the prophets and all the grownups were right
when they said that 17 was a beautiful age.
it is the age of falling in love,
when we are still young enough to hang onto a thread
but old enough to know better.
17 is being on the verge of entering
into the dreaded age of responsibility,
but wanting something more
than what this youth permits.
17 is a transitional time,
when the heart may know not its place
but what it beats for.
17 is a strange time
of learning and growing and being,
and i suppose we will all always be
who we were at seventeen.
Jul 10, 2017
Jul 10, 2017 at 9:00 PM UTC
When my father stepped off the plane twenty years ago and found his way to
The Bronx where his brothers were waiting for him,
It was to live every day plagued by stories of his
Roommates being followed home by wickedly-grinning, knife-brandishing men
That took pleasure in wounding the skin of my uncle who worked
For seven dollars a day, and then sent it all home to his mother.
And I know this isn’t what he wanted for me.
I even know, sometimes, that it’s not what he wanted for himself.
Didn’t want to open a bank account, become a citizen of the internet,
Watch as his labor was digitized and filed away on a supercomputer
And used to calculate the distance from here to the moon.
Last month my taxes contributed to Nike’s two billion dollars in
Government subsidies, my money,
Taken from my pocket and used to make sneakers more expensive than my
Last paycheck.
Sometimes I think I’m America’s mistake,
A child of the New Generation,
Born to emphasize the difference between affect and effect,
But never affect the way change is effected,
And I want, so desperately to be a warrior of my time
But I’ve only been taught to reaffirm the rules of grammar and
Sip coffee in silence as the world turns around me.
Sometimes all I want to do is cry.
It’s easy to blame America for your mistakes,
And it’s easy to say you shouldn’t blame America for your mistakes,
And I think once I find the dividing line, the fence, the border between the two,
I’ll understand what it means to be American.
I’ll know what it means to salute the flag and sing the
Pledge of Allegiance with my head held high and my hand placed
Proudly over my heart.
I hope I never find that line.
In school we’re taught A is for Apple and B is for Blue and C is for
Candy, sickly sweet and only sold out of the backs of white vans in the dead of night.
D is for death, which I still don’t understand,
And E is for easy, something that I, as a woman, must know the meaning of.
In school we’re taught to build city halls and towering skyscrapers
Out of wooden blocks, but I’m seventeen and still don’t know where my last name comes from.
In school, I’m ten, and my teacher is making fun of the spanish music I grew up listening to,
The kind with the classical guitar intro that my father can imitate perfectly,
The kind that made me smile until I was ten and became background noise when I was eleven.
In school, I built bridges out of cardboard boxes.
My father didn’t come here to be an environmental engineer.
My father didn’t come here to beg me to major in astronomy because he wishes he’d done
That instead.
I don’t know why my father came here.
When I ask, he tells me it was for the job opportunities - there’s nothing back home -
But I see it in his eyes when he goes home to the house in Ecuador he’s spent
19 years having built.
I see it in his eyes when we finally have a conversation for the first time all week,
Usually on a Saturday,
Because we’re both too busy during the week to take a moment to breathe and say,
In simple english, “Hi. How are you. Hope you’re doing well.”
Sometimes, it’s too easy to blame America for my mistakes,
But sometimes, America deserves it.
I’ll never know why people are the way they are, and I’ll spend a lifetime wondering,
But I know why I am the way I am,
And sometimes all I can do is hold onto that before it’s taken from me
Like the taxes from my paycheck
That are still paying Nike to feed the world the sick, twisted lie that it’s as easy as breathing to
Just do it.
Sometimes I wish I didn’t care,
Because it’d be easy as rain to comply with complacency and
Maybe then, I’d be able to sit back and watch them destroy themselves
And I wouldn’t have to be a part of it.
I’m told we revolt at dawn, but I’m too busy fielding calls from people who want to know
If I’m going, who won’t go if I’m not, who won’t go unless there’s a crowd they can
Disappear into.
Sometimes I wish I didn’t care, because if I didn’t I could stop being afraid of a world
Where caring is dangerous and sugar pills are the only thing on the
Dining hall menu.
I’m told we revolt at dawn, and when I show up, the sun is barely rising and I lift my head
To the sky and breathe in the scent of rebellion, finally, because it’s about time.
We are all immigrants.
We are all immigrants.
We are all immigrants.
Except, apparently, some of us.
I’m five years old and get to sleep in on the second Monday in October and I’m told
It’s a celebration of when God sailed across the ocean and created the forests
Only five hundred years ago.
And I buy it, of course I do, because I’m five years old and though God already doesn’t exist,
I don’t have any other explanation for why the forests are what they are, or
How I got here, of all places. America.
And I don’t know why I can’t run across the country and back again because I don’t have
A single clue about the concept of space, or time, and then,
When I think about it, how dare they tell me America was found when I’m too young to
Challenge them on it.
We can plan to revolt at dawn, but the police will already be there at midnight,
Waiting for us, and if we can’t walk into the path of resistance and keep going,
We might as well not even try.
My T.V. once told me there’s a magic trick for everything, and apparently,
Breaking out of handcuffs was one of them.
At this point, that might be our best option.
But you can’t major in magic, and breaking out of handcuffs won’t pay the bills.
I don’t have all the answers, and I know that kneeling during the national anthem will
Cause so much White Male Outrage there’ll be headlines for days,
But it’s something.
I care about a lot of things, but staying silent isn’t one of them.
If I’m America’s mistake, then so is my father, and so is the revolution at dawn,
And so is Columbus day.
All I know is I’m seventeen and I still don’t know what comes after
“And to the republic, for which it stands,”
And I hope one day I won’t be criticized for failing to memorize patriotic rhetoric.
We are all immigrants.
We are all immigrants.
Remember, we revolt at dawn.
Nov 23, 2016
Nov 23, 2016 at 6:50 PM UTC
a flutter of butterfly's wings,
of soft gray skies.
hours that mattered and
moments that didn't.
it was all a matter of time,
she said,
of swinging ropes and pain that cut too deep
(and empty calories that couldn't)
the way the words grazed my throat
in an empty cry for help
black lips and cold smiles and
the reminder that
this is your life, what are you still living for?
(if anything at all)
it was fear, night after night after
helpless night
unanswered worry that went unsaid
like a cry in the dark
i stumbled around, tugged at the ropes
holding the drawstring doors together and begged for a way in
a shot in the dark against a litany of
cruel words that taunted and burned hot
against already singed skin
night after night after
helpless night
like clockwork,
routine becomes necessary:
the way the farmers created
daylight savings to strengthen their
crop rotation and sow the fields the way they
pleased, i searched and looked and
waited for reason.
waited for the impending realization so i
wouldn't have to discover it myself
and god was i scared.
we always seemed to be scared back then,
afraid of the monsters we created
so we wouldnt have to run ourselves
up the walls.
afraid of parents and test scores and the
fruit guy on the corner
whose gaze always lingered too long.
a series of firsts upon
a foundation of lasts.
the secrets exchanged,
the mouths held wide open,
the pills on the bathroom floor that glowed
invitingly.
i was helpless to the power it held.
negatives balanced upon negatives and
torn in two, jagged along the seams.
both of us screaming in silent voices
from places that couldn't produce words.
the hug i gave you the day
after it happened
(for the first time
or the second
or maybe the third)
the nights i cried.
the nights you cried.
the nights you called me and i had to hold
the phone far enough from my ear that your
voice only held a range of tangible static.
the bitter
the hurt
the wounded
the way you were all of them and
none of them, both at once.
the screams.
the times i didn't pick up.
the times i should have.
the times you forgave me and
the times i forgave you even when there was
nothing to forgive.
the thanks you always bid to me.
the goodbyes i always said with silent hope
that another hello would live to see
the light of day.
night after night after
helpless night.
susceptible to the
power it held.
Apr 8, 2015
Apr 8, 2015 at 2:01 AM UTC