Not legal,
with visa I stepped on
forbidden ground and big ups
to you, each of you, sitting
on over-turned milk crates
playing dominoes, floating
salsa and bachata through
the streets, chewing on
cigars, and tapping sandals
on pavement. Big ups. No shyness,
you called me on packing my
things and stepping into
your hood feeling entitled
to big plates of plantains
and a dose of Revolution.
Not that
you didn’t make space for
me, not that there wasn’t
a seat for me in those history
lectures. No, you were happy
to have access to the “Little
Imperialists,” as you called me
and my classmates. But
you wanted to be clear. I
could walk down your sagging
streets and listen to the folk songs
bouncing against pastel
walls. I could drink mojitos
and sweat late into the night.
I could pause at Che murals and
escape the huracanes. I
could.
She wrote of leaving
rich parents to create molotov
cocktails. She told me about when
the hotels were taken over to
become housing for sex
workers while they learned
new trades. Her reward was
half a diplomat’s house. The
hotels now are for
Italian tourists who still manage
to find
sex workers.
She wrote of visiting
Chicago (somehow?) and
feeling invisible. No “Oye,
nena!” No hiss hiss. Those
sounds plagued me. I wanted
the privacy of averted glances,
the space to take in this
place without accountability
and big ups,
y’all didn’t give it to me. I
hid on the rooftop, put on my
headphones and merged
Caribbean breezes with
the hip hop of home.
She said those hisses, those
quick friendships didn’t mean what
I thought. She didn’t
feel danger in the male gaze.
Not yet legal to
drink in my home
I dropped back aguafuego,
big-eyed, gulping at
your laughter hearing
stories of Mariel, rough waters,
small rafts,
big will to live, to survive
to find Revolutions
on islands
at sea.
 |
| At Parque Lenin, Havana, Cuba, as a 20 year old exchange student in 2001. |
No comments:
Post a Comment