I wasn’t just Salima’s daughter, I was her audience. I won’t say I was resentful for it, but I remember wanting to be left alone, to be playing outside till the street lights went off. I’d hear her yell, “Kayla! I need you to come listen to something!” This was when I was around seven years old, and continued until I was about twelve. I used to feel that her poetry was powerful, but it was just too much for my ears having to hear all that she was thinking and feeling. I’d be like, “Man, this is too much!” or like, “I don’t know, Mom, I think you’re gonna scare the audience.”

Being her “test” audience was a daily thing. Sometimes just listening, other times helping her record on cassettes. Eventually she’d let me go free and she would either shut the door to keep writing or go to the kitchen, her other artistic sanctuary. I always loved her cooking. She put a lot of love into cooking; everything was authentic, everything was a mano, everything was by scratch, there were no mixes. Everything had to be fresh and made with love, a lot like her poetry.

Now, as an adult, I read her poetry and hear her voice replay something in my mind, and I become her—the way she swayed her hips, her hands in the air, her voice and my voice. When I hear her like this, I feel this comfort and I go, I remember, and I recite it all from memory.

Another thing I remember about mi madre, Salima, was her activism. I saw her marching, making and carrying signs, and making me carry signs, too! I remember her protesting against ex-mayor Jane Byrne’s publicity stunt in Cabrini-Green. One sign said, “BYRNE, BABY, BYRNE!” or something like that. She had so much passion, and also rage, and I guess that’s what I picked up on as a child, thinking she would scare her audiences. She was very defensive at times—mean, even—but she defended many.

I remember marches on División in Humboldt Park when she was working with West Town Coalition, La Coalición Latina, ALBA, and all these organizations. And it wasn’t just the Puerto Rican community in Humboldt Park, she was also active in the Mexican community of Pilsen, and also in Hyde Park with all the cultural centers. She went wherever she fit, and she fought for everyone’s voices and rights. It wasn’t just one race, it was the human race. She was all about the people.

You know, my mom wanted the city to be just like a rainbow. She was always like, “Chicago’s gray. Chicago’s too bland.” Now, Chicago’s not really gray anymore. There are murals everywhere celebrating different cultures and diversity, the city splashed with so much color. It’s not called “bad” graffiti anymore, it’s art. This is also a part of Salima’s legacy. She started up organizations and found money—sometimes her own money—to get gangs off the streets, to take that energy and go roll a wall white so that we could splash some paint on it and express ourselves instead of running out here killing each other. There’s still crime and struggle in Chicago, but there’s color and hope, too.

I remember my mom leaving, transitioning over. I told her, “Man, if there was an organ that was able to be preserved that I wanted for myself, it’s your brain, ’cause you can just blow peoples’ minds.” I remember when she would read some of her poetry, people would be clapping after, and she would vanish into the darkness, off the stage or from wherever she was performing. There would be a standing ovation and she was just gone. She always wanted to be heard, not seen, and now there are so few pictures of her. Videos, cassettes, papers, and books all disappeared. I think of her disappearing off that stage, leaving her audience clapping and wanting more of her.

With this folio of your work, Lionessa, your roars will be heard!