By Julio Estevan Mendez

¿Quien lo cura? ¿Quien lo cura? I lost all sense of identity and gained a false sense of pride; what I got left with was a bunch of… duda. My doubts became manifest, taking advantage of my insecurities. I let the devil rule and make the fool of what I had best. 

Mi familia.

Rebellious against the world and its conformities, I strayed from the path of light, only to be bound by the chains of flesh. I wanted to be accepted for who I was, un vato loco; shedding blood, sweat, and tears worth oro, everything else era poco. Mi familia fue lo poco. Little did I know that price would cost me un futuro de dolor y angustia. I chose the streets because the streets chose me; when I became chained to block, had I realized I’d become part of the devil’s stock?

Qué locura! Qué locura! I gave up everything precious given to me by God all for a little cura.

I can’t explain how all the hard work will never be enough.

How is a man supposed to suppress, repress, and progress all in the sense and continue to be tough!? Take it with a smile, stand firm in all you say and do, and do as you say.

Nothing lasts forever, but that which lasts serves as a sign for the better, so every word coming out of your mouth be True down to every sound of every letter.

Be open but never inviting, see the thief strikes quiet, as fast and blinding as lightning.

Work hard and never regret, greet with a smile and firm handshake; don’t waver on respect. 

Give it your all, my man, live life lowcura qué locura quien lo cura.

I was eighteen years old, picking up my first federal marijuana offense—the judges spared me.

Instead of continuing my growth in spirit of knowledge and wisdom through ’scuela and colegios, I endured probation violation after probation violation. Upon release, I was twenty-four, and took it upon myself to pick up felony charges once again, I went into the system from 2017 until 2020.

It was in prison where the ’scuela I learned wasn’t anything that was taught by the good book or lash at home or classroom. 

I’ve built houses for those who never dreamed of owning a home; if the word I spell today spreads, let it not be LOCURA but LOVE PURO AMOR QUE AMOR QUE AMOR. Let love be the cure… the cura, the cura quien lo… cura, lo cura con amor.
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Julio Estevan Mendez grew up on the West Side of Albuquerque in the ’90s. He is a poet and three-time alumnus of the National Hispanic Cultural Center’s Voces Writing Institute.