Spotlight interviews featured in this issue include: Hiraku Shimoda, Assistant Professor of History; Monica Ellis, Custodial Services; Shona Tucker, Adjunct Professor of Drama; Carlos Alamo, Assistant Professor of Sociology.
Letter from the Editor
Dear Readers,
It brings me enormous pleasure and great honor to coordinate the publication of IMAGES 2009. I hope that this year’s issue inspires, renews, and reflects insight into a portion of ALANA Center community voices. IMAGES has always celebrated the existence of the oftentimes shrouded cultural “other” within mainstream visual and written cultural discourse. I have been thrilled to participate in such celebration!
The ALANA Center has always drawn me. As an anthropologist, I can never get enough cultural perspective, knowledge, and understanding of human difference. Cultural differences often separate us but they also distinguish us from the greater bunch and help us form our own identities. But it is also important to realize that cultural and ethnic variation are not means by which to be separate. We will only truly co-exist with one another when we cast away social structures such as race, sexual orientation, creed, etc. in the name of true human unity.
During Focus Weekend 2005, I didn’t think that the ALANA Center would end up being a place where much of my time at Vassar would be spent. However, my three years working for the ALANA Center have been quite noteworthy. Through my interactions in the ALANA Center, I have met many great friends and have been involved in and exposed to so much more on campus than I could have ever imagined. Though the road to ALANA fruition at Vassar was difficult, the work that students, administrators, faculty, staff, and friends put into making the ALANA Center what is is today has been more than worth the effort. I am proud to say that I am a current element of such significant beginnings.
My Vassar career and my work within the ALANA Center would not have been possible without the extensive love, support, and encouragement of my closest friends, the Campus Life Office, my family, and many others. I encourage all of you, through reading IMAGES 2009, to always consider contrasting voices, appreciate others, and amicably understand foreign lifeways and frameworks of thought. The sweetest qualities of a human being are often overlooked quickly by simple exterior judgement. As you keep all this in mind, read on, think, profitez... and ENJOY!
Yours,
Frank E. Tate, IV ’09
Letter from the Associate Director of Campus Life/ ALANA Programs
Greetings,
I am excited to have the opportunity to welcome and join you on this journey in discovering IMAGES and all the ALANA Center has to offer! IMAGES is a student-coordinated publication that provides an outlet for students of color to share their creativity, inspirations, fears, love, culture, experiences, and stories with the larger community through a myriad of artwork, short stories, poetry, and many other forms of writing.
The ALANA Center offers programs, resources and student advising to enhance the academic, campus life, and residential experiences of African-American/Black, Latino/a, Asian/Asian-American and Native American students. The center also supports and engages all students interested in exploring issues of cultural and racial identity.
This year I had the pleasure to work with extraordinary ALANA Center organizations and students campus wide. In this time, I have learned that the experiences shared in this place, which many students call HOME, include creating meals together, late night organization meetings, laughter, napping on the couch, and honest dialogue about their experiences as persons of color on Vassar’s campus and in the world. Some of this year’s programming events included: The 2009 Presidential Debate Viewing; the Annual Meet and Greet with Faculty, Students & Administrators; cultural events and celebrations such as the Lunar New Year, Black History Month, Vamos a Comer, and Dawali dinners; and workshops including Late Night Salsa Dance, Women of Color and Heart Disease; and Silence Out Loud: Spoken Word and Poetry. The Center is an environment where dreams can be crafted, support is present, and learning takes many forms.
It has been a delight to see the growth, dedication and love of the students, faculty, administrators and staff who are invested in our work of fostering leadership, identity affirmation, and intra-cultural and cross-cultural dialogues on culture, society and higher education. I hope you enjoy our publication and feel inspired to discover who we are, what we are about, and all we have to offer.
With warmest regards,
Jocelyn Tejeda
Spotlights,
Faculty/Staff Spotlight on Hiraku Shimoda ‘95, Assistant Professor of History
Originally hailing from Japan, Hiraku Shimoda immigrated to New York State at the age of nine and was always convinced that he was just another Jewish Long Islander before attending Vassar College. It was at Vassar that he discovered he was Asian, although he never took part in racial politics. In 1993, the new ALANA Center space was created, causing a bit of a controversy. Although Professor Shimoda was not active in any organization, he realized that a positive community was gained for students of color.
After graduating from Vassar in 1995 with a degree in Asian Studies, Professor Shimoda pursued graduate studies at Harvard University. After having studied at both a small liberal arts school and a large university, Mr. Shimoda says he feels more comfortable at Vassar because the students are much more easygoing.
Following his graduate degree, Professor Shimoda student-taught at Harvard. He says his Vassar experience made him realize how much he likes the environment of a small liberal arts college and that he was hoping to teach at a school similar to Vassar. With what he calls a “stroke of luck,” a position opened at Vassar and he was more than happy to apply.
As a returning professor, Professor Shimoda feels that the Asian Studies Department is more sophisticated than it was when he was an undergraduate student. There are more disciplines, which lead to a more robust program. Although the Asian Studies Department has focused more on East Asia, Professor Shimoda says that the Department is trying to expand into other very relevant but underrepresented Eastern regions, such as South Asia.
Professor Shimoda has always liked the flexibility that Asian Studies has offered, which leads, in his opinion, to a true multidisciplinary approach to an important cultural world region. However, the Department remains small, graduating only a couple of students from each class. While he would like to see the Department grow, Professor Shimoda realizes that many students only dabble in Asian Studies. He says that “giving exposure to a large number of students is the best we can hope for.”
When not teaching at Vassar, Professor Shimoda is pretty busy being a father to his two young sons. In his spare time, he enjoys “games of statistical analysis” like horse racing and fantasy baseball. When Professor Shinoda lived in Tokyo, he enjoyed playing flag football. Currently, he daydreams about a second career running a ninja camp. Hopefully, this is just a fantasy, as many students would be saddened to lose such a great professor to a really cool but somewhat impractical profession.
Poetry,
Misery II
A broken china doll on display
Sitting upon her throne of misery
The gold crown upon her head
Isn’t enough to keep her happy
Spotlights,
Faculty/Staff Spotlight on Monica Ellis, Custodial Services
If you’re a resident of Noyes House and are awake during the earlier morning and afternoon hours of the day, you’ll probably see Monica walking the halls tending to her custodial duties. And if you listen closely, you might be able to hear the sound of her portable radio, which, she tells us, is usually tuned to 96.1 FM—one of her favorite area radio stations.
“Cleaning is my hobby,” she tells us. Monica came to the United States from Kingston, Jamaica in 1989 and subsequently began working at Vassar in 1990. After having spent significant time in the States, she mentioned, “I didn’t know that I had to work as hard as I do here” even though she originally came to America looking for better job opportunities and more generally, a better life. She told us that in Jamaica, having an education is the key to any type of social or economic upwards movement. In Kingston, Monica worked primarily as a domestic and also provided support to her family’s small storefront business. “But I enjoy working here,” she says, “there are many friendly people.” She tells us that overall, her years at Vassar have been very good.
Monica is the mother of five (now grown) children: two boys and three girls. In her extended family, some of whom live in the local area, in Ft. Lauderdale, FL, and in Jamaica. Monica has 21 grandchildren and two great grandchildren. In her spare time, she loves to listen to music, dance, cook and laugh. Even though most of her time is spent on college grounds during the regular work week, Monica still enjoys helping out on weekends at her daughter’s hair supply store, which is located on Main Street in Poughkeepsie.
Monica tells us that she plans on retiring from Vassar in 2011. But her plans are contingent upon whether or not better negotiations will be presented within Union workers’ contracts for pension plans, raises, and especially medical coverage. If her plans do follow through, Monica plans to travel back and forth a lot between New York and Jamaica. Monica was wed in February 2009 to her husband from Little Cayman, JA, who works as a carpenter.
“To him she was a fragmented commodity whose feelings and choices were rarely considered: her head and her heart separated from her back and her hands divided from her womb and vagina.” -Barabara Omolade
Poetry,
Look/Wait
I am not what you are looking for
I am too ill tempered
And hot headed
My insecurities are much larger than I am
At 5’4”… and a ½
My pride makes me include that extra ½ inch
Which would in any other case make no difference
But of course, this is me we are speaking about
The one whom you are not looking for
Since I am not well suited to be a girlfriend
Because I would require too much affection
And enlightening conversations
I am much less suited to be a wife
Because as my parents have pointed out
Who would want to marry a woman,
A waste of a woman
Who cannot cook, clean or do household chores
And who would want to marry a woman
Who does not seem to act as if she has an education
Because she is too outspoken, too loud when she gets angry
Yet, too reserved when she is trying to avoid conflict
A woman who attends a prestigious liberal arts school
Yet, is not exactly able to represent it when she speaks
This is why I am not what you are looking for
Because my ass is much too large to actually be attractive
And because I am not fit
Because my hair is not long and ruly
Without the straightener
Because I am not as light as a vanilla milkshake
And because my eyes are not captivating
Because my lips are too large
And my nose too ugly, especially with the hideous defining mole
That plagues my every move
Such as my fear of taking a picture unless I hide my mole…
I am not the girl you are looking for
Because my thighs are too large, and I am not curvy enough
Frankly, I am not pretty enough to be looked for
Nor can I dance well enough
And my way of being isn’t attractive enough
To get me noticed
Instead, it scares away everyone
Potential friends and potential lovers
I am not flirty enough to get a boy to be coy with me
I am not rich enough to dress fashionably
I cannot be what you are looking for
Since I am nothing more but an object
Of sexual desire
With this body I cannot go beyond anything
But being a one-night stand
I am not cultured enough
To snab the kind of boy I would like
Or to keep him if I were even to snab him
Despite my ugly face
And flabby body
I am not what you are looking for
Because I despise being in the shadow
I spend more than an hour getting ready, and checking my hair
And putting on makeup in every mirror I find
Because I cannot simply open up
And put everything on the table
The way Carrie Bradshaw can Because the
Dronile you meet Is just a carbon copy of
The Dronile my friends and family know and love
Because my expectations of you will exceed reality
And when they do I will not tell you I am angry
I will simply avoid calling, or make conversation short
I am not what you are looking for
Since I like talking about politics and religion over dinner
Because I hate dealing with financial matters
Yet, am willing to spend $300 on sunglasses
Because I refuse to smoke cigarettes or pot
Or do any illicit drugs
Yet drink
Despite being shy 2 years of legal drinking age
I am not what you should wait for.
Spotlights,
Faculty/Staff Spotlight on Shona Tucker, Adjunct Professor of Drama
A new professor at Vassar, Shona Tucker might not be a very known star, but she definitely encompasses the characteristics that all stars must possess: determination, creativity, and passion. Her widely fascinating and esteemed past should make a Vassar student feel honored to be able to learn from her experiences.
Q: How long have you been teaching at Vassar?
A: Two and a half months.
Q: What’s it like as a professor in the Drama Department?
A: Very busy. It’s good. There’s a lot more to this teaching thing than I realized. I’ve always taught in universities as an adjunct, which I won’t say is a little bit of work. But coming to work as a full time tenure track professor... It’s an amazing amount of work, and there are lots of things that add to the whole process. You have to check your e-mails every day, all the time. This weekend, it’s Saturday, and I’m not checking it today because I have a lot of “life” things to get done, but I know they’re coming in anyways. They’re coming in. And things can get missed. It’s a lot of work, but it’s different here.
Q: How is it different at Vassar?
A: Well, one of my classes is really about helping production along, in terms of acting. Therefore, I do a lot of coaching in addition to teaching. All that becomes a lot. But it’s very rewarding. I don’t want to make it sound like I’m having a horrible time. I’m not. I’m having a very good time. I’m learning a lot about teaching in this tenure track process.
Q: So you were an adjunct at other universities? Which schools?
A: I’ve had teaching experiences here at Vassar, of course, as well as Southern Oregon University, Miami University and the University of Ohio. I’ve also done workshops at Harvard and various other community colleges.
Q: And what made you decide to pursue a tenure track?
A: Olivier de Caucus once said, “As an artist what you need, what you want, should change over the course of your career.” If what I wanted now was the same as what I wanted at age 20, something’s wrong. I’m not being true to myself. And as that self, I have to. I am my instrument. I’ve traveled and done a lot of regional theatre, and I’ve come to a place where I don’t need to travel so much. I wanted a more secure situation. I love teaching. It just made a whole lot of sense to set down roots, and to ground myself at this point.
Q: What were some of the plays that you were in and that you enjoyed?
A: There are so many, such as Romeo and Juliet. I’ve performed a great deal of Shakespeare. I also enjoyed playing the Natasha type character from Trinidad Sisters.
Q: Who are your favorite playwrights?
A: August Wilson is truly amazing. I didn’t completely understand him until I started doing his work. I’ve fallen more in love with Shakespeare. I like Beth Henley’s Crimes of the Heart. There are parts of Suzan Lori Parks’ work that I really appreciate. And if I’m talking about African-American women, it’s Regina Taylor. But then George Bernard Shaw is amazing. I keep falling in love with Arthur Miller’s The Crucible too. It spans a big gambit.
Q: Why do you like Shakespeare so much?
A: I’ve fallen more in love with Shakespeare as I’ve aged. The script is such a map. He gives you so many clues. The ability to see human nature and the ugliness or the depths of people. How did he get it so clearly? Artistry: you can’t beat it.
Q: How has the path been for you being an African-American woman trying to make your space in theatre?
A: Well, I don’t know an African-American male that doesn’t work in this business. They don’t work 24/7, but they work. As an African-American woman, I come from a different place, from a privileged situation. I went to Northwestern for undergraduate school and NYU for graduate school. I walked out of school with eleven jobs. I have, knock on wood, praise God, been working. My name isn’t plastered everywhere. I’m not a star. I happen to have a lot of friends who are stars. But I’m not and that’s not what I was going for. I don’t think it’s about talent level. I think it’s focus. If you’re very focused and very clear, there’s a space for you in the professional world.
Q: Do you think it’s easier or harder for people in film or television?
A: I don’t know a whole lot about television or film. I think it’s different. Film seems like a harder road. But again I can’t swear to giving it all my focus. I was trained to do theatre, so those are the jobs I really went for. I’ve done some television and film. I hope to do more. While I’m here I will train myself to do more of that, even though I’m not in the City. For me right now, an 8-show week holds no interest.
Q: Would you say that you’re happy with your career choices?
A: If you live long enough, you have some regrets. This is a truism. There are some things I wish I had chosen to do differently, but I like the way life is rolling out.
Spotlights,
Faculty/Staff Spotlight on Carlos Alamo, Assistant Professor of Sociology
Professor Alamo’s family is originally from Puerto Rico, but when he was young, he moved around quite a bit because his father was in the military. Professor Alamo earned his undergraduate degree from the University of Colorado in Spanish Literature. He then attended the University of California at Santa Barbara, where he earned his graduate degree in Sociology. Carlos was first brought to Vassar as a CFD (Consortium for Faculty Diversity) Fellow in the department of Sociology. Originally, Carlos planned to finish his dissertation at Vassar, but somehow was drawn in and applied for a tenure track position.
In his free time, Professor Alamo, “aside from saving baby whales,” likes to explore the local area with his wife and his dog. He also enjoys playing basketball and interacting with his colleagues outside of the classroom. As a young professor of color, Carlos said that one of the biggest things that struck him was the number of young faculty of color, which he feels made his transition easier and helped to create more of a sense of community. He likes being able to just hang out and chat. One of his biggest challenges overall, he said, was being a first year professor and adjusting to the small liberal arts college atmosphere, which he thinks demands a lot from himself and students. One of his favorite experiences at Vassar is seeing students who have taken his class getting involved and applying their knowledge, whether it concerns prison reform or working within the local Poughkeepsie community. This semester, Professor Alamo is teaching Introduction to Sociology and a seminar on Race and Popular Culture. He thinks that students might be interested in taking his class because he always tries to provide a very complex picture, never seeing things as just black and white.
Poetry,
The Little Brown Dog
It all happened on a whim, you see.
I just came by to visit
and then the huge brown eyes
gave me the doleful look of…
Of a young soul far too oppressed
to ever mature, and far too confused
to ever understand why the world is the way it is.
And as that little dog looked up at me
I saw myself in her eyes,
you were left too,
you are all alone,
you are all alone and you shouldn’t be.
So I picked up the little dog
and as she cringed when I reached out to her,
I felt my throat tighten
as if compressed by titanium claws.
This little brown dog,
conceived in the same neighborhood as I,
lost in this world as I am,
understanding the same language of my ancestors,
responding only to the commands of “venga” and “si,”
I love you, you little brown bastarded mutt,
do not be afraid,
I am on your side. Please stay at mine.
Fiction/Non-fiction,
African-American in UpCDC
I bid my Muse a good evening, the first of four evenings. My quest began there. Enlightenment awaited. So, she asked me:
“What would you like?” They rang through me, these words with a dash of Caribbean flavor. I perused the contents. Twelve choices. Twelve blends of God’s creation contained in a single cup. So, I chose my first drink. It was... Berry Rumba.
I drank it—strawberries, bananas, yogurt, and all. Something came over me. My first vision:
On the news that day, the word “crash” resounded with profundity in this “global village” we call Earth. Chaos ran rampant, consuming people with an appetite gluttons cannot fathom.
In my vision, I watch a distressed crowd cry to heaven. Pleading. Screaming. Gnashing their teeth. The world rocked.
A man saw me looking into space during the sunset that day. He asked me what I saw. “Another day gone, another set of anxieties disappear with the sun,” I said. “How can you live like this? What is your secret?” I patted the ground by me and he sat down. I said, “Look. What do you see?”
“A sunset.”
“If that is all you can see, I cannot help you.” Disgusted, he left me.
The vision ended with the last drop falling into the cavern of my mouth. My Muse asked if I was satisfied. I said “yes.” Time passed and life called me to learn its secrets again, so I endured cold to find truth. She stood behind the register like last time. Her reaction to my presence revealed she expected me long before this moment. “What would you like?” I chose… Mango Chiller.
As a drink appropriate to my Muse’s culture, I drank the Caribbean delight of orange juice, mangoes, and pineapple. It invoked my next passage:
“Today, we have a crisis.” You don’t have to tell me that newscaster. In my vision, I walked the streets of a place supposed to be paradise. Aye, it was paradise, but not a beautiful paradise. Screaming mothers clutching precious progeny absconded from the shadow of tragedy.
Strewn upon the ground were mixed debris—dead men and dead homes. As I progressed down that street, my heart dropped. The harbingers of this death were not men. Those striving for revolution were not adult fighters seeking to steal agency.
The song “Kids With Guns” by Gorillaz beat into my head. “Kids with guns. Kids with guns. Taking over…” Children. With. Guns. Taking. Over. This. Place. All hope is lost.
A freedom fighter asked me,
“Are you with us or against us, mister?”
I asked him,
“What are you for and what are you against?”
He responded,
“Why, adults, mister. You feel it, too, don’t you? They be holding us back, mister, so we had to teach ‘em that we ain’t so stupid.”
I laughed.
“How sad, young one. You proved your parents and these adults right. Is this the world you want?” “A free world I want, mister.”
“This is not a free world. This is anarchy. You destroy yourself through chaos.”
“I take it you don’t agree with us, mister.” “No, I don’t.”
“That’s too bad, mister. He swings faster than any man I know and before I know it, the trigger is pulled and I leave this world dead and gone…”
Only to arise to my old one. The vision was powerful. Transfixed, I never budged from my position for a few minutes. My Muse asked if I was okay. I told her, “yes, I am. Thank you again.” I escaped into the night, fearful of what I saw. What would come next?
Enthralled by knowledge, the familiar craving tugged me to the Muse’s shrine mere hours later. Alone in her corner, she waited for me. “Good evening. What would you like?”
If the world died from two separate entities, will the world be better if we combine them? Can two negatives actually make a positive?
I chose… Make It Mango.
I am scared. What would ensue from this elixir of strawberries, mangoes, pineapples, and bananas? I must find the answer for myself. So, I drank. I drank and discarded my inhibitions! Here it comes:
This was a world I did not foresee. No, this world I denied could exist in my disillusionment. My first vision began with the growing chaos. The second vision showed me its effects on a microcosmic level. The third vision completed the story.
“As a race, we have come to a finish. There is nothing more we can do, but hope and pray that someone or something will find a way to save us.”
I kneeled by the TV looping through the same message. Slowly, I stood and saw the fullness of the world. No sun shone through the black clouds created by us. No man walked upon the Earth. No nature granted me the privilege to see its presence. We had wiped the world clean of everything, so it returned the favor.
The world wiped us away. It shook the very foundations of our humanity and crushed into fine powder our institutions. It did all this by revealing its secrets to our scientists. Our scientists gave these secrets to our leaders. Our leaders implemented these secrets and pushed the button that invoked Thanatos from his slumber to kill us.
By our efforts, we lost everything. The words “crash” and “crisis” lacked meaning now. There was one word that resounded in my mind: “finish.”
No. No. This can’t be happening. Make it stop, make it stop. No, no, no, no, no, no, no, nooooooooo! MAKE IT STOP!
She aroused my senses from that terrible nightmare. “Ever since you came here, you always wanted something, but you never got what you really wanted.” How astute of her. No wonder she was my Muse. “Leave and come back another day. I am sure the answer will come to you then.”
I followed her instructions. The visions plagued my sleep. Was there any way to stop the world from crumbling into the abyss? Restless, I slept little and when I had my next opportunity, I returned to her den. She smiled widely at me. Her teeth shimmered and the Caribbean accent said,
“What would you like?”
I would like truth.”
“Well, there’s truth in anything, you know?”
“The truth I have seen is one I wish to be a lie.”
“So, what would you like?”
To this point, I reminisced over my past three failures. And it hit me with great force. I understood now what I had to do.
“I want you to choose for me.”
“Alright. I will make you the drink that will my hands. “I made extra just for you.”
“Thank you. What is it?”
“Drink it first and see whether it fills your need.”
It was a pink concoction, thick and inviting. I grasped the cup to my left and drank. Despite its cool temperature, I felt a flame warm my heart. The fire grew hotter and hotter until I could not contain it within.
This was my final vision and it was the truth I sought:
“Hello. In recent news, all of the events we have witnessed to this point are but a figment of your faintest imagination. There is no such thing as chaos. There is no such thing as anarchy. There is no annihilation wrought by mankind. No, everything you saw, heard, felt never existed and will never exist. So, sit down, relax, and welcome the real life.”
I gasped at the TV. I ran to the window of the apartment I happened to live in and smiled. The world was there again and it was better than before. What I saw was peace, unity, and growth.
“Whoever it was that saved us, we thank you.”
I smiled and closed my eyes.
I opened my eyes and closed my mind. The effervescence rushed through my veins. My Muse smiled. “So, did you find truth?”
“I did.”
“Good.”
“You knew all along. You had the answer this entire time, didn’t you?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “I make the drinks. You are the one that makes the requests.”
“What is this drink?”
She pointed to the name. Right below Berry Rumba, it read… Strawberry Chiller.
“All you need for a little happiness is some yogurt and strawberries.”
“I guess so.”
“That’s why I made you extra.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. I hope to see you soon.”
Oh, you will see me soon. You will see forever. And I will always live for that prosperity that your drink revealed to me. I walked into the darkness of the light, drinking the second Strawberry Chiller with gladness. I slept well that evening.
Poetry,
The Truth About Procrastination
Now it’s early morning and why isn’t that paper done?
Feeling sorry for earlier having all that fun?
Finally time to get down to business,
To produce a piece that looks almost finished,
Could have made something the time you were awake
But now it’s so late, can’t catch the little mistakes.
Eight o’clock, could’ve started but Top Chef was on,
Put it off and now your opportunity is gone.
Where did all the time go? Are we wasting our lives
With menial reports instead of quality time?
With brain racking nights and hazy days,
Looking through raccoon eyes that never seem to fade.
For what?
A half-assed job worth maybe a B with a lot of luck,
Please, we’re only sixteen, we don’t give a fuck.
Oh, but we do, we care about that letter,
So we send another paper off to the shredder,
Filled with fragmented ideas and fractured words
That won’t fulfill the purpose it was meant to serve,
Won’t fetch the Approval only A teacher could require
The grade all overachieving students crave and desire
Then why?
What’s the reason we waste the time that’s given
In doing so, undermining the time we’re living
Always waiting till the last minute, counting the hours
Can’t keep our priorities within our power
So many obligations day to day
What’s really important to me anyway?
Success.
What’s the truth about procrastination?
It’s an excuse to forget about the application
Of our best efforts and our sharpest minds
Able to say we simply ran out of time
When truthfully hid our greatest potential
Behind a mask of inadequacy, afraid of being the differential
Afraid of seeing what we’re made of,
Afraid of failure when we try our best,
Afraid of being powerful beyond measure,
Afraid of excelling beyond the rest.
I am not afraid to fall, to fall is not to fail.
To fall is to falter, inadequate, weak, and frail.
There’s no shame in stumbling but quitting is a sin
Giving up without an attempt, hiding what’s within.
Denying the truth, naked, raw, and bare
To protect yourself from a world that doesn’t even care.
But to fail giving all you’ve got, is worse than thinking you had enough
Kind of like playing lacrosse with a forgotten cup
You get kicked down then just can’t get up
Regret feeling you tried your hardest, but couldn’t measure up.
Trust, it’s the worst feeling anyone can endure
But here is an easy and all too quick cure:
It’s still another excuse, a simple justification,
But here, we simply can’t get rid of procrastination
Face it, could have done the work but you just didn’t
So suck it up, save as and then press print.
Fiction/Non-fiction,
The Legalized Lynching of Mandingo
On the day before his lynching, Mandingo continued to ponder his existence. It wasn’t inspirational or enlightening enough to spark a light bulb really. It was just a fleeting thought that much time had passed since someone’s fingers, someone’s real imperfectly ridged fingers, had touched his. It seemed that throughout the years the plastic, which prodded and massaged his skin regularly, had become somewhat like sand paper, rubbing off his skin until his arms looked like metal bars. Mandingo had no idea for how many years he had looked this way because his conception of time was dictated majorly by his cyclical existence. In other words, he could not make sense of all his memories. For example, he couldn’t remember if he had ever been touched or when he first arrived at the zoo. The band on his wrist, which read “Born in Captivity,” could have shallowly answered this question, but Mandingo couldn’t read English. Mandingo could, however, remember that once there were many others. All of them held in a dark closet with one dim, dust-covered bulb lighting their shiny blackened bodies.
These shiny, blackened bodies, he remembered vaguely, performed on different schedules and spoke with their bodies, never lifting their tongues to themselves or to one another, even though they ate and showered side by side everyday. Eventually as everything expanded and upgraded, with Mandingo remaining statically stunted, his others died of naturalistic causes, or were killed off or transferred and Mandingo became the only one, doing all the work of the others, the work being primarily a laborious task of seeming perpetually unfazed by the bright harsh spectator lights. Mandingo, even with the constant religion of work, became so lonely without the company and silent presence of those like him that he began to fashion a life for himself. He made it like one would a macaroni necklace—with unwanted leftover pieces and food coloring from the back of the cupboard. He constructed that the couple, who visited him everyday, brought him here to learn how to be a civilized man. And once he completed this task, he conceived, he would be free. Unfortunately, Mandingo was slow, as his caretakers put it. He couldn’t learn how to act properly or even to speak in jointed English sentences. Thus, Mandingo couldn’t begin to fathom when he would one day be free.
When he expressed, however inadequately, his thoughts and fears to Judge, one of his caretakers, Judge told him that having thoughts—or any words that transpired in his logged head that contemplated anything metaphysically beyond the confines of his cage—were in direct violation of the manhood’s constitution. In plain English, on such documentation, the legally binding penalization for such thoughts would be a five-year sentence added upon his already undefined time. Thus, Mandingo never spoke to Judge again, except to ask him for a cigarette and then later for a partner, i.e., a bitch.
Mandingo tried very hard those months afterwards not to have a thought. He forcefully willed himself to think of nothing but his cement wall and the solitary fruit tree painted on it. As time passed, however, he involuntarily began giving the wall features, more colors, shapes, lines, words from imagined languages and in creating these shapes he began to think about the oddity of those lines and the oddity of his artwork. And he couldn’t stop thinking of this and then other things, which soared into his mind like darts, just missing the bullseye.
After awhile, Mandingo wanted so desperately to exercise his orality that he devised a plan. He asked Brother Love, his other caretaker, if he could have a bitch to practice fucking.
“A bitch to practice fucking, huh?” Brother Love had said to him. “Practice fucking is close to godliness.”
“Hole bitch pussy fuck tight tight pussy fuck practice. Yeah.” Mandingo gestured to the lady who stood outside the flexi-glass window. She was staring big-eyed at Mandingo’s large penis that dangled around his ankles like a piñata.
“No, no. You can’t have that. Mandingo” Brother Love said with his white plastic gloves on, rubbing the lotion all over Mandingo’s body. “I’ll get you something else. In fact, I have a great idea.”
The following week Judge brought Mandingo a blow-up doll. She was brown with big breasts, a tiny waist and a sizeable rear end. Her plump lips were outlined with red lipstick and her mouth was open to create a 6-inch diameter, which led into an endless throat. She had shreds of pale green paper for hair and skin as smooth as Mandingo’s. Judge explained to Mandingo that he could not join them in holy matrimony, simply because under the manhood constitution his kind weren’t genetically programmed to sustain relationships long enough to be considered in the eyes of God. He stated matter-of-factly that marriages of marginalized specimens had to last longer than the regular undefined, typically broken time of mainstream marriages. And this, he continued, was impossible for Mandingo and his kind proven by God’s scientific fact. None of this made sense. Mandingo knew that. Judge didn’t.
“All right Dingo. Here she is.” Judge said. He laid the doll onto the floor. “Here’s how you’re going to do it. You take your fist and punch her face.” He performed everything he said with very perfect precision. “Take her legs and spread them like an eagle. Then you put your hand over her mouth, so she can’t say ‘No.’ It’s not punishable by law in the manhood constitution if the bitch doesn’t say ‘No’. Then you whip it out and stick it in and fuck her hard.” Judge came inside her. “Then after you finish you’re going to reach inside her, take out this pouch filled with your stuff and place it over here. You got that?” Mandingo nodded.
Mandingo roared, “bitch fuck tight. Get pussy tight tight.”
“Yes, that’s right Dingo. All bitches like fucking in the morning. Remember, sometimes if you get bored you can try her mouth too.” He said before he left.
Mandingo didn’t want to fuck her though, not like he was being taught. He had no want to marry her, not with the understanding Judge and Brother Love fabricated for themselves, and as a result, him. He needed no legalization of his thoughts or his relationship with her. He just wanted someone to listen to his ideas before they consumed him entirely.
For a couple of days that’s what he did: he abated his interior hurricane. He spoke, so amazed by his own ability to produce dulcet tones that he couldn’t seem to stop himself. And it was this distinct want, not to separate or dissociate necessarily, but simply to be, according to one’s own bidding, that aggravated his caretakers. To them, he was being unreasonably difficult and hostile and volatile and any other militant word they could come up with. Bitches aren’t for talking to, they told Mandingo, demonstrating again the proper process of beating and fucking and cumming and smiling. They didn’t understand why he was resisting. Didn’t he love them? Wasn’t he grateful? After their admonishments, Mandingo knew he had to do her because they were watching, because they wanted his stuff and because he liked the way they congratulated him when he did something right.
So he gave up the way he wanted to live his life, to appeal to theirs. And every four hours he’d beat the doll and fuck her, leave the packets on the table and lay them out like socks in pairs. His life was just beating and fucking and cumming and smiling. And work, of course. His climax was one loud roar that echoed everywhere. After awhile, the regulars at the zoo began guessing what time it was by Mandingo’s roars. And the doll never gained a visible mark or even seemed to mind.
At night, after everyone left, Mandingo would position the doll into a sitting position and talk to her, finally in a language he felt comfortable speaking. He told her about how much he longed to be close to someone, how numb his skin felt, how others constantly, vigorously rubbing his fingertips had dulled his tips’ senses so he could no longer feel. He told her how even the pleasures from his orgasms were dimming because her plastic vagina was smoothing down the nerve endings in his penis. Sometimes, he even expressed to her how he wished the orgasm’s ecstatic feeling would transfer over to everything else in his life.
All of this was spoken so silently the squeaking sound his body made as he rubbed against her made more noise than that which came out of his mouth. It was the quiet rumination of a stressed, overworked man, the most important aspect of his life exploding like the insides of a confetti party trick can after it’s been opened, to no audience, except her. And she listened quietly, incapable of communicating anything to him about how she possibly understood. Sometimes, also at night, Mandingo would press his body against the wall because he sensed other beings were nearby. His feelings were so strong he would rub against the wall until he came.
His caretakers found the residues of that endeavor one day and were very angry with him. Wasted merchandise, they reprimanded, wasted merchandise. Three years were added to Mandingo’s already undefined sentence because it was against the manhood’s constitution to yearn for anything other than a plastic vagina or the paper hairs of his doll. Mandingo, if he ever felt compelled to rub the wall again, did so quickly, stopping before he climaxed.
Two nights before the lynching, Mandingo sat across from the doll, waiting for dawn and the endless circus of parading visitors. His long penis deflated and, like the rest of his body, smooth. It was like he had no veins or no blood. And if he didn’t have those lines of distinction like the visitors, he wondered, he couldn’t understand how he was alive. He couldn’t understand how she was alive either. For some reason, this realization began to annoy him this night. All this silence finally unnerved him, his blood like lava threatening to burn everything from the inside. And though he wanted it to, more than ever at that moment, his penis was not growing. He lifted it in both of his hands, his back aching with its weight and he looked at her differently then, as if he actually expected her to move. When she didn’t, he shoved his penis into her mouth and stood there, waiting for his penis to excite itself like it always did. He wanted it to grow even longer so that he could fill her entirely from her head to her toes.
When his penis didn’t move, he became even more frustrated. He wrapped his penis around her neck and let it rest there, her shoulders acting like a plastic shelf. She slumped under its weight and when she did this, as if on her own, Mandingo’s penis grew and it became harder and fuller and longer and stronger, so strong it popped her head off like a balloon. Her paper hair flew everywhere. She made little noise as the air escaped her, just a light whining. Mandingo did not equate her deflation to her death. He assumed he could excite her again very simply and that things were a part of a just cycle that could never be discontinued. Beating. Fucking. Cumming. Smiling. And work, of course.
Mandingo held her thin plastic body and waited for the dawn, talking silently to her, crying as he remembered faintly, perhaps, maybe, a time when he didn’t feel so tortured by the distinction between his mind, his body and his soul. When the caretakers came in the next morning, the day before the lynching, they laughed at the thin plastic sheet that was once Mandingo’s companion. They congratulated him on how he handled the situation and then threw his friend into the garbage.
“You’re learning Dingo. And since she attacked you, you’re free of prosecution by the manhood’s constitution. Physical abuse between a man and his bitch is legitimized as long as the bitch doesn’t say ‘No.’” Judge said. “From now on, we’ll take it away at night. Less trouble.”
The night before the lynching was Mandingo’s loneliest night. He had no want to express his final thoughts to nothingness. He sat looking at the fruit tree painted on the wall, wondering so much how it tasted. Mandingo was only ever fed sweet, yellow slabs on a metal gray plate, six times a day. Everytime he bit into them, juice would dribble down his chin and his chest. He remembered the visitors, big eyed, watching aghast as he ate solemnly. He wished they would come in and really speak to him like they did before.
Visitors used to be able to enter his exhibit, but Brother Love and Judge changed this after too many rules had been violated and after it occurred to them how profitable it would be to have Mandingo isolated. Before they were prohibited, visitors would touch Mandingo without wearing plastic gloves and take pictures without paying. It was then during these times that Mandingo saw many technological advancements that taught him about the nature of civilized beings. One that particularly amazed him was the cell phone. A visitor had even let him hold one in his hands. He had put it up to his ear, as they had instructed, and he was surprised when he heard a voice trickling fluidly into his air like juice. It had never occurred to him that people could speak to each other even when they weren’t physically present. He was overwhelmed by how people utilized their oralities, screaming, laughing, commanding, reprimanding each other with no reprieve; now, as if they were invisible, with only their voices as their fingerprints.
It was also during this visitor period that Mandingo learned about the lines in people’s flesh. An old man, who had wanted to rub Mandingo’s entire body down with peanut oil, had every line imaginable. Mandingo relished his wrinkles, his lines and the uneven heat of his breath on Mandingo’s bare skin. It was foreign to him: age. He couldn’t imagine those lines ever developing on his skin. They never did. Mandingo reminisced those human oddities in a long meditation that night and these imaginings drove him into the next day steadily. It was odd that he managed to remember all these details, when so many other facts had blurred in the general murkiness caused by time’s passing.
On the day of his lynching, visitors arrived as usual to witness the great Mandingo. Opulent people with opulent fantasies about who and what Mandingo was, but no consciousness of themselves, arrived ecstatically. Their voices ruptured their cell phones with unprecedented velocity and they were walking into each other, without having space in their phone conversations to apologize. They were walking in every direction, but it was only their mouths that moved quickly, their feet moved nonchalantly like they had forever.
It was a young girl who first noticed Mandingo. She poked at the glass, like one would when a goldfish has its belly directed up to the sky. She tapped it, waiting for Mandingo to respond. Other people, noticing the goldfish’s belly, began tapping their fingers against the glass as well, as if they thought their fingers were the heels of shoes.
Honey, he’s not moving today. That’s never happened before. Is he even alive?
All their beautiful voices, higher pitched because of their alarm, became one monolithic shrill that Mandingo could faintly hear through the new bulletproof glass. They hadn’t paid money to see the infamous Mandingo and the infamous Mandingo dick lie pitifully on the ground. “What happened to the fucking?” they screamed—the children, the elderly, women and men alike. “We want the fucking.”
The routine of beating and fucking and cumming and smiling had been disrupted and people were outraged. Their fists physically articulated, however weakly, their emotions. On the videotape later watched by the official analysts of TV Guide, formerly known as CNN, their fists looked like a dance choreographed by a thousand beached fish. A revolt of the dead, they called it. It never had passion seemed so dull and yet so expressive.
It was a modern revolt orchestrated by the masses to artistically express their resistance to unnecessary change. Such an extreme and innovative portrait of passion had not been witnessed in years. To Mandingo, they looked like flat drawings on his wall.
It was clear to the crowd that Mandingo had finally worked everything out for himself. He had weighed his options on his own scale and this was the result. The crowd, however, wasn’t in the least bit concerned with identity crises, in particular Mandingo’s. For Mandingo wasn’t meant to have existential meanderings or philosophical contemplations. Mandingo had his place, like everyone else had theirs. And what society could manage to lose a fabric or thread without destroying the entire tapestry?
“Fabric can’t tear itself away,” they screamed. “There always has to be a bigger, higher being that does the tearing.”
Despite the enormous size of Mandingo’s penis, he simply did not have the qualifications, in their eyes, to affect any social balance, at least not positively, at least not in the most beneficial ways. But wasn’t that the point? The fact that their social balance wasn’t designed for him made him think that if a society was built by people, shouldn’t it be built evenly by all citizens evenly so that every citizen felt content in his place? Mandingo was sure of this and he wanted to tell them, but he couldn’t. The crowd, especially in their fevered state, would never have understood anyways because that’s not the way the market operates. “What’s wrong Dingo? You don’t like her?” Judge asked impatiently, looking at the floor around Mandingo. Brother Love poked the doll’s droopy breast and smiled as it flopped onto its side like a puppy dog’s ear.
They both waited for a response. They waited for as long as they could. They tried to force Mandingo inside the new plastic doll, which was thin and golden brown, but Mandingo couldn’t feel anything and thus could not excite his penis. They pleaded, attempted to persuade him, told him of every mandate he violated by sitting placidly. But, it seemed Mandingo’s inner thoughts and longings had finally consumed him entirely. He couldn’t fuck anymore. And Brother Love and Judge knew this, even partially expected it, because it was their responsibility to foresee such issues and then handle them accordingly in a mannerly fashion for the mannerly population.
Mandingo was finally broken. The lynching must then proceed.
These were the circumstances that finally led Mandingo to his final performance. The court was organized in less than an hour with the Judge presiding and twelve of Mandingo’s most habitual visitors as the jury. A diverse bunch: five Blacks, two Asians, three Latinos, and two Whites, one of which was mentally disabled. The evidence was laid out simply. Mandingo had stopped fucking and in such non-action he violated three of the primary laws in the manhood constitution: “thou shalt not stop fucking,” “thou shalt not stop beating,” “thou shalt not stop smiling.” On top of that, Brother Love argued, in the years he spent at the zoo Mandingo had exhibited nothing that demonstrated an acceptance of his role as a civilized man. The jury deliberated for five minutes before giving their verdict: guilty. It took another thirty minutes for his ultimate sentence to be decided upon.
Even though he requested no plastic, Brother Love and Judge both rubbed the lotion onto Mandingo with their plastic gloves. Not a mark of ash was then left on his skin. Judge removed the dirt from underneath Mandingo’s penis and testicles and put them into a clear jar. This was usually performed at the end of each day, after Mandingo’s penis, dragging on the cold cement floor, had collected at least half a pound of dust and particles. Brother Loved sprayed Old Spice all over Mandingo’s skin and rubbed baby oil to give it a shine. Judge fed him the same yellow slabs he’d eaten his entire life as his last meal, wiping the juice before it reached his nipples with two quick fingers. They whispered repeatedly how much they wished he had fucked the bitch. They didn’t want to do this, they said, but it’s not about individual liberty, it’s about giving the masses what they need to survive.
Gray cord was tightly wrapped around Mandingo’s penis and testicles. He couldn’t feel this pressure, but for some reason he wished he could. Visitors were allowed to take pictures as long as they paid a $200 fee. Video cameras cost double. Time was given to allow all interested parties to arrive and many did, excited to witness the legalized lynching of Mandingo.
The two caretakers agreed that a fitting requiem would be “A Milli” by Lil Wayne. Judge played the beat on the zoo’s organ and one of the zoo’s on-site rappers recited the lyrics. As Mandingo’s neck was pushed through the noose, he tried to observe the many lines in the rope. So many cameras were flashing, however, he could barely see them. Mandingo was the most peaceful he’d ever been at that precise moment.
Brother Love performed the benediction, which left the crowd, rolling over with laughter. His ironic, and all together, apocalyptic warning about the second coming, when pigs could fly and niggers stopped fucking, was fascinating. Many pundits found his premonitions sophomoric, veiled with a thin line of truth. They surmised one day pigs could fly, following the natural evolution of animals and things, but niggers could never stop fucking because it defied, not only their genetic disposition, but their complete unwillingness or want to socially evolve.
One Mandingo who stopped fucking, couldn’t then represent the others in a better light, he was then, obviously, an anomaly. The lynching itself took only two minutes, far less than the three-hour preparation time. Mandingo barely writhed because he assumed that once air left him, it could always come back. His last thought, which occurred mostly out of habit, was the day he asked one of those men from that faint time to hold his hand in the shower. The man punched Mandingo in the face and Mandingo learned that male human contact extremely violated the manhood’s constitution and he never asked for human contact again.
As his lifeless body hung desolately, smooth and shiny with the strange stage lights making his skin look multicolored, Brother Love and Judge used a sharp machete to slice off his penis. This took them the longest amount of time: 45 minutes. People cheered and awed as the infamous penis was removed.
The penis weighed fifty pounds and was three feet long with a six-inch diameter. The exact length when excited was unfortunately never truly documented. Up close pictures were uploaded to Facebook almost immediately, while some autographed pictures, signed by Brother Love and Judge, were sold for $200,000. Most of Mandingo’s already available merchandise prices skyrocketed. Even the dirt from underneath his penis was selling for $350,000. Mandingo’s best prize, the penis itself, was sold for $1 million to Sir William Burbank III and then resold to John Honeycutt for four million dollars on Ebay. Cell phones shaped in Mandingo’s likeness were sold onto the mass market and were a tremendous success with its parent host company Sprint. His name is one of the most searched names on Google, only out beat by Oprah and Will Smith.
The Youtube video had five million hits in the first day and increased progressively after. Hollywood moguls produced the film, “The Mandingo That Wouldn’t Fuck” inspired by the novel, “Martyred Mandingo” by Stephen King, a year after. Critics such as Ebert and Roeper detailed that the film was “...a delightful insight into the possible complexities of a Mandingo.” The director, Spike Lee, they commented, “created a strange, lulling sensitivity within even the darkest of things.”
After its release, the public became so enamored with Mandingo that he soon became a catch phrase among the populace. “That’s it,” people would scream, “I’m Mandingo-ing my life.” Mandingo, however, died without ever speaking to anyone.
Fiction/Non-fiction,
Barack Obama: Is This the End of Our Problems?
It is a time of great jubilee African-Americans shout out with glee “Finally a President of our color” Indeed, one who could end up on the dollar
But in the midst of the exuberance We wonder if this is a discovery of a new entrance To equality, respect, and love for each other, Or merely a conclusion that a black man is more than just a brotha Atypical of his kind, Obama wears no du rag No bling and his pants definitely do not sag He is a man with poise and stature, His intelligence shines through his humble nature
He is the antithetical of the image of the black man we are accustomed to An epitome of what we have amounted to When he stands to address the nation A beautiful sight, as we stare in awe and admiration, His solid face lighting up with hopefulness Making us question our own faithfulness His gaze sweeping over the crowd As his voice reaches a sonorous harmonic tune, We are reminded of the great leaders before him Dr. King, Malcolm X, Rosa Parks, Abraham Lincoln We look over our long history of slavery and segregation And think, yes, the time has come We have overcome
But is it that simple? Can we all hold hands, assemble And proclaim that we are one? That no man will be left to suffer alone? It is rewarding to see that an African-American Has risen above the stereotypes of man Broken free of the chains of subordination and inferiority And has caught with an unshakable grip, his superiority But our problems are still creeping and crawling Heightened when our people start brawling
Some say President Obama’s election is a new chapter of American history Rich because of its likelihood as a great American story But our problems are not over, no, not yet Not until we can say that our needs have been met
Fiction/Non-fiction,
A Regular Rant
I think adolescent relationships are complicated and strange. There you are, essentially an awkward child doing your best to grow up without being exposed—wandering around desperately attempting to fulfill your own dreams and aspirations, that is, if you’re lucky enough to have any. You’re struggling to find yourself and lose yourself, building upon this and forgetting about that... You’re trying to live your life. Or that’s what you’ve been told you’re doing, I mean. Living. And then out of the blue…he happens. This person. This other who just comes around and softly changes the world. Suddenly all your dreams and aspirations become centered around fitting into his life. I mean, you weren’t REALLY even sure of your own objectives in the first place, so why not make this seemingly slight switch? You barely notice it anyway. These new goals seem to fit. They certainly don’t seem any scarier than the old ones, in any case. So you think about him. You want him. And for a time, maybe you’re happier than you knew you could be…But what’s the point? Maybe you think you need him. And maybe, in some ways, you do, but you can get along without him. You obviously did before. And inevitably… He’s going to be gone. He can’t stick around forever, and you’re probably going to scare him away anyway. He’s not ready for you, and honestly, if you think you need him this much, you’re probably not ready for him either. But that makes sense. You’re young and stupid and you have a lifetime of “opportunities to learn” ahead of you, but you can’t find forever now. You just can’t. So I guess what I’m trying to say is, what the fuck?
Say, for a moment, you were the other kind of individual. The one who hastily clung to her own goals and didn’t change for him. The “healthier?” girl. What now? You continue on your merry way to becoming a doctor. You go to your meetings and conduct stem cell research in your lab and you work diligently to spread AIDS awareness and save the children. So where does he fit in here? You see him in-between and around and after. How is this any better? The way I see it… It’s not. Yes, this way at least you have yourself and your plans… But, as I said before, lucky you for knowing what you want. We’re not all so lucky. Some of us aren’t sure we want anything at all. Alright, maybe it can work.
Maybe you happen to find the ying to your yang, your schedules currently mesh, and you’re in the same place at the same time. You place equal importance upon each other and don’t compromise too much of your academics or extra curriculars. Maybe you are happy and you skip along and become one of those merry, shiny couples people take artistic sunset photographs of and yearn to be. Yay for you. Soak it up. Because what happens in three years, when you both want to attend different grad schools? What then?
So back to my original point. What. The. Fuck. How can this work? You either compromise yourself to be with him, or you don’t and then you’re not. I’m not by any means saying it can’t work ever. I’m saying it can’t work now. Of course, there are the rare few who do make it work, who both want the same things, who ALWAYS end up in the same place at the same time, or who are just mature enough to realize that this is a “forever love” and distance and time don’t make a difference. If you are one of those people, I’m very pleased for you. Go die. Kthanx.
But as for the rest of us…We’re too young for forever and we’re too old to mess around for fun. All I see is ultimate heartbreak at this stage in our lives. Possibly on both sides. And I’m not being pessimistic and this part won’t last forever. Eventually we’ll have stability and know what we want. That’s the plan, at least. But for now, we’re kinda screwed. I’m not saying I’m not still gonna try. OF COURSE I will. I’ll play the hopeful fool with the best of ‘em. I’m just saying, I’ve been warned. And it sucks.
Poetry,
Questions for Robert
I’ve never had a big brother before—
And I wonder: where were you, and what did you do
When our mother was carried out through the door?
She gave birth to me and returned to the house,
Having empty arms, a small belly,
And the father: someone else's spouse.
What was the first word to exit your mouth?
Was it “Mama” or “Papa” or “Baby,”
Like your little sister who lived only a few miles south?
What was your childhood like, was it hard?
Did you cry, were you alone,
Is your soul forever scarred?
You moved living spaces quite a lot.
Life must have been “no crystal stair,” boy.
Was she always able to make the monthly rent, or not?
Did you sometimes see her weep, brown eyes full of tears?
Was she beaten in front of you,
Or did you not know for years?
When were you corrupted, when did you know love?
Have you learned a lot, are you witty?
Do you believe in Heaven, and God above?
Are you handsome, are you shrewd, are you gay?
Do you share my intrinsic joie de vivre, are you musical?
Or do you have your own kids on the way?
Will my children one day have your face?
Do you have my eyes, my hair, my teeth—
How much of you would I be able to place?
Do we have more siblings, or were two mistakes enough?
Do you know our mysterious Mexican father?
Is he tender and gentle, or is he really tough?
When I meet you, will you recall that I exist?
Do you think of me often, or once in a while,
Or of the eighteen years that we’ve missed?
Is she beautiful, was she good to you?
Is she honest and fair, and strong-willed?
Do you know it all, and all of what is true?
I say your name over and over (and over!) out loud.
Robert. Robert. Robert, my brother.
When I meet you, I know that I’ll be proud.
I love you insanely, though we’ve never met.
But I’ll meet you and my mother at some point,
And maybe—just maybe—a part of the future will be set.
Fiction/Non-fiction,
Can Language Change Who We Are?
What does it mean, being American? Is it living in America? Being a citizen? Is it speaking the English language? Well, it seems that having all of these things isn’t quite enough for some people in this country. Sometimes they’re not enough to be accepted as a “fellow” American. One thing is for certain, they’re not enough to walk freely in the local mall... Freely, without being held up and without having your knowledge striked down as if meaningless.
Being a Vassar student is not enough either. The Poughkeepsie Galleria has a policy that no person under eighteen years of age can be in the mall Fridays and Saturdays after 4:00PM, and to enforce this policy, authorities check IDs. Last night, I was held up by an official, not because I was underage but because I come from Spanish speaking place. My home is the Caribbean island of Puerto Rico, where every citizen is an American citizen by the Jones-Shafroth Act of 1917. Americans, and Puerto Ricans alike, struggle with the term “American” as a defining feature for Puerto Rican people. Nevertheless, the truth is that we ARE Americans whether or not other people, decide to accept or reject such. This is a truth, not only because of the Jones-Shafroth Act, but because Puerto Rico has slowly adopted many facets of American culture and has therefore become part of the more dominant part of American society.
The same can be said about people from other Spanish speaking origins who live in America. They are also Americans and we must accept them as such—that’s because we’re all part of that “we,” or as we say in Spanish, “nosotros.”
