Poem Collection

Artist Statement

The struggles of the women who married young and were brought by their husbands to America. The cleaning ladies I continue to see from Kindergarten to College, the same tired faces but the different struggles they face. To tell the stories of the kids who grew-up speaking their own language called Spanglish and who are now forced to grow-up in a broken system deeming their downfall, our downfall. Her native love for the diversity that Los Angeles illustrates for her the daily binaries between The Rich and The Poor. The Ghetto and The Gated Communities. The Beat-Up Trucks and The Brand-New Mercedes. The Mexican-American community I know have had many more struggles and only few successes, the greatest injustice that continues to go unheard.

Ashley Villalobos

Ashley Villalobos a current student majoring in English-Literature, interested in voicing those who find themselves in-between identities and between two different cultures. These poems were inspired by a trip crossing the border of San Diego and Tijuana heading to a wedding. She saw this meaningful trip as an expression of her current identity. As her education at CSUN continued, the more she realized how uneducated she was about her own culture, her own identity. A passion for advocating for Latina/o/x communities through Literature continue to inspire her work. One day she hopes to create stories for the screen. Films that will represent her community in their truest form. Whether they be ugly or beautiful, they will no longer be invisible.

The Gentrified Ghettos

​Of all the freeways, the 101 route takes it. 
I hate the 101 route.  
The Mercedes, the white range rovers,  
The gentrified ghettos. 
Only the corners at lights do my people stand on, Our space not even the rich could take. 
But they try, Because to see us, 
For them to know we exist in the same space Is undesirable, we don’t fit the aesthetic. 
Like the Graffiti of Aztec gods 
On the side of a white wall belonging to A Starbucks in the middle of the Valley. We survive by being 
Invisible 
In their homes, in their work, in their world, 
We don’t exist. But we do, we belong, they don’t. 

Mexican-American

​Asleep in a car, in the backseat, head on the seatbelt  
I know I’m home when we drive cross the tracks. The bumping, bumping, thud 
Twist and turn an alarm Waking me to the ghetto. Finally, Home 
On the other side of the train-tracks I belong, 
I belong right? I’m one of you and one of them. I belong, don’t I? 
On the Right-Side of the Train-Tracks.

Mariquita 

​I remember drinking the milky dew of my childhood through the flowers that grew on a wall. 
A green field surrounded by concrete I roamed, And roamed. 
Running, giggling, capturing, Red, Yellow, Orange ladybugs And plucking their wings. 
The way my wings were plucked from the beginning, But by who, 
My Mother, My Father, God? 
Yes and No