Emanuel Xavier

for Walt Whitman Besides the obvious technological and architectural advances, only one thing has really changed between our generations: We now live in an America where blacks are not only allowed the right to vote but can become the Redeemer President of the United States Otherwise, we still live in an America where the audacity to openly enjoy the pleasures of sex and being respected for wisdom are contradictions without reconciliation We still live in an America where the economy collapses while the masses are consumed with preventing the rights of anyone with a fancy for anything out of the ordinary We still live in an America where rotting leaves, tufts of straw, and debris are found in more homes than poetry books We still live in an America where Christ and Dracula provide both excitement and fear for restless lives longing for a simple touch We still live in an America where the impact of urbanization reaches out to the common person more than the obscene nature of poetry We still live in an America where writing about prostitution is considered trashy and profane We still live in an America where poets have to work while publishing to survive financial difficulty unless they are fashioned like Shakespeare We still live in an America where, unless you belong to a church, you are a religious skeptic believing in nothing We still live in an America where overt sexuality, siding with the barnburners, and authoring disreputable books limit poets to a vagabond lifestyle We still live in an America where breaking tradition and the boundaries of poetic form are considered the trademarks of a pretentious ass We still live in an America where everything from thieves to dwarfs to fog to beetles deserve validity We still live in an America where books cannot prevent war and the sick and wounded need healing We still live in an America where not everyone can appreciate the beauty of immigration, crowded streets, brutal differences, urban affection We still live in an America where the same sun that once invigorated your passion continues to provide us with the beauty of life worth fighting for We still live in an America where America still lives in us

He forgets that he used to call me mariconcito- that I harbored years of hatred toward him while hoping to find my real father. My childhood memories of him reminding me I was my mother's son, not his. I tried to poison him once and scattered sharp nails inside the shoes in his closet. By the time one of his sons died of AIDS I was already lost in contempt for the man I blamed for everything. There was the time I was in love and he met my boyfriend. Now he forgets to go to the bathroom or where he is but he still remembers Michael and asks about him. I help him walk slowly outdoors to step outside the prison cell that is the tiny apartment with no windows in which I grew up abused by both of them. He barely understands. His fate has been torture. I know that I cannot be his savior. I used to pray for him to die but here he is slowly fading. In his eyes I see that he learned to love me and wishes he could take it all back. He is unable to recall those drunken nights and hateful words. I should do the same. I left a long time ago but he still remains haunted by the little boy who wanted to belong. Like him, I want to forget that we made mistakes and caused so much pain. I need for both of us to remember how he taught me how to ride a bike and how to swim and told me, better late than never, that he loved me and was proud of all I had done. I have to help him settle into his favorite chair and let him know that I forgive him. There is a place somewhere where he will call me hijo and I will know him as my dad.