Consider the Niño

(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…