Ethel

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Ethel

Ethel

In áanalte’, In Pixan {My book, My Soul}

by
Iris Aguilar
Iris Aguilar is an American woman with mixed indigenous Mexican roots residing in Washington state, USA. She is a businesswoman of many trades, master of none. She has Cerebral Palsy and uses a wheelchair.
From Iris: I’m Iris Aguilar. I happily say Ma’alob k’iin (hello there). My chapbook is part of my soul and home; welcome to the imperfect clutter of culture and the thoughts that move through my mind. It is a collection of Maya poetry and stories, woven with Màaya t'àan (Yucatec Maya) translations. I will happily nourish you with my words, as any good hostess does.
Though I use a wheelchair, there is plenty of space for others to come into my book and explore my imperfect writings. I want to share my poems and stories, my happiness, my culture, chi'ibaal (pain), and my fascination with Meyaj Iik’(magic) and Maya myths.
I was born in the USA with cerebral palsy, a disability that shaped my life, far from Mexico, far from my Taata’s (Dad’s) P’urhépecha heritage and my Na’s (Mom’s) Maya roots, without the Spanish language. I grew up with a loose connection to my Maya heritage. As an adult, I began reclaiming my Maya roots. I learned to hear the ancestral whispers from the Yucatán Peninsula that called to me. I read the myths and tried to gather as many Màaya t'àan words as possible, trying to nourish my Maya spirit, though I wasn't very good at learning the ancestral language. Instead, I wrote poems and short stories about Maya culture that fed my spirit.
I write not only as a person with a Maya spirit, but also as someone with a disability, a woman whose spirit is still growing and learning while reconnecting with my ancestors. I hope this honors my ancestors and Yuumstil (the Creator).
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from In áanalte’, In Pixan

“I think we should go this way instead,” she said, pointing in another direction and putting the cross away. She pushed her chair forward, with Chan acting like a faint lantern in the darkness. Carefully, they made their way through the sa’atunsat’s corridors that folded and tilted, defying gravity. Above them, reflections of endless passages and archways spiraled like veins into an endless abyss.

Eventually, the bereaved woman pushed her wheelchair for what felt like many hours or days that could have been months. She moved through countless archways and spiraling passages that twirled her around, making her world blur and her stomach clench.

Chan growled at the sa’atunsat as if telling it to behave. “It’s alright, Chan. I just need rest. I feel exhausted,” the woman explainedto her familiar. The archways began to move, taking her for another whirl.

Her wheelchair spun until it stopped. There, in a corner, was a hammock for the child of the Yuumstilo’ob and Xki’ichpan Ajawo’ob to rest in on her never-ending journey. It was small and wide, perfect for her and Chan. She climbed in, with Chan helping her settle into the hammock. Yuum Iik’ gently pushed it, as if Xiiba’albaj were lulling her to sleep. The roars and stench faded away, and the bereaved soul drifted into deep slumber.