(This is the opening poem from my collection, "American Ofrenda," a poetic history of my immigrant famila. I'll be posting addition pieces from the collection each week.)
Consider the niño
at the formica mesa
in his abuelita’s 1950’s cocina.
Español y inglés are bouncing around him
from the chisme his tias are stirring
into the salsas and frijoles,
from the gritos his tios are shouting
at the LA Rams on the black and white tv
in that suburban sala.
Consider the chico
who’s keeping the pan dulce
and the naranjas company
as he plays primo poker
with Olga and Becky and Freddy,
using matchsticks for chips,
while he keeps his radar focused
on the palabras that are zinging off
the cupboards and ventanas,
the palabras that are rattling
the canary cage and chicken knicknacks,
the palabras that are rolling through
like another LA quake,
big enough to notice,
sneaky enough to mistake.
Consider the muchacho,
Mexicano, Irish, Spanish,
French, Indigenous, Americano,
already knowing the loneliness of difference
when he’s not sitting at that table,
already noticing how his brown arms
stand out in the crowded Catholic classroom,
already seeing how his dark face
finds no likeness
in the million dollar movies
on the magic box tv.
Consider the boy
who’s basking in the warm glow
and raucous comfort of that cocina,
in its scents of grilling tortillas
and its songs of clashing idiomas
while he has no hint of what’s to come:
the Twist and Shout, Hard Rain’s A Gonna Fall,
Black Magic Woman, What’s Going On;
the burn baby burn that will light
the neighborhood streets on fire;
the selective service war
that will napalm faraway jungles
and fill his youth with funerals;
the highways he will travel
looking for some home:
Samoan Islands, Puget Sound,
Land of Enchantment,
high seas, high plains, corn fields,
deserts and borders, redwoods and rivers,
Paris, Switzerland, Germany, Spain,
till he rediscovers finally this kitchen mesa.
Consider this persona,
this young mosaic,
this latino, this chicano,
this beaner, this greaser,
this mixed blood
mexican americano.
It’s there in that cocina
while he raising the stakes
on his aces and eights
and listening to the shouts and whispers
of old and young, of dead and gone,
of secretive and sensitive,
of hellish and celestial
that he’s becoming our star witness,
our familia detective,
our clandestine ancestral spy
recording fact and fiction
in his cabeza database.
Consider this niño,
consider his cuentos,
consider his flights of fancy
and non-fiction imaginings,
consider his recuerdos,
consider his palabras,
consider his familia,
consider the recipe,
the nature and nurture,
the journey and fire,
the suburb and border,
the chaos and order
that has made him,
that has made us.
Consider…
