| {for the D.A.C.A DREAMers and all our nation's immigrants} …my veins don't end in me but in the unanimous blood of those who struggle for life… …mis venas no se terminan en mí sino en la sangre unánime de los que luchan por la vida… —Roque Dalton, "Como tú" Como tú, I question history's blur in my eyes each time I face a mirror. Like a mirror, I gaze into my palm a wrinkled map I still can't read, my lifeline an unnamed road I can't find, can't trace back to the fork in my parents' trek that cradled me here. Como tú, I woke up to this dream of a country I didn't choose, that didn't choose me—trapped in the nightmare of its hateful glares. Como tú, I'm also from the lakes and farms, waterfalls and prairies of another country I can't fully claim either. Como tú, I am either a mirage living among these faces and streets that raised me here, or I'm nothing, a memory forgotten by all I was taken from and can't return to again. Like memory, at times I wish I could erase the music of my name in Spanish, at times I cherish it, and despise my other syllables clashing in English. Como tú, I want to speak of myself in two languages at once. Despite my tongues, no word defines me. Like words, I read my footprints like my past, erased by waves of circumstance, my future uncertain as wind. Like the wind, como tú, I carry songs, howls, whispers, thunder's growl. Like thunder, I'm a foreign-borne cloud that's drifted here, I'm lightning, and the balm of rain. Como tú, our blood rains for the dirty thirst of this land. Like thirst, like hunger, we ache with the need to save ourselves, and our country from itself. Copyright © 2019 by Richard Blanco. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on March 9, 2019, by the Academy of American Poets, from How to Love a Country (Beacon Press, 2019). | | | About This Poem "In September 2017, President Trump's administration decided to repeal D.A.C.A. (Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals). I began to contemplate their circumstances in light of my own. Having arrived here in my mother's arms when I was only forty-five days old, I wasn't a legal citizen of any country until I was 17-years old. Luckily, I was at least a documented immigrant. But what if I had not been? What if I had to live with the fear and threat of being deported to Cuba, my parents' homeland, which I knew only through my cultural imagination? These reflections inspired this poem from my new book, How to Love a Country, written to stand in solidarity with the plight of all D.A.C.A. children as brethren who belong to two countries, yet none; who are caught in the crossfire of politics and the crosshairs of bigotry without any legal right to have a say in the determination of their destinies." —Richard Blanco | | | Richard Blanco is the fifth presidential inaugural poet in U.S. history—the youngest and first Latino, immigrant, and gay person to serve in such a role. He is the author of several books, including his latest, How to Love a Country (Beacon Press, 2019) and Looking for the Gulf Motel (University of Pittsburgh Press, 2012). The Academy of American Poets named him Education Ambassador in 2015. He lives in Bethel, Maine | | | | New Anthology: Curated by Richard Blanco Read this anthology of poems related to freedom of speech, curated by Richard Blanco, and featuring poetry by June Jordan, Frank Bidart, Pat Parker, and Spencer Reece, among others. | | | Learn more about Freedom of Speech Visit the website of the National Coalition Against Censorship. Their mission is to promote freedom of thought, inquiry and expression, and oppose censorship in all its forms. Read about the National Constitution Center, the first and only institution in America established by Congress to "disseminate information about the United States Constitution on a nonpartisan basis in order to increase the awareness and understanding of the Constitution among the American people." | | | What Is It, Then, Between Us? | | | | | |
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