95 Immigration poems

When I am a toddler, a child, a tween, a teen, and a young adult, I am called an ancestral soul, a ti gran moun, a little old person. Adults study me and decide that I am wise beyond my years, mature for my age, emotionally ripe. I am told it is unusual to meet a five-ten-fifteen-year-old girl who does not slouch or mumble or speak in monosyllables. When I do the things that come naturally to me—when I hold my spine up erect, when I wait my turn to speak, when I speak having listened, carefully, when I enunciate, when I look grown-ups in the eye—I am told I must have “been here before.” "How do you know?" one college professor asks me after she has seen a psychologically violent play I have written at age nineteen. "How do you already know?” In high school, I charm my teachers. They encourage me to write speeches about feminism that I recite for International Women's Day at City Hall or deliver as part of conference panels at local universities. “If you were older," they tell me, "we would probably be friends.” One of them even flirts with me. Among my peers I exist somewhere between amicably mysterious and irrevocably dorky. The popular kids greet me in the hallways, but they never invite me to their beer-drenched parties. I will never play Spin the Bottle. I will never play Seven Minutes in Heaven. My mother tells me she is protecting me from boys, but the truth is, after I do my homework, she wants me to type up another family friend’s résumé or resignation letter. At home, I am a bridge, a cultural interpreter, a spokesperson, a trusted ally, an American who is Haitian too, but also definitely American. The children of immigrants don't get to be children. We lose our innocence watching our parents' backs bend, break. I am an old soul because when I am young, I watch my parents' spirits get slaughtered. In Haiti, they were middle class. Hopeful teachers. Home owners. They were black like their live-in servants. They donated clothes to the poor. They gave up everything they knew to inherit American dreams. And here, they join factory lines, wipe shit from mean old white men's behinds, scrub five-star hotel toilets for dimes above minimum wage. Here, they shuck and jive and step and fetch and play chauffeur to people who aren't as smart as they are, people who do not speak as many languages as they do. In the 1980s, they are barred from giving blood because newscasters and politicians say that AIDS comes from where they come from: Haiti, the poorest country in the Western Hemisphere, a black magic island that spawns boat people and chaos, a place of illiterate zombies, orphan beggars and brazen political corruption. When I am a child, my childhood is a luxury my family cannot afford. Their dignity is not spared, so my innocence is not spared. They are humiliated and traumatized daily, so I become a nurse to their trauma. I am told too much, so I know too much, so I am wise beyond my years. When I am six, my mother tells me that when she found out she was pregnant with me at age nineteen, she “tried to kill the baby." She says "the baby," as if it isn’t me she’s talking about; as if I am not the expensive, scandalous daughter who forced my way into her world despite the abortion-inducing herbal teas she drank and her frantic leaps off of small buildings. When I am sixteen, my father calls me on the phone to, inevitably, weep. He says, "Living in this country, I have learned not to hope for things. Only you are my hope. Only you." So—yes, I grow up fast.

It is too much a part of things, even though the source is not within. In small American cities with and without universities, it keeps a constant presence in the Confucian sense, the inner arriving to match the outer, spirit not separate from matter (the latter illusion left by the missions the people have made such fine use of). There are times when you have to pretend to embrace an idea or befriend your adversaries. If constantly misinterpreted, use the mystery as currency. You have to start somewhere. Be wise: depart from where they’ve already put you. A country itself can’t betray you.

I. The face of Chinatown returns its color, plucked from July's industrial steamer. Dry the cup! So we do. Four noodle shops on East Broadway release their belches collectively. They breed in me a hankering for family life. Here, there's no logic to melons and spring onions exchanging hands. No rhythm to men's briefs clothes-pinned to the fire escape. Retirees beneath the Manhattan Bridge leak hearsay. The woman in Apartment #18 on Bayard washes her feet in pot of boiled water each evening before bedtime. But every handful of weeks she lapses. I lean into the throat of summer. Perched above these streets with whom I share verbs and adjectives. II. Faces knotted, bangs softened with grease. The East River pulls along a thread of sun. While Sunday slides in. Again, in those plain trousers. How the heat is driven off course. How one can make out the clarified vowels of bridges. Who’s keeping count of what’s given against what’s stolen? There's nothing I can't trace back to my coarse immigrant blood. Uncles tipple wine on the streets of Mott and Bayard. Night shifts meet day shifts in passing. Sweat seasons the body that labors. And in each noodle shop, bowls dusted with salt.

after Eleanor Goodman, "Boston's Chinatown" It’s easy to slam the Chinatowns of America. They’re just a lot of red lanterns. Yeah, there are Chinese people around, But it’s all for tourists. Their dirty alleyways remind me Of that strange beast called American culture. The peculiar smell of fish (how Chinese!)— I’ve eaten hundreds of meals there. So I move on to mock the shantytowns of Asia. They’re just a lot of plywood and scrap metal. Sure, I know there are poor people around. I’ve seen Slumdog Millionaire. I know the area pretty well. I’ve hung out in “bad” neighborhoods before Where the old men run their sketchy basement stores But they have mostly disappeared. And it’s all too tempting to denigrate The postindustrial towns of the dull Midwest. Of course I know there are unemployed people there. I heard it on NPR. Once I had to spend three hours In the Detroit airport, with its vendors peddling Chewing gum and soda. But people don’t really live there. Just don’t ask me to smash the glittering cities Of cultural imperialism. They teach English language skills And how to adjust to life in the States. Nobody really lives here. As someone involved in translation I’ve eaten hundreds of meals here. Nobody speaks Chinese.

For my parents, Choi Inyeong & Nam Songeun in the first grade i asked my mother permission to go by frances at school. at seven years old, i already knew the exhaustion of hearing my name butchered by hammerhead tongues. already knew to let my salty gook name drag behind me in the sand, safely out of sight. in fourth grade i wanted to be a writer & worried about how to escape my surname — choi is nothing if not korean, if not garlic breath, if not seaweed & sesame & food stamps during the lean years — could i go by f.j.c.? could i be paper thin & raceless? dust jacket & coffee stain, boneless rumor smoldering behind the curtain & speaking through an ink-stained puppet? my father ran through all his possible rechristenings — ian, isaac, ivan — and we laughed at each one, knowing his accent would always give him away. you can hear the pride in my mother’s voice when she answers the phone this is grace, & it is some kind of strange grace she’s spun herself, some lightning made of chain mail. grace is not her pseudonym, though everyone in my family is a poet. these are the shields for the names we speak in the dark to remember our darkness. savage death rites we still practice in the new world. myths we whisper to each other to keep warm. my korean name is the star my mother cooks into the jjigae to follow home when i am lost, which is always in this gray country, this violent foster home whose streets are paved with shame, this factory yard riddled with bullies ready to steal your skin & sell it back to your mother for profit, land where they stuff our throats with soil & accuse us of gluttony when we learn to swallow it. i confess. i am greedy. i think i deserve to be seen for what i am: a boundless, burning wick. a minor chord. i confess: if someone has looked at my crooked spine and called it elmwood, i’ve accepted. if someone has loved me more for my gook name, for my saint name, for my good vocabulary & bad joints, i’ve welcomed them into this house. i’ve cooked them each a meal with a star singing at the bottom of the bowl, a secret ingredient to follow home when we are lost: sunflower oil, blood sausage, a name given by your dead grandfather who eventually forgot everything he’d touched. i promise: i’ll never stop stealing back what’s mine. i promise: i won’t forget again.

A dónde vamos  where are we going Speak in English or the guard is going to come A dónde vamos  where are we going Speak in English or the guard is gonna get us hermana Pero qué hicimos but what did we do Speak in English come on Nomás sé unas pocas palabras I just know a few words You better figure it out hermana the guard is right there See the bus driver Tantos días y ni sabíamos para donde íbamos So many days and we didn't even know where we were headed I know where we're going Where we always go To some detention center to some fingerprinting hall or cube Some warehouse warehouse after warehouse Pero ya nos investigaron ya cruzamos ya nos cacharon Los federales del bordo qué más quieren But they already questioned us we already crossed over they already grabbed us the Border Patrol what more do they want We are on the bus now that is all A dónde vamos te digo salí desde Honduras No hemos comido nada y dónde vamos a dormir Where are we going I am telling you I came from Honduras We haven’t eaten anything and where are we going to sleep I don’t want to talk about it just tell them That you came from nowhere I came from nowhere And we crossed the border from nowhere And now you and me and everybody else here is On a bus to nowehere you got it? Pero por eso nos venimos para salir de la nada But that’s why we came to leave all that nothing behind When the bus stops there will be more nothing We’re here hermana Y esas gentes quiénes son no quieren que siga el camión No quieren que sigamos Están bloqueando el bus A dónde vamos ahora Those people there who are they they don't want the bus to keep going they don't want us to keep going now they are blocking the bus so where do we go What? He tardado 47 días para llegar acá no fue fácil hermana 45 días desde Honduras con los coyotes los que se — bueno ya sabes lo que les hicieron a las chicas allí mero en frente de nosotros pero qué íbamos a hacer y los trenes los trenes cómo diré hermana cientos de nosotros como gallinas como topos en jaulas y verduras pudriendóse en los trenes de miles me oyes de miles y se resbalaban de los techos y los desiertos de Arizona de Tajas sed y hambre sed y hambre dos cosas sed y hambre día tras día hermana y ahora aquí en este camión y quién sabe a dónde vamos hermana fijate vengo desde Brownsville dónde nos amarraron y ahora en California pero todavía no entramos y todavía el bordo está por delante It took me 47 days to get here it wasn't easy hermana 45 days from Honduras with the coyotes the ones that — well you know what they did to las chicas right there in front of us so what were we supposed to do and the trains the trains how can I tell you hermana hundreds of us like chickens like gophers in cages and vegetables rotting on trains of thousands you hear me of thousands and they slid from the rooftops and the deserts of Arizona and Texas thirst and hunger thirst and hunger two things thirst and hunger day after day hermana and now here on this bus of who-knows-where we are going hermana listen I come from Brownsville where they tied us up and now in California but still we're not inside and still the border lies ahead of us I told you to speak in English even un poquito the guard is going to think we are doing something people are screaming outside they want to push the bus back Pero para dónde le damos hermana por eso me vine le quebraron las piernas a mi padre las pandillas mataron a mi hijo solo quiero que estemos juntos tantos años hermana separados But where do we go hermana that's why I came here they broke my father's legs gangs killed my son I just want us to be together so many years hermana pulled apart What? Mi madre me dijo que lo más importante es la libertad la bondad y la buenas acciones con el prójimo My mother told me that the most important thing is freedom kindness and doing good for others What are you talking about? I told you to be quiet La libertad viene desde muy adentro allí reside todo el dolor de todo el mundo el momento en que purguemos ese dolor de nuestras entrañas seremos libres y en ese momento tenemos que llenarnos de todo el dolor de todos los seres para liberarlos a ellos mismos Freedom comes from deep inside all the pain of the world lives there the second we cleanse that pain from our guts we shall be free and in that moment we have to fill ourselves up with all the pain of all beings to free them — all of them The guard is coming well now what          maybe they'll take us to another detention center we'll eat we’ll have a floor a blanket toilets water and each other for a while No somos nada y venimos de la nada pero esa nada lo es todo si la nutres de amor por eso venceremos We are nothing and we come from nothing but that nothing is everything, if you feed it with love that is why we will triumph We are everything hermana Because we come from everything

When I was laughed at for my clumsy English, I touched my throat. Which said ear when my ear said year and year after year I pronounced a new thing wrong and other throats laughed. Elevator. Library. Vibrating bells in their mouths. How to say azalea. How to say forsythia. Say instead golden bells. Say I’m inESL. In French class a boy whose last name is Kring called me belle. Called me by my Korean name, pronouncing it wrong. Called it loudly, called attention to my alien. (I touched the globe moving in my throat, a hemisphere sinking.) Called me across the field lined with golden bells. I wanted to run and be loved at the same time. By Kring. As in ring of people.Where are you going? We’re laughing with you. The bell in our throat that rings with laughter is called uvula. From uva: grape. A theory: special to our species, this grape-bell has to do with speech. Which separates us from animals. Kring looked at me and said Just curious, do you eat dogs? and I wanted to end my small life. Be reborn a golden retriever of North America. Lie on a field lined with golden bells, loved. Today, in a country where dogs are more cherished than a foreign child, an Oregon Senate candidate says no to refugees. Says, years ago, Vietnamese refugees ate dogs, harvested other people’s pets.Harvest as in harvest grapes. Harvest as in harvest a field of golden rice. As do people from rice countries. As in people-eat-dog worlds. Years ago, 1923 Japan, the phrase jūgoen gojissen was used to set apart Koreans: say 15yen50sen. The colonized who used the chaos of the Kanto Earthquake to poison waters, set fire: a cruelty special to our species. A cruelty special to our species — how to say jūgo, how to say gojit, how jūgo sounds like die in Korean, how gojit sounds like lie— lie, lie, library, azalea, library. I’m going to the library, I lied, years ago, on a field lined with forsythia.

They had hit Ruben with the high beams, had blinded him so that the van he was driving, full of Mexicans going to pick tomatoes, would have to stop. Ruben spun the van into an irrigation ditch, spun the five-year-old me awake to immigration officers, their batons already out, already looking for the soft spots on the body, to my mother being handcuffed and dragged to a van, to my father trying to show them our green cards. They let us go. But Alvaro was going back. So was his brother Fernando. So was their sister Sonia. Their mother did not escape, and so was going back. Their father was somewhere in the field, and was free. There were no great truths revealed to me then. No wisdom given to me by anyone. I was a child who had seen what a piece of polished wood could do to a face, who had seen his father about to lose the one he loved, who had lost some friends who would never return, who, later that morning, bent to the earth and went to work.

My father liked them separate, one there, one here (allá y aquí), as if aware that words might cut in two his daughter’s heart (el corazón) and lock the alien part to what he was—his memory, his name (su nombre)—with a key he could not claim. “English outside this door, Spanish inside,” he said, “y basta.” But who can divide the world, the word (mundo y palabra) from any child? I knew how to be dumb and stubborn (testaruda); late, in bed, I hoarded secret syllables I read until my tongue (mi lengua) learned to run where his stumbled. And still the heart was one. I like to think he knew that, even when, proud (orgulloso) of his daughter’s pen, he stood outside mis versos, half in fear of words he loved but wanted not to hear.

On the Pan American Highway, somewhere between the north and south continent, you come across a chain of volcanoes, a coast with a thick growth of palm trees, crunching waves of the sea; an isthmus Neruda called “slender earth like a whip.” When the road bends, turns into a street, the walls splattered with “Yanqui Go Home!!!” you see a boy fifteen years old, barefoot, sniffing glue in a small plastic bag. An old woman in an apron will step out, say, “This is the right street.” In the public square, there will be no friend from school to welcome you, no drive to Sonsonate, city of coconuts, no one to order cold Pilseners, oyster cocktails, or convince the waitress into dancing a cumbia or two with you. Instead, at the local bar, you’ll raise a bottle next to strangers, stub your cigarette out on the floor. You’ll watch a country ten years after the civil war: an old man sitting on the curb, head between knees, open hand stretched out. Everything will hurt, your hair, your toenails, even your shoes. You’ll curse dusty streets, demented sun slowly burning the nape of your neck, stray dogs following you to the park. By nightfall, you drag yourself back to the bars, looking for a lost country in a shot of Tíc Táck. Against the wall, three men with their guitars. When you lie on a hotel bed, too tired to sleep, when you feel torn, twisted like an old newspaper, blown from city to city, you have reached the place. You have begun to speak like a man by the side of the road, barefoot.