynhâs mother and family nonetheless carry on, with no option but survival.
In another poem, the speaker tells of a familyâs itinerant lifestyle, working from one harvested field to the next. In âHer Family Moves,â Galvan Huynh depicts a scene of an average moving day, where for practical reasons, there isnât room for precious childhood belongings: âIt doesnât know / that thereâs no room / for her First Communion dress / or that she hides her white / ribbon bow in her pocket.â Throughout Songs of Brujeria, we see people who have to grow up quickly and learn to put family ahead of personal needs. Later, the girl watches her mother loading the car for the move: âShe piles / crates into the trunk, replaces / her doll with a bag of pans.” Your heart breaks for this child who must leave a beloved doll behind, because of the mundane necessity of the pans.
In âFirst Time She Interrupted MamĂĄ,â we encounter another striking moment:
The first time she interrupted MamĂĄ
she was talking with her sisters
in the kitchen. Arroz simmered
in its tomato juice; the blood smeared
between her legs was brighter.
The speaker goes on to describe her initial reaction to the discovery of the menstrual blood as a fear of both death and of getting in trouble with her mother: âAt thirteen, / she thought Iâm dying. She thought I will die // if MamĂĄ sees these stains, blooming in her shorts.â When she eventually does muster the courage to tell her mother about her period, she isnât necessarily scolded, but is instead questioned : âDid your brothers touch you there? / She shook her head. MamĂĄ nodded, closed // the cabinet.â The speaker learns to never interrupt MamĂĄ again, not just because of punishment, but utter shame: âPut that in your chones. MamĂĄ / shut the door behind her, the kitchenâs noise / rose, and she never interrupted her again.â Viscerally, the speaker in the poem realizes that although she had every right to tell her mother about her period, because she is her daughter and because she was never educated about it, it is still better to keep quiet about personal things, because nothing is worse than shame in front of her motherâs hard eyes.
In the title piece of the collection, âThe Songs of BrujerĂa,â we get to know of the connection the speaker has with community. The chapbook may seem occasionally bleak up to this point, but the title poem chooses to celebrate her Mexican-American/Latinx culture. It begins by seamlessly mixing Spanish with English:
La Luna would be the brightest on Saturday nights,
for a quince, a wedding, or some other reason
to celebrateâto fill a dance hall:
tĂas refilling plate with barbeque
and gossip. Beer bottles humming
around mouths.
Warmly, we are welcomed to Galvan Huynhâs neighborhood, or barrio, where quinceañeras and weddings (or any reason to party, really) are celebrated with beer, chisme, and general alegrĂa. The speakerâs community is consumed with family and love of life; much like the rhythmic cumbia that plays loudly in the background. Importantly, the speaker knows the origins of this alegrĂa and familial pride: it is the women of the family who drive the Latinx community: âThese were the songs / of brujerĂa and this was where the women / in my family practiced.â Galvan Huynh speaks not necessarily of a brujerĂa as evil, but of the hope and light in this spirit. It is the pulse of the neighborhood. At the end of the poem, the speaker further elaborates about a feminine guidance toward this magic, or brujerĂa: âShe would teach me how to listen to the magic / found in those nightsâas if all I had to do / was press my ear to my pulseâto find my way home.â For Galvan Huynh, this charm and love of life pulses in her veins: it is her birthright.
Toward the end of the collection, in âVerses,â we find another moving moment between an immigrant mother, her first-generation daughter, and the acquisition of language. Many first-generation Latinx folks, myself included, have gone through a similar experience: when a parent asks you how to spell, pronounce, or translate a word: âIâm ten and she calls me / to check her spellingâHow do you spell appreciate? / She pronounces the word, ah-pre-key-ate.â The speaker goes on to explain the complexity of language to immigrant communities: âI correct her, but my mouth carries the hesitation / of her tongue, of her fragmented education, the belief / that intelligence is hereditary.â Not only does the speaker have to deal with the pain of having to correct her motherâs English at the age of ten, but she is also left wondering if she too will struggle with words based on genetics or her lack of privilege. After reading this poignant collection, we can clearly see Galvan Huynhâs mastery of not only language, but also her respect for the art of poetry and her deep love of familĂa.
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Jose Hernandez Diaz is the author of the chapbook of prose poems, The Fire Eater (Texas Review Press, 2020). He has been awarded a fellowship by the National Endowment for the Arts, and he lives in southern California.