#poem, POETS & WRITERS Series: Delana Ornelas

Welcome to the series that features some of our favourite poets, writers, philosophers and artists of all types that form part of our beautiful, talented and very creative online community and beyond…

If you would like to take part, please reply to this post with your email address. The series is open to creative folk of all nations and all languages.

Today we are proud to bring you Delana Ornelas who has brought to this series her image, her thoughts and words.

DELANA’S BIO

My name is Delana Ornelas. I am an English Major at Oxnard College, about to attend my last semester before graduating. I am also a writing tutor at the school’s Learning Resource Center. Helping other students discover that their capabilities are limitless is a reward that can’t be put into words. I am a writer whose work includes poetry, memoirs, academic journals, and short stories. Writing is the thing that makes me feel alive. We all have a thing, and writing has and always will be mine.

DELANA’S REPLIES TO THE INTERVIEW QUESTIONS

1) Who are your major literary/artistic references?

I enjoy historical literature. There seems to have been a passion of the past that has the power to become inspirational. The poetry of Emily Dickinson, Fanny Fern, and Walt Whitman are some of my favorite authors. They were poets that added an enchanting elegance to the art of poetry. More importantly, their work delivered a message. Whether it be equality, women’s rights, or the value of nature, their narratives had depth and meaning. That kind of talent is well worth digging into the past.

2) What makes you a writer? What do you like to write about? What is your plan for the next five years?

I’ve always had a passion for writing, ever since I was a little girl. What I think makes me a writer is the joy it brings me, the effort I put into it, and the desire I have to share it with the world. My artistic branches have no limits, so I love experimenting with different genres of writing. From poetry to short stories to memoirs and everything in between, I enjoy broadening the spectrum of my creativity. My plan for the future is to graduate from college with my art degree. I went back to college a couple of years ago, with no confidence in succeeding. Instead, I ended up thriving. I was recommended by an English professor for tutoring position in the school’s learning resource center. Now I am a writing tutor for the college helping students discover their potential. I will be graduating next year and transferring to a university. Hopefully I will be able to continue helping other students achieve academic success. My end goal is to become a Speechwriter in the political world. It is full of politicians that lie to us and make promises they never intended to keep. Most are in it for personal or financial gain. I have to believe that there are decent and honest individuals who are being overlooked, unable to create an impact. My plan is to weed through the corruption and be the impactful voice fora candidate with new ideas to change the world and genuine intentions to carry them out. The world needs change and I plan on being part of it!

3) Why do you write? And do you write about yourself?

At the moment, I write a lot of poetry. Several of my pieces are based on my own experiences. I do write narratives that stem from what I’ve gone through because it is often very therapeutic. Writing about my past offers me an outlet that needs no approval and no response. The why’s and the how’s of my work are rhetorical when it comes to my past and there is no one who would be able to offer any answers, hence the need for the outlet. I’ve suffered traumatic experiences but have no desire to come in contact with those involved and writing is a vessel that gives me a sense of peace when dealing with my emotions. Sometimes it is my only lifeline and my one true confidant. I am grateful for the art of writing and I hold it in the highest regards.

DELANA’S POETRY

The Mirror

Whether it’s smudged

Or it shines like the sea

The mirror has seen

Every version of me

The youth that I long for

The mirror won’t allow

Just an updated image

Of who I am now

It’s lost the reflection

Of me in my youth

Without hesitation

It shows me the truth

It points out the flaws

I’d rather not see

The proof of how time

Moves impetuously

It highlights the details

I don’t recognize

Like the lines and the bags

That sit under my eyes

The glass only mirrors

Whatever it’s shown

A constant reminder

Of how old I’ve grown

DELANA’S MEMOIRS

Excerpt from my memoirs-

Grandmas are supposed to be sweet and innocent. In my mind, they were supposed to keep the innocent secrets of her giving you the old candy from the bottom of her purse, when your mother said you weren’t allowed to have sugar. Grandmas were the only ones who could lie to your mother with a straight face and seem like a hero for it. But in my case, I had no mother to speak of, so I knew that the chances of my grandmother being what I thought a grandma should be were not likely.

I grew up never knowing my mother. I wasn’t even two months old yet when she decided to disappear and from what I’ve been told, I was better off without her. I was raised by my father’s parents and his adult siblings who never left the nest. However, my dad’s absence was not by choice. The police decided that for him every time they hauled him off to jail. I knew that his reasons for going away were the the result of a heroin addiction and I never faulted him for that. It’s a drug that shows no mercy to anyone. Once it has a hold of you, you’re either headed for prison or the morgue. Eventually, that is where my dad ended up after he caught Hepatitis from a dirty needle. As for my mother’s disappearance, I had been given very unfiltered and inconsiderate answers to questions that I had never once asked in regards to why she left me. After a while, I had grown to hate her. Before the constant descriptions of what seemed to be a wicked witch, I had simply been uninterested in this woman. These detailed accounts of my mother’s sins came mostly from my grandmother, which to me was a perfect example of the pot calling the kettle black. Although sometimes the stories came from my aunt’s and uncles. In any case, they all seemed to agree that she was a devil worshipper who used to leave bite marks on me when I was a baby. As I got older I began to realize that every family member who loved sharing their opinions of my mother was no better than she was. In fact, they would prove to be much worse. But according to my grandmother, I was «loca» and they would never have said or done the things that I remember so vividly. I could never understand how she could deny everything that I knew to be true. So the story within this story is me trying to put myself in her shoes.

«Your mother threw you in the trash and I had to take care of you when NOBODY wanted YOU!» She slammed the door and went to her room. She started to taste the venom that she had just spit out at her granddaughter. The guilt started to set in because after all, she did love her. As she attempted to justify her actions, she thought to herself, «I don’t care. She pissed me off and I just lost it. I know she’s only nine, but she needed to hear the truth and I’m tired. I’m tired and too old to be doing this shit. If my son wasn’t such a fuck up, I wouldn’t have to be taking care of a kid when I’m this old. I raised my kids already. I shouldn’t have to be raising someone else’s. And where the hell is Charlie? El está durmiendo muy bien. That son of a bitch never does shit. And I’m over here killing myself. Aye, but I feel bad now. She didn’t ask for any of this either. She doesn’t even have a mother. And Danny’s in prison for who knows how long this time. Did Jackie say six months? So, I think that means he gets out in three. God, I wish he would get out already. But I know when he does, he’s gonna be doing the same shit. Why did he ever put a needle in his arm. Pendejo. El sabe mejor que esos pendejadas. I don’t know. I can’t think about it anymore. I don’t feel good. Ayuda me Padre.»

This is a memory from when I was nine years old with additional dialogue on what she may have been going through. I’m 46 now and it still has the power to bring me to tears. It’s still etched in my memory and no amount of shaking will erase it. I’m a mother now and I can’t imagine ever talking to my kids that way, much less my grandkids. I can barely contain myself when I imagine myself as a grandmother. But I understand that she was forced to be a mother again at an age where any little thing tired you out. Although despite her age, the woman was constantly moving, constantly cleaning or cooking or taking care of the other kids her children failed to raise. I wasn’t the only one.

My grandmother was a cold and unaffectionate woman with a mean streak that could not be matched. She kept all of her emotions bottled up inside and she expected us to be the same way. I have more than a few painful memories from my childhood that involved her abusive behavior. But as I got older, I learned a lot of things about her that explain a lot about her behavior. She had 10 siblings and a father who abandoned the family, but not before he sexually abused her. She never made it past the fourth grade and then worked in the fields alongside her mother and siblings. My grandfather had cheated on her, but she stayed with him thinking that she wasn’t smart enough to make it on her own. Her life was worse than mine, and still she tried to keep her family together. Aside from raising five children of her own and taking on the role of mother to three grandchildren, the woman kept the house clean enough to eat off the floors and fed everyone home cooked meals for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. She taught us how to be strong and face our fears. We learned how to keep a house clean and our clothes ironed. With as much hate as I harbor for this woman, if nothing else she has earned my respect ten times over and I have to appreciate the fact that she’s the reason why I don’t take shit from anybody. Unfortunately, I just couldn’t be around her, or anyone in my family for that matter, not if I planned on being happy at some point.

Eventually I cut ties with everyone in my family. Unfortunately, it took me over 30 years to do it. The toxicity was eating me alive and I had already been diagnosed with emphysema, so I couldn’t afford anymore health issues. My entire family was like an incurable cancer that had to be cut out in order to survive. Now I’m just trying to make peace with my decision so that the side effects of that disease don’t end up stealing my sanity or my chances of being happy.

I’ll never know if my mother was all the things that they said she was. The sources of all that information had been discredited and I had no one else to ask. For all I know, she could have been a saint. But it didn’t matter because by the time she decided to contact me, I wasn’t willing to find out. I was about 11 years old and out of the blue, the phone was handed to me by my grandmother. She nonchalantly informed me that my mother was on the phone. Now, I have to tell you that at the age of 11, I was a cold and sarcastic kid who already hated the world. So, the phone call lasted no longer than two minutes at the most. Here’s how the conversation went:

Me: Hello?

«Mother»: Hi, do you know who this is?

Me: Yeah

«Mother»: I’m you’re mother. Do you want to meet me?

ME: No

«Mother»: You don’t want to know me? You don’t want to know who I am?»

Me: «Uh uh.»

(Dead silence, so I hand the phone off to my grandmother.)

That’s it. That was the first and last time I ever heard my mother’s voice. When I think of it now, I can still hear it. Only now, I can recognize the hurt and disbelief in her voice. It makes me wonder why I was so cold at such a young age. But then the dysfunction of my childhood quickly jumps in to answer my question. Still, I do feel just a tiny hint of remorse when the flashback creeps into my mind. And as much as I hate to admit it, a feeling of satisfaction overshadows that guilt. Everything they ever told me about my mother stuck with me as if they were historical facts. Sadly, I’ll never know the truth about her because it takes a lifetime time to unwash your brain and my bitterness towards her has a mind of its own. In any case, and whether or not she is the monster they painted her out to be, I can’t see myself trying to build a relationship that has already been tainted long before