(anonymous)
I love the park
It’s Mother Nature’s little playpen for all of her creatures
It’s where the squirrels collect
The dogs play
The humans gather and where the birds flock,
It’s where stories follow
I see a man
His tanned skin mirroring the rich soil from the place he once called home
The government, made it hard to call it one
They took the chance with one man
And he choked everyone with his pride he was too selfish to share
He ripped them of theirs and slashed his flag into the dirt
So he bathed himself in the hope he saw comfort in before leaving
Even if the path he takes does not lead him back to his old home
He brought it with him to his new future
A future here, or maybe a future there,
A future somewhere
He will forever have his old home engraved in his skin
The rich soil that once grew the seeds of life
Will continue to prosper in his skin.
And the birds will pick the seeds and spread them everywhere he goes
I see a young boy
He’s followed by his mom
He yells for her to keep up with him
She responds in a language he doesn’t know
Despite the same blood, he will grow up to be ashamed of what he does not know
Of the culture he was not birthed in
He does not share his mother’s eyes despite them being the same color
No matter how much people tell him he looks just like his mother
His eyes will never be as frozen as hers are
And every night, his mother will pray for that to be true every day
She will pray to the God she had been stripped away from
And pray with the blood, sweat, and tears she has melted into
That he will never have the same eyes as her.
But the birds will try to chirp her truth to him.
And he will not understand
I see an elderly lady
She sits so quietly
But even if she does not speak, she has company
The birds chirp the songs she knows so well
These were the chirps she dreamed of when she was a baby
But the melody of which she begged to not hear in person
Her face is wrinkled from head to toe with stories she wish she could remember
But the ones she does, she hides from everyone’s sight
Ashamed of what those might think
She hides away her stories
Only the birds may know
With each bread crumb she throws
Only the birds will know.
And they will fly away with her secrets
Flying above every one with a story, and take a piece of it with them
My great grandmother has wrinkles in her face
She is filled to the brim with stories she wish she could share
Stories not everyone will listen to
We hear them, but we have never listened
Her skin is parched with a drought
A drought followed by a hurricane
Followed by every weather storm possible
Her skin is still rich with the culture she was born into
No matter how much she changed
The soil continued to prosper
She sits in the park quietly
She listens to the birds that chirp
Constantly reminding her of home
But still reminding her this is home
She has made a family
A family that will never share the same eyes as her
Because she prayed
… And prayed …
And prayed …
And someone listened.
(name withheld at request of poet)
Writing this poem was a big leap into writing about my culture and history. My biggest inspiration was my great-grandmother. I can hardly speak to her due to her lack of understanding English but I know there are so many stories she would tell me if she could. This is a topic I’ve always been afraid to write about because I never experienced this first-hand. But then while wracking my brain for ideas, I remembered her and realized there is a reason why I never experienced this. So I wrote a poem about different responses to immigration and what it means for a family.
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