Poem-A-Day: América by Richard Blanco

América by Richard Blanco     I.    Although Tía Miriam boasted she discovered  at least half-a-dozen uses for peanut butter--  topping for guava shells in syrup,  butter substitute for Cuban toast,  hair conditioner and relaxer-- Mamá never knew what to make  of the monthly five-pound jars  handed out by the immigration department  until my friend, Jeff, mentioned jelly.    II.    There was always pork though,  for every birthday and wedding,  whole ones on Christmas and New Year's Eves,  even on Thanksgiving Day--pork,  fried, broiled or crispy skin roasted-- as well as cauldrons of black beans,  fried plantain chips and yuca con mojito.  These items required a special visit  to Antonio's Mercado on the corner of 8th street  where men in guayaberas stood in senate  blaming Kennedy for everything-"Ese hijo de puta!"  the bile of Cuban coffee and cigar residue  filling the creases of their wrinkled lips;  clinging to one another's lies of lost wealth,  ashamed and empty as hollow trees.    III.    By seven I had grown suspicious--we were still here.  Overheard conversations about returning  had grown wistful and less frequent.  I spoke English; my parents didn't.  We didn't live in a two story house  with a maid or a wood panel station wagon  nor vacation camping in Colorado.  None of the girls had hair of gold;  none of my brothers or cousins  were named Greg, Peter, or Marcia;  we were not the Brady Bunch.  None of the black and white characters  on Donna Reed or on Dick Van Dyke Show  were named Guadalupe, Lázaro, or Mercedes.  Patty Duke's family wasn't like us either-  they didn't have pork on Thanksgiving,  they ate turkey with cranberry sauce;  they didn't have yuca, they had yams  like the dittos of Pilgrims I colored in class.    IV.    A week before Thanksgiving  I explained to my abuelita  about the Indians and the Mayflower,  how Lincoln set the slaves free;  I explained to my parents about  the purple mountain's majesty,  "one if by land, two if by sea"  the cherry tree, the tea party,  the amber waves of grain,  the "masses yearning to be free"  liberty and justice for all, until  finally they agreed:  this Thanksgiving we would have turkey,  as well as pork.    V.    Abuelita prepared the poor fowl  as if committing an act of treason,  faking her enthusiasm for my sake.  Mamà set a frozen pumpkin pie in the oven  and prepared candied yams following instructions  I translated from the marshmallow bag.  The table was arrayed with gladiolus,  the plattered turkey loomed at the center  on plastic silver from Woolworths.  Everyone sat in green velvet chairs  we had upholstered with clear vinyl,  except Tío Carlos and Toti, seated  in the folding chairs from the Salvation Army.  I uttered a bilingual blessing  and the turkey was passed around  like a game of Russian Roulette.  "DRY", Tío Berto complained, and proceeded  to drown the lean slices with pork fat drippings  and cranberry jelly--"esa mierda roja," he called it.  Faces fell when Mamá presented her ochre pie-- pumpkin was a home remedy for ulcers, not a dessert.  Tía María made three rounds of Cuban coffee  then Abuelo and Pepe cleared the living room furniture,  put on a Celia Cruz LP and the entire family  began to merengue over the linoleum of our apartment,  sweating rum and coffee until they remembered-- it was 1970 and 46 degrees-- in América.  After repositioning the furniture,  an appropriate darkness filled the room.  Tío Berto was the last to leave.      From City of a Hundred Fires, by Richard Blanco, © 1998. All rights are controlled by the University of Pittsburgh Press, Pittsburgh, PA 15260. Used by permission of the publisher.  July 4, 2013 Richard Blanco's third and most recent book of poems is Looking for the Gulf Motel (University of Pittsburgh Press, 2012). Blanco was the inaugural poet for Barack Obama's second inauguration as President of the United States. He currently resides in Bethel, Maine. Related Poems Gate A-4 by Naomi Shihab Nye A House Divided by Kyle Dargan Starfish by Eleanor Lerman About This Poem "My Cuban family never 'got' Thanksgiving. It was one of those traditions without translation. For Cubans, pork isn't the 'other white meat,' it is the 'ONLY white meat.' This poem originates from one of my earliest memories of the clash between the two cultures that shaped me."    --Richard Blanco Most Recent Book by Blanco Looking for the Gulf Motel (University of Pittsburgh Press, 2012)    Poem-A-Day Launched during National Poetry Month in 2006, Poem-A-Day features new and previously unpublished poems by contemporary poets on  weekdays and classic poems  on weekends. Browse the  Poem-A-Day Archive.         Thanks for being a part of the Academy of American Poets community. To learn about other programs, including National Poetry Month, Poem in Your Pocket Day, the annual Poets Forum, and more, visit Poets.org.

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